#and monarch could be posed *more* dramatically

[payaso-gomi]

this one came to me in a nightmare 💖

[vesseloftherevolution]

Balancing Acts: Power in the Middle Ages

Something I have noticed a lot in my reading around the Middle Ages, and into the Renaissance, is how much of a rulers business is maintaining the balance of power, be it between the Church and State, the Nobles and the Commons, and even between the private and public aspects of a ruler’s personality.

Church and State:

During the Middle Ages, the Church rose from a position of a purely spiritual force across Europe to one of the greatest landholders, and a major political power, almost acting as its own city state, with authority coming directly from the Vatican (apart from during the Great Schism, when the church somewhat fell apart thanks to the Avignon Papacy).

For the rulers of Europe, this posed a problem. There was a major part of their country and populace who were not directly under their governance, and could cause major disruption without immediate and severe ramifications. And so, over the Middle Ages, there is a constant flow of power between the secular and spiritual aspects of a state, and the monarch is expected to keep the balance.

One of the first examples that comes to mind is the conflict between Thomas Becket and Henry II. Although Becket was Henry’s loyal friend and advisor, his allegiance automatically switched to the Church once he was ordained. Henry realised that the power balance had shifted dramatically, as shown by the support of the populace for Becket, and ended up taking drastic measures to grab the reins again. However, the Church still demanded that he make public penance for the murder of an Archbishop, placing the King in a position of less power, despite the fact he was one of the foremost leaders in Europe at the time.

Nobles and Commons:

This balancing act is one that is harder to get wrong, thanks to the ingrained structure of the feudal system in most of Medieval society. The Commons are mostly working in agriculture for a liege Lord, be that a Noble, or the King himself, and the bureaucracy of government makes it very clear what exactly is owed to whom. The Lords offer protection, accommodation and a place to grow food, and in return the labourers work the noble’s land, fight in his armies, and pay taxes to use certain equipment.

However, with the advent of the Black Death, thé working population is hit hard. The number of labourers available to work the land is much lower, and Lords start offering payed wages if tenants will desert their lords and join them. The working classes gain a new sense of freedom, and demand specific privileges from their lords. When the lords disagree, and attempt to reinstate the more formal system that was in place before the pandemic, the peasants revolt, as was the case early in Richard II’s reign.

The fourteen year old Richard II was faced with a rather difficult choice. If he were to side with the commons, then he could well turn influential nobles against him, and so damage his fledgling rule. On the other hand, going against the people could prove to mean immediate death, given the fact that he was confronted with a mass of rather angry men with pikes. The decision he made, to agree on a face level with the commons, then to revoke the rights granted, is a decision that can be seen as tyrannical, but given the complications of being a child ruler, I think that keeping closer to the nobles until you have enough self assurance of power is vital.

Public and Private:

As Shakespeare so brilliantly states in Henry V, Act 4 Scene 1:

We must bear all. O hard condition,

Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath

Of every fool whose sense no more can feel

But his own wringing! What infinite heart’s ease

Must kings neglect, that private men enjoy!

And what have kings, that privates have not too,

Save ceremony, save general ceremony?

The majesty of a king, with all its trappings of charisma, charm, and the glittering splendour of wealth, is all an illusion constructed around a man. And one of the most complicated balancing acts a ruler has to face is that between his personal emotions and motivations, and the way he acts for the good is the state.

The example I am going to give is the aftermath of the Pazzi conspiracy in Renaissance Florence, where there was an attempt against the lives of Lorenzo and Guiliano de Medici, who were the de facto rulers of Florence. During Easter Mass on 26 April 1478, priests and members of the Pazzi family tried to kill the brothers. Lorenzo escaped with a slash to the neck, thanks to the imbecilic priest putting a hand on his shoulder before stabbing him. Guiliano wasn’t so lucky, and was stabbed multiple times in the chest.

Despite the fact that his younger brother had just been murdered in front of him, and the inevitable shock and grief that must have been numbing his mind, Lorenzo had to try and stop the angry Florentine mob from lynching several important political figures associated with the conspiracy. Immediately afterwards, Florence was placed under an interdict, and was at war with half of Italy. Lorenzo had to lay aside any personal feelings, and take the risk of visiting the sadistic and unstable King of Naples, in an attempt to cease hostilities. It was months before he could properly give time to the personal tragedy of his brother dying.

The job of a ruler in the Middle Ages was taxing on many levels, and in many ways. I think it’s interesting how many things they had to balance at once, on top of ordinary finance, and the day to day politics of ruling.

(If there is anything I have got wrong, or something that could be added, please do say.)

[janeyseymour]

Home Stopped Being a Place When You Entered My Life

@menstruating-sloth , this is for you. I know it’s late... and I’m not even sure I used to right prompt, but you asked for fluff 5, and this is what was born. I hope you enjoy.

It was almost instant that Jane Seymour and Katherine Howard formed an almost inseparable bond. The moment that the two locked eyes in that rehearsal room a few years ago, the third and fifth queen knew they were going to fill the holes in their lives. For Katherine, she would have a mother figure. For Jane, she would have a child. 

Hiding away from the eyes that were bound to follow them at the first meeting for SiX was the best decision the two had ever made. From then on, the blonde had often invited the youngest queen to her house. Katherine accepted every time.

“Just know that it’s a house filled with warmth, love, and a nice home cooked meal any time you’d like to stop by,” she would tell the fifth queen lovingly before quickly addressing the rest of the queens with an offhanded, “You’re all more than welcome to join us as well. It’s always a house full of love.” While it was heartfelt and she truly meant it towards the others, the way she expressed it to the pink haired monarch was different- in a good way. 

--

A few months into the run of the musical, Jane had posed a question to the youngest of the queens.

“Hey Jane?” Katherine asked quietly as she removed her makeup from that night.

“Yeah?” the blonde answered as she removed her false eyelashes. “What’s up love?”

The fifth queen took a deep breath before speaking lowly, “I know you mentioned that you had done some painting in your apartment. The smell of the paint always gives me a headache, so I was wondering if you wanted or needed a place to stay?”

Jane froze in her spot. This was the first time the younger queen had even mentioned her place. 

Katherine took one glance at the third queen’s stunned look before quickly adding on, “Of course if you don’t want to, I totally understand. I just thought that it’s Friday, and you usually invite me over. I didn’t want to turn you down, but I also completely understand if you don’t want to stay at my place. It’s kind of a cr-”

“That’s very kind of you dear. I would love to come back to your home with you if you’ll have me.” Jane unfroze and pulled the girl into a side hug, kissing her hairline gently.

“It’s not much of a home,” Katherine muttered to herself.

“What was that love?” The older queen heard the mumbles but couldn’t quite make out what the fifth queen had uttered.

“Oh it was nothing.” The pink queen shrugged.

The two entered the dark and dingy apartment that Katherine called hers. Despite the fifth queen’s apartment being an almost exact copy of Jane’s but on a different floor of the apartment complex, it was the absolute opposite of what the elder had done with her living space. 

“Well,” Katherine sighed. “Welcome to my humble abode. Sorry there’s not much.”

“It’s simple. I like it,” Jane complimented. In reality, all the third queen could think about was how different it was from her apartment just a few floors above. Where Jane had filled her space with elegant couches, throws, carpets, and trinkets, Katherine had a musty rug that had been there since before she signed the lease along with a secondhand couch that she had found at a garage sale a few weeks into being reincarnated. Where Jane had filled her house with warm lights and the delicious smell of whatever she was whipping up in the kitchen, Katherine had a single lamp in each room and the smell of cigarettes from the woman who lived next to her.

“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. I’d understand. My... place isn’t quite what yours is,” Katherine admitted sheepishly, a tint of red flushing on her face. 

“Nonsense love. I don’t mind a bit so long as I’m here with you.”

That night the two spent their evening splayed out on the drab couch with the pink queen’s laptop propped up on their legs. It would be the first and last time Jane Seymour entered that apartment.

--

Long gone were the days of Jane inviting Katherine to her apartment. The fifth queen could barely say she lived on her own seeing that almost nightly she was in the third queen’s living space. Not that Jane minded- she quite liked having the younger woman to dote on. 

It took a while, but Katherine had found herself at ease asking Jane if she would mind her coming to her apartment for the night. Jane never denied her, staying true to her word of offering a house filled with warmth, love, and a nice home cooked meal, nor would she. Most nights, the two followed their routine of driving home together, Katherine making her way to her apartment to change out of her street clothes and into pajamas while Jane began whatever was for dinner that night. If the fifth queen could help, she would assist in the making of supper- despite Jane’s protests.

“It’s really okay love. I enjoy cooking for you,” the blonde would say.

“I just, you already do so much.”

“Well, if you’d really like to help,” Jane would dramatically sigh and hand her the cutting board to finish the vegetables.

The duo often found themselves curled up on the couch together, more than happy to watch whatever reality television show was on that night. Katherine would almost always fall asleep first, being lulled to sleep by Jane’s soft breathing along with the gentle fingers stroking her hair. When she was ready, the third queen would gently call her name and take her to the spare room within the apartment.

“Kat? Lovey? I reckon it’s time we start heading to bed for the night,” Jane would whisper quietly so as not to scare the young queen awake.

The fifth queen would sleepily open her eyes, untangle herself from the blonde’s hold around her and mumble something about, “I guess I should get going back to my place.”

Each and every time, the third monarch would stifle a laugh before ensuring her company that she was more than welcome to stay if she wished. Katherine would never refuse. 

--

Katherine had brought her mail up to the blonde’s apartment when she noticed a letter from the owner of the apartment complex.

“What’s wrong, love?” The older queen paused her stirring of the soup that she had put on the burner when she got a glance at the wrinkled expression on Kat’s face. 

“Rent is going up- by a lot,” the fifth queen couldn’t keep the tremble in her voice at bay. The rent was going up by a significant amount, and she wasn’t quite sure how she was going to be able to keep her apartment. Sure, being in a starring role in one of the most popular musicals at the time was decent money, but it certainly wasn’t enough for her to maintain keeping the key to the place she would have to retreat to if Jane wasn’t there for a night. 

“By how much?” Jane frowned, the creases in her forehead growing deeper. The woman dressed in pink silently made her way across the room and let the blonde take a look for herself. “Oh my,” she whispered, now understanding why Katherine was so upset. 

“I-I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep my apartment,” the fifth queen confessed sadly. It wasn’t so much the thought of losing her place, but it was that she enjoyed being able to run up a few flights of stairs to the silver queen’s home. No place would ever be home if it wasn’t with Jane.

“Oh darling,” the third queen lowered the heat, allowing the vegetables to simmer before pulling the younger woman into a loving embrace. 

“Shit,” Kat cursed quietly. “I don’t want to lose my apartment.”

At that, Jane looked at the girl in her arms curiously. “Can I ask why love? It’s not like you’re there often.”

The pink haired queen allowed herself to look embarrassed before slowly extracting herself from the third queen’s grasp. “It’s just-” she twisted her fingers together, a nervous habit she had always done. “-I like my apartment being so close to yours. It’s... nice. If I have to move away...” she worried a lip through her teeth, not quite sure how to word this for fear of scaring off the only person who had ever shown her maternal warmth. “...What if I don’t see you as often? Or,”

“Love,” Jane chided gently, forcing the younger woman to look at her. When Katherine looked at the woman standing in front of her, she noticed that she wasn’t the only one who looked worried.

“What’s wrong Jane?” The pink haired queen began to fear the worst: that she had said something that overstepped the one boundary the two might have. 

“I,” The woman in grey took a deep breath. “I don’t want to scare you with this love. And I completely understand if you do not want to or have hesitations and my feelings won’t be hurt, I promise. But, you’re hardly in your apartment at all anyways, and I really love always having you around. How would you feel about moving in together?”

The third queen knew she was pushing a boundary that had never really been talked about. Afterall, the woman before her had only ever offered to show her around her apartment before. Perhaps there was a reason for that. What she wasn’t ready for was for the younger girl who had just left her hold to come flying back into her arms with such force that she felt her back hit the countertop with a quiet thud followed by a whispered with baited breath, “Are you being serious?”

“Of course I’m being serious love.” She pressed a quick kiss to the pink haired girl’s temple, but she put as much love as she could into it.

“If you’re sure, then I would love to live with you.” The youngest queen wrapped her arms around the blonde even tighter.

“Well, we will have to discuss this more in depth later, but right now, why don’t we settle in for a night of “Love Island” and some soup?”

That night, not much else was discussed about the housing situation. The night did end with Jane all but carrying the sleepy Katherine Howard into the bedroom that Jane thought of as Kat’s.

“Goodnight sweetheart, I’ll see you in the morning, yes?” She smiled softly as she smoothed some of the loose hairs out of the young girl’s face.

Kat nodded gently, already half asleep before letting the words slip out of her mouth without any thought, “G’night mum. Love you.”

Jane’s hand froze where it was on Katherine’s cheek for a split second before the words tumbled out of her mouth, “I love you too my little love.”

It wouldn’t be spoken again for some time, but the first time Katherine Howard called Jane Seymour “mum” was something that the third queen held near and dear to her heart. 

--

“So, I didn’t sign the lease again,” Katherine stated through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

Jane swallowed her food before speaking, “Oh? And how did that go?”

“He was pretty upset. Said something about how he was losing two tenants in one month? I just wish I knew who the other tenant was.”

The blonde across the table from her smirked, and the fifth queen caught on, or so she thought.

“You know who it is? Oh my gosh Jane! Tell me!”

The glint in the stony grey eyes gave her away. “You’re looking at the other move-out.”

“What?” Katherine all but slammed her fork down on the arm of the couch as she gave the third queen the most incredulous look she could muster. “I thought I was going to move in here with you!”

“Well, you will be moving in with me,” Jane laughed.

“You just told me you didn’t sign the lease again!”

“Well, I was going to take you there tomorrow, but I found a quaint little house that’s cheaper yearly than these small apartments. And, we would own it, not just rent.”

“B-b-but,” the younger queen stuttered out. “You love this apartment. It’s your home.”

“Home stopped being a place when you entered my life,” Jane said with as much honesty and love as she could put into those ten words. 

“I love you,” Katherine leaned into the blonde. “But I know how much you love your place, and I really love it too. We can stay here, and I can pitch in money to help afford the-”

“There’s no way that I’m letting you pay rent to live with me honey.”

“But-”

“Katherine S-Howard,” Jane paused, hoping the young girl in front of her didn’t notice the near slip of tongue. “This is a fight you will not win. You’re not helping pay rent.”

“But you love your home!”

“And I love you more! I just told you home stopped being a place when you entered my life. Besides, I think it might be nice to actually be able to paint the walls and decorate the way we truly want to.”

“But-” Katherine stammered. She was determined to make Jane see that she was crazy for giving up the coziness of her apartment that she truly did love- for her. “We have so many memories here.”

“Listen love.” Jane shifted slightly. “We make memories wherever we go, and we can always look back on them. But if you really don’t want to move out of this small apartment complex, we don’t have to. I just thought you might like to have a nice house to live in that will really feel like home.”

“Well,” the fifth queen laughed quietly. “I suppose it would be nice to live somewhere where we can’t hear our neighbors having-” she stopped herself with a cringe. “-But I will be helping pay the bills.”

“No you won’t love. Let someone take care of you for once. You’re young.”

“So are you.”

“Not quite as young as you love. I’m twenty-eight. You’re nineteen. You shouldn’t have to be completely independent yourself. Let someone step in and help. Let me step in and help.”

--

Two months, many boxes, and a heartfelt goodbye to the apartment that held so many memories for the two women later, Jane Seymour and the newly adopted Katherine Howard-Seymour- having the adoption legalized thirty minutes before- stood outside their very own house.

“Well Kat, are you ready?” The blonde turned the key and opened the door.

“I can’t believe we’re home,” the girl in pink sighed with content as she leaned into her mother’s arms.

“I told you once love, and I’ll tell you again: home stopped being a place when you entered my life. You are my home.” She pressed a soft kiss to her girl’s temple before setting off to cook dinner.

The two had many boxes to unpack, but it didn’t matter. Right then and there, they were going to enjoy the first night in their new home- eating a home cooked meal made with love, settling in to watch television, and savoring their time together. 

It was like nothing changed from the two living spaces.

“Goodnight love. Sweet dreams,” Jane smiled down at the girl who was between a state of consciousness and dreaming.

“Goodnight mum. I love you.”

Jane replied without hesitation this time, “I love you too, my little love.”

Well, one thing changed. The two women were family now.

[jovialyouthmusic]

Silver Service

The Royal Charity Tour continues with Portaveira’s fashion show - but with no models, what will Penelope do? Madeleine is looking for information.

Word count 3565

A/N No warnings, just some fun and some plot development

17 Stepping Out, Showing Off

Penelope was in a panic, and consulted her best friend, Kiara.

‘It’s going to be a disaster’ she whined, but Kiara rolled her eyes.

‘Calm down Penny’ she snapped ‘Emmeline is asking round for volunteers to model. We still have all the stylists and dressers, and once we’ve got some recruits we can go over the basics of runway logistics.’

‘Runway what?’ Penelope said in a panic ‘I don’t even know what that means.’ Kiara sighed. Penny wasn’t the brightest spark at the best of times.

‘You know, how to walk, how to show off the clothes, that sort of thing.’ At that moment, Emmeline came back into the room.

‘Okay girls, we had six models, but they’re used to changing quickly between costumes. If we try to find at least eight to replace them and take it a little slower we should be fine.’

‘Do you have anyone yet?’ Kiara asked hopefully as Penelope crouched and ran her fingers through Morgana’s curly coat to calm herself down. The little dog nuzzled her hand reassuringly and she reminded herself to breathe into her belly. Her heart rate steadied and she sighed, feeling a little better.

‘I have four from the staff – two maids, one of the kitchen assistants and the housekeeper’s daughter.’ her mother counted them off on her fingers.  ‘I’m having a little trouble finding male models though, so if you have any ideas…’ Just then she caught sight of Sophia passing in the corridor outside. She didn’t know her very well but knew who she was – and she looked just perfect for the job.

‘Miss Turner?’ she called ‘I wonder if I could ask you a favour.’

------

Olivia took her seat next to Liam in the front row next to the runway.

‘Feeling any better?’ he asked, and she sniffed disdainfully.

‘I got hold of a Lythikan remedy’ she said ‘I won’t be feeling queasy again’

‘Are you sure it’s safe to take something like that?’ he murmured.

‘I’m sure it will be fine’ she said ‘and Sophia said she’d get hold of a test for me’ Before Liam could tell her to keep her voice down, the lights went up and a very nervous Penelope and her mother appeared on the stage, the young woman squinting in the spotlight. She held a microphone in one hand and a dog lead in the other. Her little poodles accompanied her and wore outfits that matched her own. They sat quietly at her feet, attracting a few ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ from the audience. She cleared her throat.

‘Good – good afternoon, Your Majesty, Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Portaviera. I’d like to extend very warm greetings to King Liam on his first official visit as monarch to our beautiful county. Many thanks to him for sponsoring this and other events this season, and for travelling to attend in person’ She made a little curtsey, and he stood to bow and wave. Cameras clicked and flashed and the audience made a low sound of approval. As he sat, Penelope went on ‘Ladies and gentlemen, your Majesty, lords and ladies, you may know that last month we had some intense storms, and our coastline was very badly affected. Many businesses have suffered a drop in income or had to undergo expensive repairs, and some of our citizens have been made temporarily homeless’ Her voice shook to start with, but it steadied as she went on. ‘This afternoon we will be seeing some collections from local designers, and our very own Ana de Luca has donated some of her latest pieces to be auctioned here today to help those who have been so badly affected. Already we have sold many tickets toward the cause.  There are no fixed prices, and I hope you will all give generously to help our charities. We have provided lists of the designs and sizes available and you can begin bidding straight after the models finish, so please make notes’ She stopped and looked to her mother, who took the microphone.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have a surprise for you today. Unfortunately, the models who were going to show you our exquisite designs today were taken ill, so we have some volunteers in their place. Some of them are from my own staff, and some of them you may recognise.’ There were interested murmurs from the audience. ‘Without any further ado, we will begin. Please give a warm welcome to our volunteers’

Music started up, and a young woman appeared from the wings of the stage as Emmeline and Penelope stepped to the side. She was dressed in a flowing boho dress and strappy sandals and paused for a moment as Emmeline introduced her, before striding out along the runway. ‘Here we have Daisy, modelling a lovely dress by Christiana Kalos’

‘Well, that’s unconventional’ said Olivia quietly to Liam ‘that young woman poured my coffee this morning’ Liam smiled and clapped as the young woman stopped at the end of the runway, posed, and turned back as the next model appeared and was announced. He smiled in recognition

‘And this young lady brought me my shirt’ he remarked. Two more staff appeared in succession as the show went on, and after that Olivia laughed out loud

‘Oh my, that’s Lady Hana’ she said ‘It’s a wonder she’s not showing her own work, I happen to know she made an exquisite dress for Riley’ The crowd clapped enthusiastically to see a noble on the runway.

‘Talk of the devil’ Liam murmured as Riley appeared next, striding out confidently in a figure hugging cocktail dress and stilettos. ‘Oh this is very entertaining’ he chortled as Sophia appeared in a chic fitted blazer and pencil skirt. She smiled down at them as she passed, poised and elegant. The final model to appear before the staff came out again was Lady Kiara, who stalked along seductively with a sultry expression. Liam stared at her, mesmerised until Olivia reached across to hold his arm and squeeze so hard that he jumped and came out of his trance. The eight models went through a few changes before there was a pause and a change in the music to something more aggressive.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, your Majesty, we haven’t forgotten the men in the audience. Please welcome our volunteers, starting with young Jamie, wearing a tuxedo by Germain LePost’

‘Oh, that’s Emmeline’s chauffeur’ Liam laughed, and after that came one of the wait staff.

‘Oh. My. Goodness’ gasped Olivia, as Maxwell appeared on stage with a flourish, dressed in a sharp tailored suit. He threw back his head and strutted to the music, dramatically pausing from time to time to look around and point finger guns at the audience. He took twice as long as any of the other models, obviously lapping up the attention of the crowd, but finally his turn was over, and next…

‘Is that Bastien?’ Liam asked, squinting. It was indeed the Captain of the Guard, posing for a moment, his steely gaze and impassive features giving him gravitas as he posed for a moment in an indigo dinner jacket, bow tie and tailored black pants, his pointed black shoes polished to a mirror shine. He held the ivory topped cane that Liam had given him, and used it to stroll with poise to the end of the runway. He paused and tilted his head, furrowing his brow and looking off into the distance as if the crowd watching him wasn’t there.

‘Well’ said Olivia as he strolled nonchalantly back to the stage ‘I think Mr Lykel missed his vocation’ Liam nodded

‘He’s a natural’ he agreed ‘who would have thought?’

-------

Just before he had joined the King’s Guard, Bastien’s foster parents had suffered a financial setback when his foster father had been made redundant. Money was tight, and to help them out he had applied for as many jobs as he could. A modelling agency had told him he was just what they were looking for, and he had turned up for a photo shoot to find that the product he would be modelling was underwear. He was taken aback, and although he had an interview with the Guard, he had gone ahead with the shoot, hoping it wouldn’t come to light. He had almost finished his initial training when his superior, Jackson Walker discovered the photographs in a catalogue.

He had been certain he would be let go from the training programme, as it could compromise any undercover duties he might have in the future and perhaps bring the King’s Guard into disrepute. Luckily this was before widespread internet usage, Jackson was lenient and had the catalogues recalled for printing errors. Bastien’s file at the modelling agency had been destroyed. It was his first and only misdemeanour before he graduated at the top of his year group, and he still held an otherwise spotless record. Since then, only Lewis had equalled that record, and Sophia was the only person he had ever confided in.

He frowned at her, silently laughing as he changed into the final outfit behind the stage at the fashion show.

‘I told you about my history with the modelling agency in the strictest of confidence’ he scolded in a low tone. Sophia wiped her eyes and drew a calming breath.

‘Relax, Bastien. I didn’t tell anyone – it was Emmeline who suggested you as a volunteer’ she assured him ‘It was long enough ago that nobody would remember, surely. How could it possibly damage your record after all this time?’

‘I suppose it would be okay’ he grumbled ‘I couldn’t very well say no when I knew Maxwell Beaumont had jumped at the chance. If I hadn’t been here to calm him down we’d have had a pantomime instead of a fashion show’ Sophia put her hand on his shoulder.

‘Bas, you’re doing fine. From the reaction of the audience, we’re going to get some really good donations for the flood charities’ He lifted his chin in a gesture of resignation.

‘Well I suppose that’s some consolation. Come on, it’s us next’ The two of them linked arms and at the beckoning of the co-ordinator they stepped out along the gangway for the finale.

-------

That evening Liam and Olivia were relaxing in his lounge after dinner. There was a knock on the door and Sophia and Bastien entered. Olivia got up as Sophia rummaged in her purse and got out a paper bag, handing it over.

‘Thankyou Sophia’ she murmured as Liam shook Bastien’s hand and they started to discuss the security arrangements for the next day. ‘I’m still feeling odd. I’m not convinced I’m pregnant but it’s worth putting my mind at rest. I’ll take it later’ Sophia nodded

‘I’m sorry things are so complicated right now’ she said consolingly ‘How are things going with Anton?’ Liam heard what she was saying and indicated to Bastien that he should pour some drinks for himself and Sophia.

‘He’s asking for his own security team’ he said, tight lipped ‘We’re basically stalling him as much as we can while our teams look for a loophole. Meanwhile Lucretia refuses to say anything else and Anton is still demanding that Olivia visit him.’

‘I take it he wants staff that are loyal to him rather than the Crown’ Bastien said ‘If we ask him specifically who he wants, we can vet them and stall a little longer’ Liam sighed heavily.

‘I’m beginning to think he’s got a good case’ he said ‘If we don’t find something in the next week, we may have to give in to his demands’

‘What do you think he’ll do if I am pregnant and he finds out?’ Olivia asked. Liam passed his hand over his face.

‘Probably accuse you of treason as well, or adultery. I really hope it doesn’t come to that’

------

‘Well done, Penelope’ Madeleine said, arranging her face into what she hoped was a sincere smile. The jubilant young noble bent down to pick up her little dogs and snuffled nose to nose with them. She was just like a poodle herself, Madeleine decided, shuddering at the insanitary gesture. ‘I know I wasn’t very supportive of you when we were competing for Liam’s affections, but I’m sure we can be friends now’ Penelope smiled happily, pleased at the success of the fashion show.

‘Oh Maddy, thankyou’ she trilled ‘I’m so sad you didn’t get to be Queen, you would have done a super job’ Madeleine kept the saccharine smile as she replied.

‘Well, he’s not picked anyone, so perhaps there’s still hope’ She dropped the smile, instead looking serious ‘It would have been so good for you to be one of my ladies in waiting you know’ She gritted her teeth and gave one of the little dogs a pat on the head. It snarled and she snatched her hand back.

‘Naughty Morgana’ Penelope scolded ‘Maddy’s a friend. Now come along, shake paws like a good little doggy’ The creature sat on its hind legs and gave her a sceptical look but obeyed, holding out her little paw. Gingerly Madeleine reached out and gently took it, making two mental notes – one, make sure she had antiseptic wipes in her purse, and two, look for some doggy treats to slip to the dogs when Penelope wasn’t looking.

‘Can you imagine how it might have been?’ Madeleine went on, drawing back her hand and masking her distaste. ‘Of course I understand now how important your little – dogs - are. I’m sure they’d be very cute accompanying the court’

‘Oh do you really think so?’ Penelope answered, her eyes shining, then her butterfly mind fluttered on to another subject. ‘Liam really needs to get an heir as soon as he can, you know’

‘I know’ Madeleine smiled, and moved closer to her, lowering her voice ‘Do you know, he’s been very friendly with Lady Olivia lately. Tell me, are their rooms close?’ Penelope wrinkled her forehead.

‘Actually, he did ask for adjoining suites. After all, Lythikos is a very important duchy. Just imagine if anything were to happen to the new King – she might be Queen instead. It doesn’t bear thinking about. We have to be nice to Olivia, in case she ends up on the throne’ Madeleine didn’t have to pretend her disgust at that thought.

‘Dreadful’ she said ‘You know, it really would be better if I could somehow persuade Liam to make me his Queen. If only I could find out just how close he is to Olivia. Who knows, she might be in league with Anton. I don’t entirely trust that American woman even though she’s smooching with Drake – or the English woman with Bastien’ Penelope looked shocked at the thought.

‘I could ask the maid who’s cleaning their rooms’ she said, slowly, and Olivia widened her eyes in mock surprise. She paused a moment as if what she said next hadn’t been in her mind all along.

‘You’ll be far too busy sorting out the donations and arranging the delivery of the clothes from the fashion show, surely Penny’ she said, pausing again as if her mind was ticking over ‘If you told the maid to report to me it might be better – I’ve not got much to do at the moment’ she said brightly. Again Penelope frowned, and Madeleine almost screamed in frustration as she pictured the cogs turning in her head, but at last her face cleared.

‘You’re right Maddy, it’s so complicated and I’ve got so much to do. Thanks for offering - I’ll call Susan straight away and you can tell her what to do’

-------

Susan was a slight young woman, unobtrusive, quick and efficient. But what Madeleine liked most about her was her inquiring nature. To put it mildly, she loved gossip, and had plenty to tell.

‘That Lady Olivia, she’s so snarky’ she said conspiratorially ‘She doesn’t like me being in her room so I have to clean when she’s out’ Madeleine affected a casual expression of interest – it was all that was needed for her to tell more ‘That’s not difficult’ she continued ‘She barely uses her rooms and you’d think she doesn’t sleep, her sheets are hardly ruffled when I go to change them.’ Her eyes narrowed ‘The King – now his bedclothes are always of a tangle, he must be a very restless sleeper’ Excitement built inside Madeleine – should she prompt her to put two and two together?’

‘Their suites are next to each other, aren’t they?’ she asked

‘Oh yes, Miss Penelope said he asked specific to be close’ she affirmed. Her eyes grew wide. ‘You don’t think…’ her face was a picture of astonishment ‘Oh my, do you think they’re…’ her voice dropped to a whisper ‘sleeping together?’ Inwardly crowing with triumph, instead Madeleine looked shocked.

‘Oh my goodness, just think!’ she said ‘I can see they’re close, but that close?’

‘Look here’ Susan said, drawing closer so Madeleine could smell the bleach she used ‘I can keep my eyes open, let you know what I find’

‘That would be interesting’ Madeleine said thoughtfully ‘After all, if he’s not engaging with anyone else, perhaps I still have a chance to be Queen’ Susan’s eyes grew round. ‘You know, if I was Queen, I’d have Penelope as one of my ladies in waiting’ she went on ‘and I’m sure she’d want a member of her staff to go to the Palace with her…’ Susan nodded enthusiastically

‘I get your drift’ she said ‘You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Leave it to me, I’ll find out just how close the King is to Lady Olivia’

‘It might be as well to keep an eye on the other ladies’ Madeleine smiled warmly ‘You know, the American and the British woman’

‘Say no more – I’ll be your eyes and ears, Lady Madeleine’ Susan asserted, and this time, Madeleine’s smile was completely genuine.

------

Olivia stared at the line in the window of the pregnancy test. Positive. She couldn’t quite believe what she was looking at. A few weeks ago, before she knew about her betrothal to Anton, she would have been happy for this to happen. Now her head throbbed and her heart pounded and her mind raced. Liam waited politely on the other side of the door. It wasn’t fair to him to have to wait, she thought, but she couldn’t move. He had been nothing but supportive since she suggested the arrangement – bear the heir without insisting on being Queen.

Where did that leave her now? If the marriage to Anton was found to be unbreakable, she was guilty – of what exactly? If Anton was King and she, his Queen, was pregnant with another man’s child – not just another man, but the deposed King… She hung her head and tried to steady her breath. Anton could claim more treason – and what would he do with the baby? He was, by all accounts, a very driven man who stopped at nothing to achieve his aims. Would he allow her to come to term? Discard her, have her ‘disposed of’? Her mind raced. Would he adopt the child and subvert it to accept him as its father? Would he have it taken away? A sob escaped her before she steeled herself and got up unsteadily to open the bathroom door. Liam sat by the window, and looked up at her in query. Her face told him all he needed to know, and he leapt up and came to her.

‘Livvy’ he pulled her into his embrace ‘I’ve got you’ he said, his deep tone vibrating to the centre of her being. She loved him, wanted to make him happy, but she wasn’t sure how to do it any more. ‘We’ll face this together’ he said, and another sob escaped her. His hand made soothing circles over her back. How did he know just how comforting she found that, she wondered.

‘Another human being’ he whispered ‘I’d give my life to protect it’ She steeled herself and looked up at him.

‘I really hope you don’t have to’ she said quietly ‘you’re not the only one who wants to fight for him – or her. To my last breath’ She drew away from him and stood tall.

‘I want to go back to Lythikos’ she said. Liam looked alarmed.

‘We have a while before it’s your turn to host the charity tour’ he pointed out ‘We have the polo match in Krona, and the golf tournament in Comery Isles before we’re due to go there’ Olivia’s mind spun. She had to protect her unborn child and her future was uncertain.

‘There’s no reason for us to be together now I’m pregnant’ she said coldly ‘If I’m in Lythikos it will deflect any interest in me for now – and Anton won’t find out. If he’s successful in his bid I’ll find my way out of Cordonia. If he’s not, we can be seen together again.’ Liam’s face twisted.

‘Livvy’ his voice broke ‘I want to be with you…’ She laughed harshly, her heart breaking. All this time, all these years when she had longed for him to say those words. But it was impossible right now.

‘I don’t think we can’ she said bitterly ‘Perhaps when the business with Anton is concluded – one way or another’

@emceesynonymroll @sirbeepsalot @cora-nova @stopforamoment @drakeandcamilleofvaltoria

@drakesensworld @katedrakeohd @pedudley @indiacater @texaskitten30

@be-still-my-aching-heart @hopefulmoonobject @dcbbw @classylady1234 @ladyangel70

@rainbowsinthestorm @nomadics-stuff @gardeningourmet @furiousherringoperatortoad @kimmiedoo5

@bascmve01  @ibldw-main @addictedtodrakefanfic @trappedinfandoms @princess-geek

[haro-whumps]

Box Boy Meeting Yanni

(CW: slavery, dehumanization, creepy + intimate whumper, implied noncon, possessive behaviors)

I STRONGLY discourage readers with any kind of paranoia from reading this chapter.

Tag list <3:  @thatsthewhump @whump-it @ashintheairlikesnow @fairybean101 @finder-of-rings @comfortforthepain @shameless-whumper @that-one-thespian @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @raigash @im-not-rare-im-rarr @spiffythespook

Masterlist

Much as they would have loved to quit their job and just lounge around with Soren for the rest of their life, Ren did in fact have to go back to work eventually. So they showed up in a white button down and a pencil skirt with red lipstick and their hair tied in a high ponytail, tips of their hair just tickling at the nape of their neck, and resigned themself to staring at Soren through the cameras all day.

“REN!” Yanni shouted, banging open the door of their office and draping herself dramatically in the doorframe. “My favorite gossipbuddy in the ENTIRE office and you left me alone for a WEEK!” she accused, storming over to their desk and nearly flailing a hand into one of their potted plants. 

They liked gardening. Liked knowing that there were living creatures that, without Ren, would die.

“A week and a day,” Ren corrected with a playful smile. “It’s Tuesday.”

“Cruel and heartless, Ren, cruel and heartless,” she said, plopping herself on their desk. They laughed good-naturedly, leaning an arm over the back of their chair and smiling up at her. “Did you go on another cruise with your mama?” she asked less theatrically.

“No, actually. I was busy with something new.” They gave a wicked grin, which prompted her to lean in, ready for whatever they were about to share. They’d conditioned the response, personally. “I got myself a Box Boy.”

Yanni gasped, lighting up. “No! Show me pictures, show me pictures! Is he cute?”

“He’s so cute,” Ren said, pulling out their phone and bringing up a picture of their precious angel. “His name is Soren, he’s the same age as me, and his hair is this gorgeous texture.”

“Oh my god!” she squealed, “Look at hiiiiiiim, oh my gooooood!” She fanned at her face excitedly, and Ren swiped through a couple more pictures with their thumb. “Ren he’s adorable!!!”

“And he’s sweet as a peach, too,” Ren bragged, smiling down at Soren’s blushing face. “My personal little angel.”

“Ugh, now you’re making me want one! I swear, ever since Box Babes came out with their spring lineup, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. Did you see that lineup? The one with that gorgeous big-titty one in the purple?”

“Was it the same line that had the one with curly brown hair and pretty green eyes?” Ren asked. Yanni tilted her head, her curly brown hair bouncing in its ponytail and her pretty green eyes looking off to the side in thought.

“Not sure! It’s not an uncommon complexion, though,” Yanni said with a careless shrug, and Ren hummed, a private smile on their face, eyes on hers. She smiled back. “But seriously, that one Babe was soooooo pretty, and I’ve been needing an outlet.”

‘You really do,” Ren agreed.

“I can’t help it that the gods made me horny. And like, none of the women in this office are bangable, you know? They’re all, ugh, smart.”

“Working with folk of our caliber, I’d hope they would be,” Ren said easily, mostly entertained by Yanni’s over the top theatrics. They felt warmly towards her. Not that she’d ever be in any danger of it, but if--in some other life--she were made into a Box Babe herself, Ren would’ve just as happily bought her.

It would still have meant that they wouldn’t have a pet they could really yank around, but at least neither would ever need to feel jealous of the other.

“Well, obviously,” Yanni said with a flip of her hair. “But it does shrink my dating pool to zilch. I mean, seriously, what’s a gal gotta do to get herself a bimbo these days?!”

Ren pretended to hum thoughtfully, and shrugged with an airy “Buy one.”

They shared a laugh, and Yanni leaned in to kiss their cheek. “You’re so fun, I missed you. You should invite me over to meet your new little plaything!”

“Maybe,” Ren said, “We’ll see how I feel at the end of the day.”

Yanni stuck her tongue out at them. “You just wanna hole up with that cute little bean and keep him all to yourself.”

Ren shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Guess you’ll never know.”

“Well, text me whenever you decide. Oh! But, I did get sent in here for a reason. Like, a reason-reason, not just to bitch you out for stranding me here!”

“Oh?” Ren asked unapologetically.

“Coffee machine broke yesterday. Help us Ren-bi Wan Kenobi! You’re our only hope!”

Huh. They hadn’t even sabotaged it that time. It meant the thing was actually malfunctioning, but they weren’t particularly concerned, as they stood and left their office. By this point, they knew the insides of the thing better than the manufacturers did. 

A couple of their office-mates were gathered in the break room, one of them contemplating buying iced coffee from the company fridge, a couple chatting with empty hands, another very sullenly nursing a cup of water. Aimie looked up from said water cup and caught sight of Ren, and her face immediately lit up.

“Ren! Thank god; the damn thing’s been broken all week!”

“It’s only Tuesday,” Ren said with a laugh, basking in the turning attention of the break room, each and every one of them delighted to see Ren. 

“It’s already Tuesday,” Yanni corrected, hopping up on the counter next to the coffee machine as Ren pulled open the panel. “You’ve come to us in our darkest hour!” she said with a dramatically raised fist.

Ren poked around, checking the usual spots they sabotaged it in. One of the wires they used most frequently had jiggled loose all on its own. They must have used that wire too much, and now it was worn down from the constant in and out. But, that just meant they didn’t have to sneak in here and break the thing as often anymore, and would be able to walk in with other people and be lauded for their competence without needing to time things perfectly when the room was empty. If they could just get access to the security cameras legally, this would all be so much simpler.

“And booting back on,” Ren announced calmly, the room watching with baited breath, and they all let out a playful (but only so playful) cheer when the thing beeped to life.

“Our hero!” Yanni shouted, flinging her arms around their neck and kissing their cheek. They laughed, hugging her back, and offered her the first paper cup off the stack, as a monarch bestowing riches to a favored knight. They placed their hand on the nape of her neck while she filled the cup, pretending to lean on her while they looked at their phone (Soren was on the balcony again).

One of the first things they’d done when they decided they liked Yanni was touch her neck, like this, their hand pressing down on the clasp of her necklace. It dug into their hand, but it dug into her neck too, and was the first step in conditioning her to put up with mild discomfort in exchange for Ren’s touch and attention. Of course, they would never do anything terrible to her, no no, they wouldn’t be mean to their friend, but they liked knowing that they could, that their friends would let them. They were better now, than as a teenager. Smoother, sharper, smarter about this. They hadn’t conditioned Soren successfully in their youth, having to wait until he was a precious little Box Boy to get him acting like he should, but they were doing a fine job of manipulating Yanni. She was willing to put up with most anything, these days.

“See you at lunch,” Yanni said, steam wafting out from the little hole in the plastic lid. “You’ve got so much office gossip I need to catch you up on!”

“Looking forward to it,” Ren said honestly, giving her a quick kiss on the temple before returning to their office.

They thought about it. Yanni was very, very much a lesbian, so therefore would pose no “threat” for Ren with Soren. Her interest in him really and truly would be entirely aesthetic, and she would have no interest in taking what was Ren’s. She wasn’t violent, and respected other people’s properties (Ren’s more than most), so she wouldn’t hurt Soren, but she was also a little careless and very energetic, so she might play a little rough. She might shake Soren up a bit, leave him nervous and trembling and desperately folding into Ren’s embrace, which was definitely desirable. She might also just coo over him, pinching his cheeks and braiding his hair and fawning until she got bored and demanded Ren distract her in other ways, which was also fine. 

Ren tried to think of possible downsides to inviting Yanni over, examining potential outcomes thoroughly. They did, after all, like to be prepared. They especially couldn’t afford to be careless with Soren, not when they had him just like they wanted him. But all they came up with were pros. Yanni would undoubtedly like Soren, and would be further convinced to buy a Box Babe of her own. That would mean she’d waste less time trying to find hookups or dates, which detracted her attention from Ren, and would leave her better able to focus on them, devote her time to them. 

If she bullied Soren a little, it would leave him clingy and needy. If she bullied Soren too much, it wouldn’t happen instantaneously, and Ren could step in when things crossed a line, and Soren would be grateful and view them as his savior (which they were, anyway). If she was nothing but sweet and friendly, well, Soren deserved that. Ren would be able to show off how well trained Soren was, which was a stroke to their vanity, and Yanni would get more quality time with Ren, which the two of them hadn’t had in a while.

They checked in on Soren again (in the kitchen now, and when they checked their clock it was about lunchtime), got up from their desk, and headed out to the vending machine. They bought a bar of super-dark chocolate and swung by Yanni’s office, decorated with streamers and rainbows and artfully nude paintings and photographs of women. 

“Knock knock,” they said, after they’d already crossed the threshold and were in the middle of sauntering to her desk. She looked up, grinned bright, and then saw that they had a chocolate bar in hand.

“Oooo, you get me something?” she asked, hand already extended, and they dropped it into her palm with a pleasant hum.

“You know I like spoiling you.”

“I dooooo, you dooooo,” she cooed, unwrapping it and taking a bite. “Is it lunch already?”

“Sure is. Also, you should stop by after work today and meet my little Soren.”

“Hell yes!” Yanni said, sticking the bar in her mouth so she could lock up her computer with both hands. She looped her arm around Ren’s, and the two went to lunch, Yanni informing them of all the office gossip over green iced tea and shakshouka. The knowledge that Carl’s father had recently passed was useful. It meant he would be… vulnerable. It did put a closing-window-time frame on whether or not Ren liked him enough to want him, though. If they didn’t, he wouldn’t be worth the effort, emotional vulnerability or no. Sure, Carl was nice enough, but he was getting kind of old, and didn’t exactly have enough clout to make him useful.

But he did have that lovely sense of humor, and he gave out compliments easily, which Ren liked. Decisions decisions.

“Back to the grind,” Yanni said with a sigh as they tossed their trash.

“Halfway there,” they comforted, touching her back. “I’ll see you after work, puppy,” they said, playful and quiet. Calling her puppy was an inside joke between them, given how excitable and bubbly she was, how easy it was to get her wound up. They always said it affectionately, so she knew they weren’t calling her a bitch or anything, that was the last connotation they wanted with their words. But she really was, she was their cute little puppy.

And Soren was their pretty little bird, whose wings they’d finally clipped. 

Yanni’s voice echoed through their home when the two walked through the front door that evening, and when she laughed brightly Ren took the opportunity to call out, “Soren, baby, heel!”

Soren rounded the stairs the moment after; he must have started coming when he heard their voices. “Ohhh, he’s even cuter in real life!” Yanni squealed as he came down, and when Ren opened their arms he rushed to them, eyes lingering nervously on Yanni. 

“Soren, this is Yanni,” Ren said sweetly, voice once again taking that high pitch like they were talking to a child.

“Hello, Yanni,” Soren said, reluctant to be pushed away from Ren’s chest.

“Hello sweetie!” she cooed, reaching out and pinching his cheeks. Ren chuckled breathily. They were definitely pinchable. “You are just as cute as a button omg! Oh, oh, is he name brand?”

“He is,” Ren said proudly, stroking his hair and letting the silky strands fall off their fingers in a small cascade. 

“So he comes with like, positions and stuff, right?”

“Soren, position two.”

Soren collapsed to his knees, eyes turned to Ren, who smiled at him.

“Aaaa, okay, okay, uh, position four!” Yanni said. Soren glanced to her, then back at Ren, who made a ‘go on’ kind of gesture. Soren lifted up off his ankles, though remained on his knees, and extended his wrists to Yanni, who giggled.

“How abouuuuut, twelve! No, thirteen!” Soren stopped mid-motion, then slipped easily into position, and Yanni rattled off a few more random numbers.

“Which one’s your favorite?” Yanni asked, beaming at Ren.

“Soren, Position 22.”

Soren knelt, much like position two, only this time his jaw dropped open.

“EW! You perv!” Yanni said with a high giggle, punching Ren in the shoulder. Ren laughed along with, and punched back. They always punched back harder, and they always punched back last. She accepted this about them, though sometimes in her rowdier moods they would be forced to leave her rubbing at her arm with a half-hidden wince. “So, you fuck him then?” she asked, rounding Soren and tugging experimentally on a lock of hair. “Oh wow it is soft,” she muttered, grabbing a handful.

“Not yet,” Ren said lazily, observing Soren’s cute little winces, the way his throat worked as he tried to swallow his spit with an open mouth, attempting to prevent himself from drooling. “I want the first time to be perfect.”

Yanni nodded with a noisy inhale. “I do know this about you,” she said. “Man, now I really want a Box Babe.”

“You should get one; they’re delightful.”

“Huh Soren, should I get one?” Yanni asked, sitting down on her haunches and pulling him back against her shoulder, hand on top of his collar.

“I-If you think you’d like one, ma’am.”

“I wouldn’t wait to fuck mine, though,” she said, almost conversationally, booping Soren on the nose.

“And I know this about you,” Ren said with a chuckle. “Noisy slut that you are.”

“It’s true, I’m the sluttiest,” Yanni said, standing and using Soren’s shoulder to help herself up. She pulled on his hair, forcing his head back so he looked up at her. “And these pets really are just to die for, huh?”

“I wouldn’t say die, maybe just spend lots of money on,” Ren said. They snapped their fingers. “Soren, here.”

Soren rushed to them, barely even hiding that he was glad to be out from under her tugging and prodding hands, and when they kissed him he kissed back eagerly, pressing his body up against theirs, gratitude and relief clearly bleeding through his touch. 

“Oh that so does it, I’m getting one. Wanna help me look?” Yanni asked, wrapping her arms around Ren’s waist from behind and going tip-toed to rest her chin on their shoulder. Thoughts of what it would be like to have her collared and doing this, of being sandwiched between two of their favorite friends, maybe tugging on Yanni’s collar a little, came into Ren’s mind, and they smiled brightly.

“Sure! I can show you some of the other sites I was looking at too; even the ones that aren’t big brands can have some attractive wares.”

“Okay,” Yanni said easily, “Oh but first, we have to see if that purple one from the lineup is still available. Seriously, Ren, you’re gonna lose it when you see her, she’s SO pretty!”

“Well, c’mon then,” Ren said, beckoning them both into the living room and pulling out their computer. They pulled up the Whumpees-R-Us homepage and Yanni nuzzled up against their side, giggling. “Soren baby, come up on the couch with us too,” Ren said as they pulled up the Box Babes lineup.

“Oh, she is pretty,” they remarked, zooming in on the one in purple. They hooked the arm they weren’t using to navigate the mouse around Soren’s shoulders, pulling him in nice and close.

“Isn’t she though? God, she’s just, look at her tits!”

“I’m looking, I’m looking, they’re hard to miss!” Ren said with a laugh. 

“How do we see if she’s still for sale?” Yanni asked, and Ren clicked around.

“Oh, yeah, she’s sold. Here, let’s pull up the available listings? Or do you want to customize?”

“Ugh, I’m not that rich. And I’m not my mama’s special favorite, either,” she said teasingly, and Ren elbowed her in the rib.

Yanni laughed. “Filter it though. I want big tits and low intelligence.”

After a bit of scrolling and some more filters, Yanni found one she liked, a beautiful young thing, and Ren tugged on Soren’s hair. 

“Huh, Soren, what do you think of her?” Ren asked, angling the laptop a little.

“She’s, um, very pretty? And, her number is pretty low, which means, I think, she’d be happy to have a mistress, and grateful.”

“Do low numbers mean they’ve been there a while?” Yanni asked.

“Mm. Usually. That, or th-they were, um,” Soren looked away, and Ren tightened their hold, which made him unwind ever so slightly, “refurbished.”

“Ohhhh, so she could be a naughty bitch,” Yanni said thoughtfully, tapping her fingers against her chin.

“E-Either way, she’ll be grateful, ma���am, I, I’m sure!”

“We should check her personality statistics,” Ren said, smoothing their palm over Soren’s pretty head, letting him press his face to their chest and tremble against them. 

Personality stats were good, she was as-of-yet unbought so concerns of refurbishment were null, and Ren enjoyed the little twitch that Soren gave every time the word “refurbish” was said. Yanni ended up buying her on Ren’s computer, with her credit card, and kissed their cheek before she left for the night.

“See you tomorrow!” she called.

“See you tomorrow,” they answered, and as soon as she’d closed the door they turned to Soren, lifting his chin.

“My pet, you seem distressed.”

“I, I,” Soren tried, and they felt a thrill up their spine at how tears were gathering in his eyes. “I didn’t… I don’t…”

“Shhh,” Ren hushed, thumbing away his gathering tears. “Shush, now, darling, think it through, use your words. Take your time my sweetheart, shhh.”

Soren pressed his face to Ren’s shirt, clinging to them, and they pet his hair.

“I. Don’t like thinking about the facility. I don’t like r-remembering--I, I know you said what I was before d-doesn’t matter, but,” Soren took a deep breath, “i-it was scary, and, and then we, talked about,” Soren hiccuped, “refurbishment, and, Exalted, Honored One, please, please, I-I’m good, please, I don’t…”

Soren was trying very hard not to break down, it was clear, but he was getting glassier, out of focus. Ren shushed him again and lifted his face, exposing his neck.

“Soren, baby, give me your hand,” they purred, and they guided it to his collar. The shift was instant. His whole body shuddered, lips parting, and his eyes closed with a heavy exhale, other hand coming up and gripping the collar also.

“I’m yours,” he murmured, reverent as a prayer, “I’m yours, I’m all yours. I won’t ever belong to anyone but you. No one else will touch me, no one else will get me, I won’t go anywhere without you.” He rocked slightly on the couch, knuckles white from how tightly he held his collar, and Ren smiled, happy and sweet and content.

“That’s right baby. I’ll let my friends come over and play with you, but they’ll never hurt you. I’ll sign you up for classes, but you only go there with my knowledge and permission. Everything about your life, I have ahold of, Soren. I’m taking care of you.”

“Yes,” Soren moaned, “Yes, I’m yours, I’m yours. My whole life is in your hands, you have the control.”

“That’s right,” Ren cooed, pulling him into their arms and kissing his hair. “That’s right. That’s my precious boy, oh, Soren, take comfort in me.” Their arms squeezed around him a little tighter. “Take your comfort in the fact that you are mine.”

Next

[inactiive-shit]

The Bones of a Miracle

The Bones of a Miracle Masterlist || AO3 [[Next Chapter]]

Chapter 1: Just Doing What We’re Told

Summary: Roman Pyre is called upon to retrieve the missing Crown Prince by the rulers of Aerewadal, one of the strongest kindgoms in the world. He takes the job with the promise of more money than he could ever hope to spend and finally, at long last, peace. How hard could it be to find one Prince? Turns out, not that hard. But bringing him back and getting paid? That's another problem entirely.

Words: 5,250

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Roman had been resting after his latest mission, allowing his tailors to fix his clothes and his beauticians to work their magic on his wrecked hair and nails, and giving his body the much needed time to heal the bruises and cuts he’d gotten for his efforts.

All in all, Roman had very much been looking forward to having some down time. He’d had grand plans of gorging himself on whatever exotic fruits happened to coming in to the ports and attending lavish plays. Roman had even managed to secure enough time off to attend a masked ball at the end of the month, something that he rarely ever got the time to do.

But when the Queen requests your presence at the castle immediately, and instructs that you be ready for hard travel? You don’t delay.

Roman’s pack is filled with his clothes and food, money and the tools necessitated by the less...respected side of his profession. He has no idea what the monarchs might want with him or his skill set, but it’s best to come prepared, and they wanted whatever this was about dealt with quickly, so it would undoubtedly be better if he doesn’t have to come back home for his supplies.

Resisting the urge to curse under his breath from the pace they are traveling at, Roman leans forward in the carriage and gets the attention of the courier sent to retrieve him. The kid is young, barely more than fourteen if Roman were to hazard a guess. They have a nervous air about them, and Roman is sure this is their first assignment on their own, no mentor to give them a nudge in the right direction.

“You know,” he says, “the Queen’s message seemed pretty urgent. I could get to the castle quicker on my own.”

The kid, Ellie or El or Leo, looks down at their frantically tapping fingers and shrugs. Their gray shirt hangs loose on their body, billowing out around the much more snug black vest. “Their Majesties insisted that I escort you there, sir. The task they have for you is of the highest importance and they wish to ensure that you arrive safely as well as swiftly.”

“What is this task meant to be?” Roman asks, deciding against mentioning that he is more than capable of taking care of himself and he’s not sure what help in that regard this kid could give him, besides. The kid darts a look at him but looks away just as quickly; they know something, and they’re not allowed to say.

“Their Majesties did not deign to inform me, sir.”

“Say what you will,” Roman mutters. He leans his chin on his fist. “I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.”

The carriage is hot and even though the windows are open, barely any wind makes its way inside to air out the space. While he dislikes the heat, uncomfortable as it, Roman is just thankful that it’s not humid. Humidity makes his already kinky hair unbearably frizzy and he’s not sure he’d be able to handle another stint on the job while fighting to keep his hair out of the way, too.

Roman wonders, on the hours long journey, why the Queen and Monarch would have sent someone as young and untried as the courier before him. He’s high priority from the wording of the message alone, and he’s one of the best at what he does—perhaps the best, if one is looking only for human options, which the monarchs seem to be doing. But this kid is skinny as a skeleton and has the courage of a skittish street cat. Perhaps they make up for it in wit, but Roman is hard pressed to believe that they alone could make the difference in an ambush or duel.

Still, who is Roman to question royalty? They have enough information on him to put him to death without a trial and people would party in the streets for it. It’s a wonder, really, that they haven’t sent for him before now to take care of him and the threat he poses. It’s stranger still that they would want him for such an important and sensitive mission that he’s not even allowed to know what it is until they reach the castle. Then, a secret ‘mission’ would be the perfect excuse to send for him and have him walk willingly into his own execution.

Roman discreetly checks his bag for all of his things. It’s best to be prepared; he’d learned that lesson the hard way.

“Any siblings?” the courier suddenly asks, dragging Roman from his thoughts. His eyes flick over them.

“No,” he says. “I was the sole ruler of my kingdom, as a child. Rather liked it that way.” They snort indelicately.

“I imagine that would have been exciting,” they say. “I had twelve siblings growing up and I was younger than most of them. I never got to be the ruler of anything.”

Roman whistles appreciatively. “That must have been tough.”

“Nah. Not much more than anything else.” Their voice is soft and unobtrusive. They settle back onto the bench and adjust their skirt. It flares slightly and goes nearly to the tops of their boots, much sturdier and more well-worn than any other article of clothing they’re wearing. Being a servant trusted by the Queen herself should be a position well-paid enough that they’d be able to afford decent boots. This pair is scratched and scuffed, mud caking the soles. Roman has rarely had shoes in such bad condition, even when he spent months tracking down an on-the-run noble and had to do his own repairs.

The courier doesn’t seem much inclined to continue the conversation, and Roman is more than happy to rest. He stretches across his bench and shuts his eyes. It’s going to be a long trip in this heat.

It takes two days that feels more like four to get to the castle. They were forced to stay the night at an inn that Roman wouldn’t have slept at even before he made a name for himself here. It didn’t even have a toilet. There was a hole behind some bushes they were expected to use.

It is an experience that Roman is not looking to repeat.

The courier leads Roman in through the back. There’s no one around to see them except for mice and spiders. There’s not even a guard placed here. He hadn’t been expecting to enter the castle to the sound of raucous applause and a path of rose petals, but this is so far removed from even the other weirdness that Roman encounters on a daily basis that he’s almost taken aback.

His interest is piqued. Whatever the Queen wants him for, she doesn’t want anyone to know about it. Or to know that Roman is involved.

This is going to pay well. Roman can feel it.

“We wait here.” The courier comes to a stop near the doors. The room they’re in is big and has golden fixtures on the walls that contain brightly burning candles. There are other, floating lights and a few sconces emanating shades of blue and purple that Roman assumes are magically imbued. It doesn’t take the most skilled hand to form colored light, but it does take a regular upkeep. An easy way to infiltrate the castle, Roman notes. Give the right person food poisoning and show up in their place. Of course, you’d have to know the layout of the castle to do anything, but as long as he could find the throne room, he’d be able to orient himself. It’s just a matter of finding the-

All the colored lights flicker to searing white for a moment, and the courier moves forward and yanks open the door. Roman has to stoop slightly to follow them in. Though the kid is short enough to go through without trouble, the door can only be five and a half feet tall, if that, and while Roman isn't extraordinarily tall, he is taller than that. That means it’s probably a hidden servants’ entrance. And if they’re willing to show someone as dangerous as Roman a weakness like that...

“Your Majesties,” the courier says, bowing low. Roman does a quick survey of the room while the attention isn’t on him. Doors, curtains, tapestries, pillars, chairs. But something’s off. There’s something missing. Roman’s just not quite sure what it is.

Then it hits him: there are no guards.

“Elliott,” says the Queen. “Thank you for bringing him in one piece.” Roman schools his face so that it doesn’t show his shock; the kid is on a first-name basis with the Queen. They’re important here.

The Queen and her spouse swivel to look at Roman. He steps forward and bows gallantly.

“Roman Pyre. At your services, Majesties.”

“Mr. Pyre,” the Monarch says. They glance over his clothes. Roman doesn’t glower, though it’s a close thing. He had worn the best suit he had left after his last job, a dark red one with gold highlights and a dramatically flared cape. It wasn’t much, but they were lucky Roman hadn’t simply come in his night clothes with the way he was rushed from his own home.

“That is a fine suit, Mr. Pyre,” the Queen murmurs. She doesn’t look at his clothes, instead staring him in the face. Well. Two can play at that game.

“Thank you, your Majesty.” He casts an obvious, critical eye over her own wardrobe: a golden gown with purple beading and lace. There’s the sheath of a dagger hidden within the purple lacing that goes up the front. “I would be more than happy to recommend the tailor to you.” The Queen stiffens in her seat. Behind her, in the place a guard would usually stand, Elliott’s eyes go wide with shock at the slight. Roman refuses to lower his head or wipe the pleasant smile off his face.

“Perhaps you should,” she says, but the words aren’t genuine. She stares at Roman. On either side, her courier and spouse do too. Roman stares back, weathering the silence patiently. He knows the power of forcing someone to talk first, and after all he’s been through, he’s not going to allow anyone that.

The minutes tick by, each slower than the last, as everyone silently demands someone else talk first. And then, blessedly, there is a knock at the main entrance, a pair of grand, gleaming doors that reach to twelve feet high. Elliott slips around the Queen’s chair without a word and goes to the doors. They look heavy enough that it would take a team to open them, but the slip of a child does it with ease. Enchanted, Roman thinks. While it’s not unusual for castles to be filled to the brim with charms and enchantments, it is certainly interesting to see who is permitted through them.

Roman doubts there’s a place in the castle that Elliott can’t go.

There’s a muffled conversation at the door and Elliott sticks an arm out, quickly receiving something from whoever is on the other side. They shut the door and rush back to the thrones, offering the Queen a scroll. Roman watches with interest as she reads it, her eyebrows drawing together just slightly.

She releases a sigh through her nose and passes the scroll to her spouse. They read it quickly. Unlike the Queen, they seem energized by its contents, leaning toward her once they finish and whispering. She hums at their words, and finally resigns herself to losing.

“Mr. Pyre,” she says. Roman bows his head. “As you may have gathered, this is not a social call. To be candid with you, I would rather have you thrown in the dungeon right this second to await your trial and, once you are found guilty of your innumerable crimes, both against this crown and foreign empires, sentence you to death than be forced to deal with you now. There have been many times, over the years, that I considered doing just that, to rid myself and my bloodline of your vexing behaviors. However.” The Queen pauses here. Roman stands tall, arms loose and knees ready. His posture is as relaxed as he can feasibly force it, and he takes stock of all of his supplies and exits. Of course, it isn’t the least bit surprising to hear that the Queen has considered killing him before. That is only to be expected. It is worrying that she is openly admitting it. That isn’t the kind of thing citizens like to hear about their rulers. That she is saying it means something.

“How-ev-er,” the Queen says again. She smiles at him. Roman fights the urge to shiver and bares his teeth back at her, “we haven’t had you arrested yet, despite all the evidence piling up. Do you know why that is?”

“I’m just too handsome for the chopping block?” Roman suggests.

The Queen ignores him. “We always knew we might have a need for you. And so we do. Of course, there are people in this world more skilled than you at your...profession. However, most of them are much less reputable than even you and tend to bring back their quarries in poor condition. So, as much as I would like to have you thrown in the dungeon to never again see the light of day...you’re the best option. Even if you are so Fae.” His cheeks flame as he clenches his hands into fists. He can feel it all the way to the points of his ears, knows that his eyes have taken on a red tinge, as they always do when someone feels the need to point out Roman’s past. He debates the merits, just for a moment, of pulling her own dagger on her and slitting her throat with it. There are no guards in the room to stop him.

Unfortunately, Roman has more self control than that.

“It’s almost like you’re trying to make me not assist you,” he says, carefully modulating his voice. The Queen smirks like she wants him to say no, to test her.

“We have compensation for your successful efforts,” cuts in the Monarch. They grab the Queen’s hand with theirs and lean toward Roman. “Enough that you’ll be living the rest of your days in comfort. Along with the reassurance that all of your crimes and misdeeds in the past will be forgiven with a royal pardon.”

“How much money?” Roman asks, down to business now because this is what he’s here for. Roman lives for the money that makes his life that much easier. The pardon is nice too, don’t get things misconstrued, but it won’t matter for long. He’ll go right back to his unsavory profession and begin racking up disdain and wanted posters again.

The sum they name is astronomical. Roman will never have to take another job again. His mouth dries at the thought. Maybe he won’t be on anymore wanted posters.

“What would you have me do?”

“Find our son,” the Monarch says, and when they say it, both rulers look like they’re begging.

Roman sits at a table in a separate room. It looks like some sort of private dining room—the kind that maybe only the Queen and Monarch dine in. Despite the Queen’s obvious distaste for him, much of the castle has been exposed to him. That’s a dangerous thing. Roman knows that they must be serious about this.

The Queen sits across from him, a file in her hands. The courier stands at her elbow, a few more documents held in their arms. Roman glances over the papers, curious. It’s not as much as it could be, but to find someone like the Prince, Roman is going to need all the help he can get.

The Prince is notorious for getting away from his guards to traipse through the kingdom without protection and has a bad habit of disappearing even within the castle, where no one can find him. He’s good at disappearing, and at not being found.

“Here.” The Monarch drops another stack of paper before Roman. He begins leafing through them as the Monarch takes their seat.

“Four days ago,” the Queen begins. Roman drops the papers back to look at her, “our son disappeared.”

“Disappeared how?” Roman asks. The Queen shares a look with the Monarch. There’s a moment of silence before the Queen answers.

“He left in the night, and we believe he was looking for something. We’ve not heard from him since.”

“You mean to tell me that your adult son voluntarily left for a reason you know and you want me to drag him back?” The glare the Queen shoots him is absolutely vicious. If Roman were any less accustomed to violence and hatred, he would quiver under that look.

“There are many kingdoms that would take great interest in knowing the Heir to Aerewadal is currently somewhere in the country, unprotected,” the Monarch says. They motion to the papers sitting on the table. The Queen passes the folder over. It’s filled with descriptions of countries, leaders, and independent parties that have a bone to pick with the Wedian family. Roman raises his eyebrows, impressed. He’s never seen that level of hatred, all laid out.

“Where is this quest meant to take him?”

“Through Wudour Forest,” the Queen says. “And should that not yield the results he wants, all the way to the Fae Lands in the east.” She pauses, as though waiting for some input from Roman. He stays quiet. “He doesn’t have the training to defend himself from such...attacks as he is likely to face there. He does not have magic, nor does he have appropriate training to deal with people as particular as the Fae.

“We believe he is going after this.” Another page falls in front of Roman. There’s a chest depicted, with swirling filigree and delicate latches. “It is said to contain the Book of Cuilezia, the most powerful spellbook in the world.”

“It’s a myth,” Roman says. He drags his eyes away from the drawing to examine the monarchs. “He does know that nothing like that exists, doesn’t he?”

“He’s going after it,” the Monarch says. They look over Roman. “Do you understand the gravity of this situation?” Roman nods once. “We believe that he’s heading straight for Wudour Forest. We’ve sent guards after him, but he’s talented at escaping detection.” They rub a hand down the side of their face. Roman can see the stress that this has caused them, and he winces. “These papers contain everything we know about the path there, how we think he’s likely to travel, and any other information we thought would be helpful. There’s a room set up for you here for tonight, so you can review the information, eat, and rest.”

“You’ll tomorrow morning,“ the Queen orders. “Get our son back.”

“You have my word, your Majesty.” Roman stands and bows deeply to them. The Queen waves a hand and Elliot steps forward to gather up the files.

They escort Roman to a distant room in the castle. The hall it’s in is vacant and dusty, like it hasn’t seen a good cleaning in years, but the room itself is in good condition. There’s a soft, squishy comforter on the most luxurious mattress Roman has ever felt. There’s a plethora of candelabras and sconces around the room that Elliott lights by hand. It leaves the room glowing brightly, in perfectly natural light. Roman feels almost at home.

“Breakfast will be sent for you in the morning,” they say. “You are expected to be off as soon as possible. The quicker you get back with the Prince, the better.” They turn to leave.

“How old are you?” Roman asks. Well, he blurts it. He’s curious about their station here. About what could get them in so close with the Queen.

Elliott turns to eye him. They must not think he has any unfavorable motivations because they eventually softly say, “Nineteen.” Roman chokes on air. Nineteen! They look like a child!

“You must have lived here a long time, then. To be so young and so trusted.”

“I know my way around,” Elliott says with a smile, which isn’t an answer. Roman sighs. “Sleep, sir. You’ll need it to find the Prince. He’s fast on his feet and knows a thing or two about covering up his trail.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Roman mutters. He hesitates, but Elliott is still waiting in his room so he figures asking a few more questions won’t be too out of line. “You wouldn’t be able to give me any other pointers about the Prince, would you? The more I know, the quicker I can find him.”

“He’s determined,” Elliott says. They pause, seeming to struggle for the words before continuing. “He has a goal, and not getting caught before he completes his task is likely part of it.”

“What’s his goal?” Roman prods.

“The chest containing the Book of Cuilezia,” Elliott says. Their eyes are sharp despite their voice remaining quiet and hesitant. “The Queen showed you a picture of it.”

“Of course,” Roman says, “and a noble goal it is. But there isn’t anything else he may be looking for? Something that, perhaps, he recently discovered and decided he wanted?”

“No,” Elliott says, voice dropping ever so slightly. There’s a silence. “Not that I’m aware of, sir. I’m not privy to all the goings-on of the castle.”

“I’m sure,” Roman mutters under his breath. “Do you know what led him to believe the chest is located in Wudour?”

“He believes the Fae have it,” Elliott says. “A merchant recently came through, bearing weapons of Fae and Elvish make. She swore that she saw the chest with some of the most advanced Fae Healers there are.”

“She didn’t say what she was doing in the company of such esteemed magic users, did she?”

“She neglected to mention that.” Roman snorts and shakes his head. The courier waits a moment. “If that’s all, I’ll leave you to your reading, sir.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s all. You’ve been helpful,” Roman says. “Thank you.” They slip out the door. Roman collapses onto the bed and the stack of carefully clipped together papers bounces up beside him.

“This castle,” Roman says to the papers, “is full of the most gods awful liars I have ever seen.” The papers say nothing back and, groaning, Roman rolls to his stomach, gathers them close, and begins to read.

Roman is completely packed the next morning when his breakfast arrives. The servant says nothing to him, simply sets the tray on the desk and bows out of the room. Roman picks over the food; they’re obviously not too worried about feeding him anything of quality. The gray-ish mush is slimy and the roll is hard enough to make his teeth hurt.

Perhaps they’re trying to run him out of the castle so that he’ll get a quicker start. At least the apple he has is good, fresh and wormless. It’s not the worst food he’s ever been served.

Ten minutes later, a knock sounds at the door. Roman opens it to see the same servant as before.

“Are you ready to leave, sir?”

“But of course,” Roman says, slinging his pack over his shoulder and grinning. “Lead the way.”

Without another word, the servant turns and begins walking. Roman stays a few paces behind, taking in all the halls they passed. It would be good to know the palace’s layout in case he ever got a job that brought him within it.

If he did, he’d have to ransack the kitchen while he was at it and see what kind of delicacies they were withholding from him. He was sure the rulers didn’t eat like that, and he’s curious to see what they do have.

They come out into the misty gray morning. The sun still hasn’t fully risen yet, but the birds are just beginning to sing in the trees. It’s as beautiful as the music played by the Royal Orchestra at the Royals’ and Nobles’ birthdays. The only good thing about the rulers getting another year older is the music accompanying it.

The stables come up before them, and Roman takes a few quick steps to catch up to his guide. “Why are we going to the stables?”

“Their Majesty said to give you one of the fastest horses in the stable, Drukha, to aid you in your travels, sir.”

“How thoughtful,” Roman says. He steps up to the stall door the servant stops at and peers in. The horse staring back at him has a shimmering black-brown coat and stands at least sixteen hands. As soon as she sees him, she whinnies and rears back on her legs to stomp at him. Roman lurches back from the door just as the horse’s hooves make contact. The gates tremble.

“She’s a little skittish,” the servant says. Roman stands far back as the horse is calmed and then let out of the stall. He follows the horse back out of the stable and into the light. She’s already been tacked up.

“Are you sure this isn’t a hellsfoot?” Roman remarks. The horse’s eyes are rolling around her head like she’s been possessed and she stomps her hooves every time Roman gets too close. In the sun, her coat almost looks like liquid more than hair, which is the same texture that the creatures corrupted by magic have.

“There’s not been any dark magic done around the horses, sir.” Roman edges close enough to take the reins, and Drukha screams at him again. “She's likely on edge on account-a the fact you’re Fae.” Roman tightens his grip on the reins and flushes to the tips of his ears, but doesn’t say anything in response. “She’s fast, and strong. She’ll serve you well, sir. Just needs some time to acclimate.”

“Tell their Majesties thank you from me,” Roman says quietly. He manages to tie his pack to the horse without getting a chunk taken out of his leg and then hops on. The horse prances around for a moment, attempting to bite his legs, but Roman eventually gets her somewhat under control. With one last nod to the servant, he turns the horse and sets off.

The streets, once Roman enters them, are crowded. People mill around and carriages trundle through, slow to avoid the citizens walking out into the streets without a care in the world. It would be quicker if he could just walk, but he’d regret leaving Drukha behind once he got to the forest. As much as she may act like a hellsfoot in the meantime and cause more problems than not.

Though, she doesn't seem to be bothered by the crowd or noise of the market. Not easily spooked, then. She'd just have to get used to him and understand who would be calling the shots.

~~~~~

Logan watches passively as the man in the tree curses colorfully. The branch he's balanced precariously on is perhaps thirty feet off the ground and creaking dangerously. A fall from that height could kill him, though it likely won't. He'll undoubtedly be hurt if he doesn't come to his senses and make his way down from the tree, and Logan has a suspicion that the man won't come down if he's told to or not.

But Logan is perfectly content to watch and see where this leads. He has no stakes in the situation, so regardless of what the man does, Logan will be fine.

(Though, he was supposed to have been finished collecting his berries well over an hour ago, now. He's been watching the eclectic, bizarrely dressed man since he'd heard him crashing through the woods. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to his actions beyond his apparent inability to keep a singular goal in mind for longer than ten minutes. His current excursion started as an attempt to get a higher vantage to figure out where he was, but he's been chasing a bird up the tree for the better part of fifteen minutes. The bird, for their part, seemed perturbed by the intruder and continually squawked at him to get down.)

Instead of coming down the tree, the man jumps from the branch he's on and barely manages to get his arms around another. With a deafening crack, the previous branch launches off the tree and comes crashing to the ground feet before Logan. The man just keeps dangling from the new branch, legs kicking wildly beneath, laughing. Logan watches him with rapt attention. He's never seen someone so absolutely unworried about death or injury, let alone this far into the woods and alone.

"Oh, shitty fucking dicks," the man says, and the branch he's holding on to lets out an ear-splitting shriek just before it falls off the tree.

And takes the man with it.

He doesn't make any noise upon impact with the ground and Logan wonders if, like with every other part of his appearance and general disposition, he's defied the odds and died.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on who you are), upon closer inspection Logan can see that he's still very much breathing. His leg, however, should not be bending at the angle that it is, nor in the place that it is.

And while Logan will concede that, to some degree, all life is sacred and that senseless killing is generally a bad thing, he has to almost wish that the man had ended up dead. If he died, there would be nothing Logan could do about his unfortunate state. As it is, he is merely hurt and desperately in need of help. A broken leg in this forest at this time of day will eventually lead to death or at least further injury, and Logan cannot abide by such things in his forest.

Sighing, Logan secures his pack of berries and roots over his back and and drags the man up. He's heavy, someone who probably hasn't done much physical work in his life but has had enough access to food. Not a commoner, and that's especially evident with the way he's dressed. The clothes themselves don't match at all, almost as if someone simply had to wear what was there and couldn't create a cohesive outfit, the they're made out of expensive fabrics (not the most luxurious, like silk imported from a people somewhere to the north, but good quality nonetheless) that aren't manufactured with the wear-and-tear of the forest in mind.

He's likely some spoiled noble's son who ought to know better than to go gallivanting around the forest alone and ill-equipped. Logan has no love for the nobles, no matter their land, but perhaps he can make a copper or two from helping this man and buy something new for his cottage. He's been meaning to buy some new curtains with star patterns on them for some time.

Logan tosses the man over a shoulder and sets off for home. It's not too far of a walk, and the man isn't much of a burden to carry. And the leg, while it will take some time to heal, won't be too much work either. Maybe this will be a good thing. Maybe it will work out in Logan's favor.

Anyway, how much work can one person be?

[woodyshrubs]

Prelude: The King and the Knight Commander

hi i wrote an interpretation of the opening cutscene of pokemon sword and shield from Rahian’s perspective i hope u like it thanks

“Now, turn your gaze to Galar’s strongest Pokémon Trainer, your undefeated Champion…”

Raihan winced internally at Chairman Rose’s praise of his rival, then admonished himself silently for his reaction. Well, he, mused, Mr. Rose hasn’t said anything untrue. And he is the chairman’s favourite. All the same…

The brilliant azure sky swept above Wyndon Stadium’s open ceiling and allowed a gentle breeze into the battle arena and filled the building with the uniquely earthy aroma that springtime brought to the Galar region. Far overhead, the sun warmed the reawakening earth with gentle rays of light, and every color within the coliseum seemed to pop especially brightly. The packed stadium was filled with the sounds of excited spectators of all ages, gathered to view the legendary exhibition match between the top two ranked Pokémon Trainers in the region to kick off the start of the new Gym Challenge season. Despite the good weather, Raihan could not help but feel uneasy. He pulled at his fingers and rubbed his wrists, his nervous hands hidden from the crowd in the pockets of his hoodie. He stood in position near the center of the stadium several feet away from Chairman Rose, who continued to introduce the reigning Champion. Raihan was joined by trusted Duraludon, standing shining and stalwart by his side instead of resting in its Pokéball before the coming battle. Raihan glanced again at the sky. Good weather...but it could be better.

“It’s time for Champion Leon’s exhibition match!” Chairman Rose flourished ceremoniously and gestured toward the area of the arena opposite of Raihan as a showy stream of smoke bombs activated with a pop, pop, pop, pop! A final smoke bomb boomed ahead of Raihan before the stage mist began to clear and reveal his opponent. The spectators in the stands cheered wildly, waving their arms, merchandise, Pokémon, and children around with rabid enthusiasm.

The springtime breeze lifted the ends of the Champion’s long, velvet red cape ever so slightly, as if paying respect to his strength by keeping his raiment from becoming soiled as it hung mere inches above the ground. The cape billowed around the Champion’s form, working together with the fading smoke to obscure his figure for a moment longer. Raihan forced himself to stand his ground, but the waves of pressure radiating from the man who stood before him crashed over him, threatening to knock him over despite Raihan towering nearly a foot over the Champion in height. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention.

The wind strengthened, blowing away the rest of the smoke and revealing the unobstructed form of the Galar Region’s Crown Jewel, the undefeated Champion Leon. Behind him stood his longtime partner Charizard, wings spread intimidatingly wide and tail blazing brilliantly. Raihan sized his opponent up, scanning Leon’s figure just as he had done countless times before countless past battles--all of which he had lost. He felt the unease in his gut settle and quickly change to excitement as he surveyed Leon’s familiar features; the Champion’s coat-of-arms blazing across the chest of his jersey, the long, violet hair that burst forth from underneath the crown-detailed cap atop his head and cascaded over the sponsor-stamped cape which hung from his shoulders. That ridiculous beard that Leon refused to shave, despite his thin facial hair’s equally stubborn refusal to connect in the middle of his chin. His aurous eyes shone like polished jewelry, somehow piercingly intense and eerily serene all at once. 

The two locked eyes, and Raihan’s mind flooded with imagery from past battles against Leon. Their matches had been closest at the beginning of their rivalry. As the years passed and their journeys continued, Leon began to win with increasing ease, drawing farther and farther ahead. Raihan trained tenaciously and was able to soundly defeat nearly any other opponents who had the misfortune of being on the receiving end of his brilliant battle strategies. He and his Pokémon learned to exhibit a mastery over the weather that soon elevated the young trainer to greatness and recognition as the strongest Gym Leader in Galar. Raihan took pride in his ability to outsmart his opponents in situations where other Dragon Tamers were quick to rely upon brute force to secure victory. 

But Leon was different. Raihan had never once managed to put a dent in the Champion’s daunting undefeated status, despite all the planning and training he and his dragons did together. No matter how hard he battled, Leon had always managed to come out on top. An earlier loss to Leon that proved to be particularly painful prompted Raihan to take up the practice of photographing his defeats as a measure to avoid forgetting the sting of defeat. Leon’s natural talent for Pokémon battles has always been alarmingly impressive, but now the dominance he displayed in battle was downright scary.Their professional record was 0-9, although Raihan had lost many more times to Leon outside of the Gym Challenge.  Raihan suspected that the bouts he had come closest to winning in the earliest parts of their rivalry were due only to Leon’s lack of experience at the time, although the Champion had yet to confirm this hunch. Their latest battle had been his closest yet, and although Raihan had been celebrated region-wide for the accomplishment of being the trainer to come closest to breaking Leon’s indomitable streak, he was unsatisfied with another defeat to his rival. If I could just get past his blasted Charizard...

Raihan’s mind snapped back to the present. Leon continued to hold his gaze, and the two shared a silent moment of familiarity. The excitement bubbling in Raihan’s stomach began to boil, filling his veins with adrenaline and quickening his pulse. He couldn’t help but grin, and he heard the spectators in the stands reach a fever pitch. Leon turned to the crowd and tossed his cape over his shoulders with a monarch’s dramatic flair, then squared his stance and raised an arm skyward, striking his fan-favorite Charizard Pose.

Raihan snorted, but the stadium erupted in approval, mimicking the Champion’s stance. Seriously? he said to himself. I’ve gotta get me a pose for myself. He rolled his head, cracking the joints in his neck. His nerves had settled completely, replaced by a drive for victory and hungry anticipation for the thrill of the match to come. Despite every bitter loss he had suffered to Leon, there was no other trainer who pushed Raihan to improve quite like his rival did. Raihan was acutely aware that without Leon to challenge him, it was very possible that he might never have made it far enough as a trainer to even claim the grand title of second best in the region. 

But Raihan would settle for second best no longer. This was it-- if he could defeat Leon on this grand stage during an exhibition broadcast across the region, he would finally be able to take his place in the Hall of Fame as the Galar Champion before the Gym Challenge even began, allowing him to preside over the battle tourneys happening all over the region that would forge a new generation of powerful trainers to challenge the throne. He would finally ascend beyond Leon’s insurmountable power, retiring the sword and shield of the Gym Leader’s Knight Commander for the ever-coveted crown of Champion. He could hardly wait. Duraludon rumbled at his side, brimming with anticipation. Raihan grinned again. I’m ready too, buddy.

Raihan drew his hands from his hoodie’s front pocket and gestured to his rival. “Exhibition or not, Leon, your pristine record is about to end-- when I beat you here today!” he proclaimed, his voice clear and steady.

Leon matched his gaze, fire dancing in his eyes. He threw his cape behind him once more, readying himself. “You know I don’t lose battles, Raihan.”

Raihan tensed and felt Duraludon prepare itself beside him. Here it comes. Here we go.

Leon spread his arm out to his side, the Dynamax Band on his wrist glowing with the roseate energy that flowed through the veins of the Galar region. “Charizard,” he called to his partner. “Dynamax!”

The spectators oohed and aahed as Leon’s Charizard began to glow a radiant pink and grow rapidly in size. Flames leaped from Charizard’s body as it grew, wreathing its wings and shoulders and spilling uncontrollably from the side of Charizard’s mouth into the air. Heat billowed from the still-growing Pokémon as its new form increased its internal combustion and heated the flames it produced even further. Raihan had to crane his neck back far to look at Charizard’s face by the time it finished its metamorphosis into its powerful Gigantamax form.

Charizard bellowed, its deep roar shaking the ground throughout the stadium to the delight of the spectators in the stands. Raihan could feel the air heat up further; the heat used to bother him, but long hours training in intense, beaming sunlight and in blustering, abrasive sandstorms had made him indifferent to elemental extremes. He looked down again at Leon, whose hair and cape had been lifted by the winds that resulted from Charizard’s transformation. Leon stood firm despite his giant mantle flapping wildly, his arms outstretched and basking in the heat that Charizard emanated. The fire in his eyes blazed brighter, but Raihan matched his gaze evenly.

He was ready. Duraludon trumpeted a challenge back to Charizard.

This is it. Here we go.

[lefaystrent]

Flutter and Fall

Fandom: Thomas Sanders, Sanders Sides

Pairings: Prinxiety

Summary: Virgil doesn’t believe in love at first sight, but he wonders if you can fall in love with a moment.

AO3 Link

Virgil adjusts the lens of his camera. He kneels on the ground to get the perfect angle and tries his best not to move suddenly to startle the butterfly he’s attempting to capture. It’s a monarch, the orange of its wings popping out vibrantly against the worn concrete of the water fountain it rests upon.

Click.

He checks the image to be sure. Beside him, his cocker spaniel turns her head as if to sneak a peek. Virgil obliges.

“Whaddya think, Shadow?” he asks for her valuable critique.

Shadow sniffs the camera and licks it once. Virgil laughs and nudges her head away.

It’s a busy Saturday at the park. Lots of people are there taking advantage of the sunshine weather, either strolling down the paths, playing frisbee in teams, or sitting together along the benches. There’s even a group doing a yoga session over in the grass. With as crowded as it is, Virgil thought he’d be more nervous.

But the weather’s nice, his dog’s fur is soft as he pets it, and the shot he just took is stunning.

It’s a good day.

Virgil scans the area for another picture to take. There’s a couple of elderly ladies chatting on a bench a few yards away from him. Shadow keeps trotting over to them to check on them, and Virgil already has a few shots of them cooing over her as they talked to him about pets they’ve owned. They’re sweet, and though Virgil doesn’t know what their relationship to each other is, he knows undoubtedly that they’ve known each other for many years.

It’s fascinating to know the people behind the pictures he takes. Almost as interesting as never knowing who they are. Some of his favorite ones to take are candid images of strangers caught up in the wonders of daily life. He doesn’t speak to most of them, unable to bring himself to take the initiative. Never has been able to really. But it’s a comfortable place to be, standing behind a camera and capturing a moment in time of people who could be anything.

As Virgil pivots around slowly, he notices a man in the distance sitting on one of the wooden benches by himself, arms stretched across the backrest. His head falls back to drink in the sun’s warm rays.

Virgil steps in his direction, drawn to the relaxed posture and the way the light makes his tan skin glow. The older women’s chatting voices are left behind him as he strays away. Shadow trails his steps as she tends to do.

He doesn’t get too close. He stops under the shade of a maple tree, lifting his camera to zoom in on the figure.

The man’s legs, swathed in dark jeans, are crossed. Strong arms are exposed up to his elbow where the sleeves of his red flannel button-up are rolled up. Although he’s not smiling and his eyes are closed, Virgil can tell he’s wonderfully content.

Click.

The first image comes through crystal clear. Leaves blow in the wind, giving the picture a touch of the fall season. The man’s handsome figure sits just a tad low and to the left, an intentional decision on Virgil’s part to frame the right with another maple tree whose leaves are tinged in blushing hues.

He steps to the side to change the angle, to bring the bench center stage.

Click.

A few more shots go by before Shadow trots off towards the man. Virgil stiffens, watching the next part play out through his camera.

His well-intentioned cocker spaniel plops herself right beside the man’s leg and proceeds to rest her head on his thigh like it belonged there. An eye opens. The man tilts his head down to find his new companion. He brings an arm down to lay against her back, scratching at the black and white fur of her neck. There’s a spark of kindness mixed with amusement gleaning in his gaze. A fond smile plays at his lips.

Click.

Pleased with herself, Shadow slides away from her new friend to run back to Virgil, her tail wagging furiously as if to say, “He pet me! He pet me!” Virgil sees the way the man watches his dog return to him. He clearly notices Virgil aiming a camera right at him, taking pictures without his permission. Virgil swallows momentarily. Apologies race through his mind as the man tilts his head once more but this time to the side in a way that makes the light kiss his cheekbones. And with how his hair is tousled from the breeze and traces of the fond smile still linger, Virgil can’t help himself.

Click.

The image is gorgeous, his expression and the setting making the tone soft and peaceful. Virgil isn’t brave enough to look away from the camera yet, and so he stares through it and sees how the man leans an elbow on the back of the bench, propping his cheek elegantly on a fist. His ankle rests on the other leg’s knee, the overall stance laidback yet inquisitive.

Click.

He changes position, stretching one leg out while the other he brings up, limb bent and foot fixed on the seat of the bench. His fingers intertwine over his stomach. His eyes are dark and somber, like they have a story to tell.

Click.

It’s not until he swivels to the side, bringing his legs up to lay along the length of the bench and looking at the camera dramatically, that Virgil realizes that the man is posing.

A bubble of laughter escapes Virgil.

Click.

Whoever he is, the stranger is a natural. He knows how to shift his body in accordance to the lighting. Knows how to use the setting to his advantage. And while some takes are serious and look straight out of a high-end fashion magazine, others are playful and performed only with the intention to make Virgil laugh.

The man wears a broad grin as he stands, wasting no time in gathering a pile of leaves in his hands and tossing them up in the air above his head, carefree. Shadow barks and sprints back over to him to dart around his legs. He welcomes her, chuckling and throwing up more leaves for her to chase.

There’s an energy there reminiscent of childhood. That time marked by simplicity and finding wonder in the little things. There’s joy in the way he spins around, heart unburdened by the worries of who might be watching or what they might think. None of the usual uncertainties matter here, because it doesn’t matter that they don’t know each other. A connection is formed, just from being alive in the same place.

It’s achingly nostalgic. A reminder that this instance is fleeting, but that happiness will visit once again.

The man holds his arms out to the camera. To offer an embrace to the photographer? Or a gesture for him to join in the excitement? It’s beckoning all the same.

Virgil doesn’t believe in love at first sight, but he wonders if you can fall in love with a moment.

Click.

 His name is Roman.

He’s laying in the leaf-covered grass, Shadow nosing around him eagerly, her whole body practically wagging at this point.

Virgil had walked over, any hesitance before now long gone. He’s sitting in the grass beside him.

“Is she usually this enthusiastic?” Roman giggles as Shadow licks at his face.

“She’s friendly,” Virgil hums, holding out a hand. She bounds over to him and suddenly realizes her true calling as a lap dog. Panting, she gazes up at Virgil, and it’s hard not to see the love there.

“She’s adorable,” Roman says, smiling at the cute scene. “What’s her name?”

“Shadow.”

“Like from Homeward Bound? I loved those movies as a kid! Wasn’t that a golden retriever though?”

Virgil shakes his head with a laugh. “Nah. I mean, I know the movies you’re talking about. But that’s not why. She’s mostly black. Plus, she follows me around everywhere.”

“Like a shadow.”

“Yeah.” Virgil scratches at her floppy ears and she leans into his hand. “I was over at a friend’s house one day. And the door was left open, and she waltzed right in from outside and plopped down by me. My friend had never seen her before.”

“She didn’t have an owner?”

“Not that we could find. I don’t know why, but she wouldn’t leave me alone, and my friend said I had to take her in, so here we are.”

“She found you,” Roman says, eyes sparkling. “She chose you.”

Virgil tries to frown as he averts his gaze. He’s only somewhat successful. “Or maybe I just smelled like pizza or something.”

“Mmm, pizza. I could go for a pizza right now,” the other muses, twisting a leaf around in his hand. “How about it?”

“How about what?”

“Care to join me?”

If Virgil still held his camera at the ready, he’d be sorely tempted right now. Roman has moved to lay more on his side, head propped up on his arm. A small leaf clings to his hair, and the accessory makes him look nothing short of endearing.

Virgil focuses too deliberately on petting Shadow. His fingers brush through the dog’s fur, silky smooth.

“Why?” he asks, because he’s used to wondering about the people behind the pictures he takes. Not the people interested about the man behind the camera.

“Because I want you to,” Roman answers. He holds the leave he’d been fiddling with out to Shadow. She sniffs it, then bites to hold it before dropping it on Virgil’s leg and forgetting about it.

Ironically, Virgil’s never liked anyone taking pictures of himself. There were better images out there to freeze in time and remember.

But the way Roman looks at him, it’s like he sees something worth preserving.

There’s a warmth in Virgil’s belly and a giddy fluttering of nerves inside him. “Are you . . . asking me out?”

A slow grin spreads on Roman’s face. “If you’d like me to.”

The fluttering dances in his chest, erratic and insisting. Virgil hugs his dog closer to himself. “How do you even know I’m gay?”

“You could be anything,” Roman agrees, not dissuaded in the slightest. “That’s the beauty of it, isn’t it?”

“I could be a serial killer.”

Roman sputters, so completely alarmed and confounded that Virgil can’t help but lose himself in a stream of laughter.

“Well, I suppose you could be, Mr. I-need-to-ruin-the-moment,” Roman says, a grumble to his tone that’s betrayed by the hints of humor in his expression. “But I personally am trying to stay optimistic here.”

“Hm, sounds rough.” Virgil smiles. Roman is looking at him, shaking his head as if to say, “I’m so done with you.” It’s unfair because no matter how he looks, Virgil keeps thinking how handsome he is. “Are you actually a model?”

The frustrated look is gone and Roman’s grin turns cheeky. “As much as it delights me that you think so, no, I am not.”

“What are you then?”

“Hopeful,” he says, voice a saccharine dreaminess that makes Virgil want to melt on the spot.

Just for that, Virgil rolls his eyes, points at Roman, and tells his dog, “Get ‘em.” She immediately obliges, jumping up to tickle Roman’s face with licks.

In the end, Virgil says yes to pizza. They go out to eat, sitting at an outside table while they talk about anything and everything, Shadow laying across their feet napping. Roman manages to convince Virgil to show him the pictures he took. After all, most of them are of him anyway.

“These are amazing,” Roman breathes in awe, flicking through the different images. “Can I have these? I’ll trade you.”

It’s not the first time someone has wanted to pay Virgil for their pictures. But trade?

“What am I trading for?” Virgil asks and braces himself. There’s a mischievous glint in Roman’s eyes that Virgil is starting to recognize.

“Your pictures for my number?”

Virgil turns about ten shades of red before punching Roman’s bicep lightly. “You smooth bastard.”

“I’m not hearing a no.”

Virgil mutters in complaint.

He hands over his phone regardless.

Tag list: @spectralheartt @a-pastel-pan @notalwaysthevillian @rose-gold-roman @ijustrealizedhowdumbmynamewas @katie-the-noble-fangirl @yourroyalydramaticanxiousness @aroundofapplesauce @merlybird500 @beach-fan @jemthebookworm @whats-going-on-kiddos @randomsandersides @gamerfreddie (let me know if you want to be added or removed from my general tag list)

[sombrisaofficial]

The Masked Stranger: A Sombrisa Fanfic (rated T for teen) Sombra x Orisa PART TWO!!

Summary: Sombra and Orisa’s dance is interrupted as the evening takes a turn for the dramatic!! Published for the Holidays in commemoration of the Sombra/Orisa & Mercy/Bastion pact. 

Written by: Mod Brigitte and beta’d by the wonderful Mod Mei!

Word Count: 1,889

 read part one here: https://sombrisaofficial.tumblr.com/post/182195417335/the-masked-stranger-a-sombrisa-fanfic-rated-e

The omnic approached her and Sombra was frozen in place. There before her was a quadrupedal omnic decorated in green and gold. Underneath her trimmings and decorations, Sombra could see she was also tan and brown. Beneath her black mask, her face was painted a bright and sunny orange and yellow, giving off a warm and friendly glow. The omnic had two decorated, lime horns, one on each side of her rounded head; They were draped in flashing lights and crystalized jewelry reminiscent of a flashy monarch. Her metallic plating was decorated for the event in golden markings of African origin, and she had intricate splashes of paint markings all over her body. Fresh carnations and violets were weaved into the expensive-looking tapestry on her back. Her appearance and demeanor were striking! What a magnificent beast of macherinary and software ingenuity! She was very handsome, indeed. 

"Hello." Sombra managed to say. It was all she could manage.

"NGHGNdgngnNNGNghhhh" The mysterious stranger whinnied.

"Orisa, is it? A pleasure." Orisa. Orisa. Orisa. Sombra had never heard a name she wanted to say more of. 

 Orisa's eyes changed to reflect her mood and became curious and blinking lights.

"Oh you'd like to have a dance?" Sombra could hardly believe it. She was ecstatic.

"gHGNHWHHWwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww" Orisa stomped her hooves in agreement.

Sombra took Orisa's hands and the two began to move onto the dance floor. The room seemed to move in slow motion as they waltzed. It was a perfect moment that Sombra knew she'd look back fondly on later. Sombra never wanted this to end, however, there was more in surprise for that night than the two had bargained for. 

One minute the ballroom was flush with lights, colors, and sounds and the next it was overcome with darkness and hushed quietness. No one spoke. The only thing that kept Sombra grounded was her fingers interlaced with Orisa's hands. What was going on? 

She felt a sudden bump in the darkness as someone passed by her in a hurry. Her mind started to race. All of these rich people, in this type of setting? But perhaps she had just watched too many telenovelas as of late. This was the perfect place for a robbery or murder, she thought grimly. She let out a shout in protest but whoever it was was long gone. Some time went by. It had to have been a whole minute now surrounded by nothing but darkness. Suddenly, a blinding light sent Sombra's mind spinning. Orisa, startled by the  intense light, backed up.

It was a milky white spotlight that focused directly on where one of the windows used to be visible. A tall, thin man dressed in something of a scarecrow costume called out.

"Nobody move! This is a robbery!" His voice was crackly and loud. 

Called it, Sombra thought. 

The man was holding onto the window sill. He was accompanied by a much larger man wearing a pirate shark costume. It was an Interesting duo, even if their methods of attaining wealth were a bit unconventional. Although, they were certainly prepared for the occasion. The blackout was an excellent idea as everyone seemed to be in a state of panic. She wondered who these masked strangers could be. 

"A robbery by JUNKRAT AND ROADHOG!"

Oh.

"Place all your fancy jewels on that table over there!" Junkrat pointed a robotic arm towards the center of the room, to a table just adjacent to the dance floor. The table was fairly inconspicuous. On top of it was just a white tablecloth and a large swan ice sculpture, surrounded by a shallow bucket. "Earrings, necklaces, watches too! Anything of value put it on that table." He began to tap his peg leg impatiently. "Hurry it up."

Everyone looked around in panic as if they expected security to hurry in to their rescue at any second. But no security, human or ominc was present. Where had they gone?

"And why should we do that!" A man dressed in a solid wool two piece suit spoke up.

"I'm glad you asked" Junkrat chuckled and held up a remote. He made a show with his hands as he fiddled with the device. Roadhog, even through his mask, looked exasperated.

"WAIT! Don't press it! We will do as you say." A woman shouted. She was tall, and slim and dressed in a luxury, floor-length, white Vienna gown. The sleeves of which were lace-trimmed and expertly fitted. Her black hair was done up in a way that showcased her diamond earrings, which she was in the process of taking off. Sombra immediately recognized her as the leader of Russia, Katya Volskaya. "Don't any of you watch the news? They've obviously planted explosives beforehand. These are dangerous criminals." She was the first to set her earrings on the table.

"Why thank you." Junkrat took a short bow, nearly falling off the windowsill. "Now you lot, keep them coming!"

One by one, people hesitantly started putting their valuables on the table. Orisa went besides the table and shook her entire body with a thunderous rumble. Jewels from her horns and flowers from her back fell together onto the table. Sombra realized that she hadn't yet contributed.

"What have you there?" A familiar voice sounded besides her. Angela peeked over her shoulder. "I only had a watch. It wasn't cheap but I could live without it."

"I have a necklace." Sombra touched the necklace gingerly before admitting. "Well, it's borrowed."

"Ah." Angela hardly reacted. "Ah, well."

"Ah well is right. I better put it up." Before Sombra had the chance to reach the table, the lights went out again. This time, the people in the ballroom stayed silent.

When the lights came back on, around thirty seconds later, the scene was notably strange. Eyes darted around the room and people exchanged quick words to ask if anything was different. From higher up, even Junkrat looked confused. So the second blackout had nothing to do with them...

A scream interrupted throughout the ballroom. Besides the banquet table, a person, finely dressed in a sequined piece with matching gloves and a feathered boa had fallen to their knees - which were nearly covered in tall peacock-printed boots with four inch heels, pointed at the toes- the person’s face warped in anguish. 

 "S-She's dead!" The person screamed out.

"Who?" A tall Italian man ran to the person's side and looked to where they were pointing. He was dressed in a chic two piece black suit, with an omnic tech chest piece engraved near the front giving the suit a dignified but innovative look. His silver shoes only complimented the whole piece more. He shouted out. "Paramedic?! Is there a doctor here? A woman's fainted!"

Within a moment, a crowd had gathered besides the banquet table. Even with her heels, Sombra could barely see past the looming heads. But she could see Angela Ziegler make her way to where the passed out body lay cold. A woman in a white dress lay slumped against the table. It was Katya Volskaya.

Angela pressed her fingers against Katya's wrist, then listened against her chest. With one disheartened look, Angela looked where her watch would be before sighing and asking a bystander for the time. "Time of death, 10:10 pm" She stated.

The crowd, as well as the two thieves who were in the middle of robbing them, were speechless. There was an uncomfortable air surrounding the ballroom. Moments later, the lights flickered, and a generator sounded. Heavy metal sheets slid down over the windows and Junkrat and Roadhog were forced to jump down below, landing shakily. The detonator remote Junkrat was holding felt out of his reach and hit the floor, shattering into irreparable pieces. He frantically tried to gather the remnants but was unsuccessful. 

"The security has been restored!" Someone shouted. "We've gone into a lockdown!"

"With a murderer!?" A woman screamed.

"And with thieves!" Angela shouted and pointed. "Someone apprehend them!" A crowd began to swarm the two men and soon they no longer posed a threat.

Suddenly Sombra realized how very alone she was. She clasped her hands and looked around the room, looking to see if Orisa was okay. She was standing at the far end of the buffet table next to the stacked tea cakes and champagne.

"Orisa." Sombra whispered. "Orisa!" She waved her hand in front of Orisa who seemed to be in screensaver mode. Suddenly Orisa's eyes focused on her.

"Glad you're okay." Sombra said casually. Her mind was buzzing a mile a minute, but she didn't want Orisa to worry. "Crazy, huh? A murder."

Orisa shook her head up and down and let out a neigh and Sombra knew. She knew it was impossible to keep everything bottled up around Orisa. Sombra could be herself around her and Orisa would understand. It was unreasonable to keep blocking everyone out from how she was feeling. She couldn't let anyone know how really vulnerable she was, but with Orisa she could. "Alright." Sombra said as she ushered Orisa to a more secluded spot.

"Truth is. This is more than I bargained for," Sombra begain "-I'm not even supposed to be here. When the cops show up it's going to be hard to keep a low profile while they investigate everyone. Dios mío, I shouldn't have come tonight." 

Orisa whinnied and turned her whole body to face her, quizzically.

"But I'm glad I did." Sombra confessed with a sigh. "It was nice... meeting you."

Orisa whinnied, a long series of electronic chirps and whirrs. Orisa was right, she didn't always have to keep up her facade of a person who had all the cards. Sombra was glad she had someone now who could know her. Just through her words alone, Sombra could tell Orisa was an intellectual. 

"Thank you." Sombra brushed a piece of stray hair behind her ear. "Would it be alright if we stay here for a bit before facing the others again? Can we stay, just like this?"

Orisa whinnied. Sombra pressed their foreheads together and they stayed silent. As the night went on, people started to sit in groups on the floor. There was a rumor that the police were on there way and everyone should sit tight but as minutes dragged into hours, uncertainty slowly turned into an icy fear.

Sombra and Orisa continued to share a corner. Orisa had circled twice and seated herself on the floor by a pillar and Sombra leaned into her metallic flank. She leaned up against Orisa and listened closely. Somewhere deep inside Orisa, she could hear mechanical whirring and the soft clicking. A mechanical heartbeat, she thought. Sombra wondered if while sitting this close, Orisa could hear her own heart beating. A deep blush spread over her face. 

Orisa kept quiet for as long as it took Sombra to calm down. Five minutes past... then ten. Sombra felt her eyelids grow heavy as she let her mind drift to sleep. An hour must have flown by peacefully because she was suddenly awakened by her cellphone. There was an incoming text from Gabriel.

Gabe!! He was okay!!

Sombra gave the text a quick read.

 'The police aren't coming. On the right is a grand staircase, you need to come to the second floor library now. You're in danger.'

[bubble-tea-bunny]

a painted lady 

[carol danvers x reader]

author’s note: i started watching iasip and it’s so funnyyy i love it so much. anyway, here’s something short and sweet for my girl carol. hope you enjoy  <3

word count: 2,737

Spring announces its arrival with the melting of the snow and the crisp mornings which give way to a sunny afternoon and a gentle breeze not nearly as harsh as the winter gusts that makes cheeks flush and stings the sensitive skin. Warmer weather begins popping up on the forecast. The days grow longer. The flowers bloom. There are many telltale signs to the changing of the season, but this year, they’re joined by a rare spectacle that has become the main topic for news stations and strangers making small talk in the coffee shops or at bus stops.

Channel 2 is on mute, but Carol hasn’t bothered un-muting it or even looking at the screen, since the view outside the bedroom window is exactly the same. Butterflies flutter past the glass in great numbers, taking their time with the plants on the front lawn. The neighbors’ houses aren’t bound to be any different, nor would anywhere else in town really. Seeing butterflies isn’t out of the ordinary when spring is approaching, but what is out of the ordinary is just how many there are. They’re everywhere.

Carol catches the sight of orange wings with black bands on them, and speculates aloud. “Monarchs?” To an outside observer, it might appear as though she’s asking this to thin air.

“No. Painted ladies,” you respond from the ensuite bathroom. After you’ve combed the tangles out of your hair, you set the brush down and walk back into the bedroom. “A little smaller than monarchs.”

Carol hums in acknowledgment, and takes a few more seconds to study the bright swarm before she lets her hand drop and the curtain shifts back into place. She turns around and grins when she sees you across the room putting on your watch. You’re wearing your usual lip color today: a bold red shade that brings out your eyes. “You’re a painted lady.”

That color hadn’t always been a staple in your makeup routine, and Carol has the sneaking suspicion it had found its way there after she had mentioned how much she liked it on you the first time she saw you in it. You’d been so unsure of it then, but she genuinely liked it. While she had told you as much, she’s sure you also could tell by the sincerity in her voice and the earnestness on her face. Not that it’d be difficult for you pick up on what she is thinking. You read people like books and she’s your favorite novel, one you know from front cover to back.

Even at this distance, you notice her gaze lowering to your lips and you roll your eyes but you’re smiling too. “I guess I am.”

Carol had closed the gap between you as you made your comment, and she leans in close. You’re about to take a step back and tell her At least give it a minute! but it’s too late. She steals a kiss and laughs at your expression of playful incredulity.

“It hasn’t even dried down!” You reach up to wipe the bit of lipstick that had transferred to her mouth, then grab the compact on the dresser to check if you would have to re-apply any on yourself.

“Sorry, couldn’t help myself.”  

“That’s what you say every day.”

“Well, it’s true.” She shrugs matter-of-factly.

And you can never even fake being irritated for too long. Once you’ve confirmed that your lipstick is finally completely dry and transfer-proof, you kiss her. This one lasts a little longer, and she meets you with equal enthusiasm. She smells the lavender perfume you wear—every morning, two small spritz, in the soft spots behind your ears. By now, she has your routine memorized, but that’s no surprise because you’re her favorite book too.

The butterflies are immortalized in a small piece you create for your art class. You wave it off as nothing special, but just as with every other instance Carol has had the opportunity to see your finished art sitting on the easel, oils still setting and your familiar signature with its trademark loops and elaborate flourishes (“My signature is not that fancy!”) tucked away in a corner, she shakes her head and says, “It’s amazing.”

You stand side by side, surveying the canvas like you’re in a museum studying a painting on the wall. You’re mulling it over, considering her compliment and staring at the butterflies and she’s right, you think. It’s not so bad at all. You can’t help smiling because of how supportive she is, has been, and would continue to be, for it’s in her nature to pick you up when you’re down, and a warmth bubbles in your chest.

“Thanks.”

Carol’s watched your artistic endeavors from the sidelines, which she has been happy to do. She doesn’t have much to complain about when she has the front row. As such, when you come home one day and ask if she’d help you with your newest project, her brows raise at the unexpected request.

“I don’t know how much help I can be, but sure. What is it?”

“I need a model.”

Her eyes light up and her grin is big. “How should I pose? Maybe something dramatic?” She rests her wait on one foot and juts out her hip, setting her hand on it and angling her head slightly downward so as to look up at you in mock seduction. “Or maybe something fancier?” She stands back up straight and reaches over to grab an apple from the fruit bowl, then holds it up as if scrutinizing it closely, her other arm folded neatly behind her back.

You laugh at the various poses she strikes, and she breaks character quickly, laughing as well. “No, nothing like that, although that would be pretty fun.” You take a deep breath as you calm down. “I’ll have to get back to you on pose ideas. I’m not really sure what mood I’m trying to go for here. The prompt was really vague.”

“But that’s good right? More open avenues.” Carol sets the apple back down and leans back against the counter with crossed arms.

“It is, but it can be overwhelming too… The key is just to let the inspiration come to me. If I try too hard to come up with ideas, I might just get more frustrated than anything else…”

While waiting for this inspiration, you fill your time with sketches, thumbnail drawings of people in motion and positioned this way and that. You also draw Carol quite a bit. It’s your warmup for when you move onto the real piece, and if she hadn’t noticed whenever you stared before, she definitely does now, catching your eyes as you look up at her then back down at your sketchbook.

You draw her over and over again, pages of your sketchbook filled with her face at different angles and wearing various expressions. Even if the drawings are hasty, the care behind each is apparent. You ache to understand every detail, the natural sway of her hair as she turns her head whenever you call her name; the crinkle of the corners of her eyes when she flashes you a wide smile; the high points of her cheeks that catch the sunlight just right. And Carol peers over your shoulder at these pictures and she knows exactly what you are trying to do and she understands that you don’t just see with your eyes. You see with your hands.

One slow morning you’re doing it again, sketchbook in your lap and pencil in hand. Carol’s still laying down, drifting in and out, her body trying to cling to the last bits of sleep but she can’t tune out the scribbling and scrawling and the erasing. She’s not mad about it though; she probably shouldn’t be trying to sleep this late into the day anyway. So she rolls onto her side and props herself up on her elbow to look at you better—you’re sitting cross-legged facing her, which means she can’t see the page.

“How many times is this now?” she asks to break the silence.

You glance up at her but don’t answer immediately, your eyes tracing the line of her jaw, which you then replicate on the paper. “I dunno. Haven’t been keeping count. But I need to make sure I get everything… perfect…” You trail off, enamored with your task.

The fact is, you don’t draw many people. Portraits aren’t your forte, and that’s the main reason you’ve had to draw Carol as many times as you have before you take out your paints. Still, she can’t resist teasing. “You’ve never drawn me before this, have you?”

“No…” More scribbling.

“This isn’t quite playing out like those romance movies where the artist draws their partner all the time.” She tries to sound disappointed, but it falls apart the moment you look at her with a raised brow, and she cracks a grin.

“Since when have you wanted one of those storybook romances?” you shoot back, playing along.

“Hm…” She purses her lips pretends to be deep in thought. “Ever since you started drawing me I guess. I have to admit, it’s flattering, and you make me look good.”

You chuckle. “While by this point I’m confident I could draw you from memory, drawing from reference is always better.” You grow quiet again, presumably putting the finishing touches on your newest study, then set it off to the side as you turn your attention back to Carol. “And for the record, I only draw what I observe, so if anything, you make you look good, not me.”

Carol’s not one for bashfulness, but there’s something about your tone and how you look at her that prompts her to avert her gaze as she suddenly finds the white bedsheets very interesting. She only ever reacts like this to compliments when they come from you because you’re the artist and you can find the beauty in everything so when you say that you found it in her, well, that’s the highest honor, isn’t it?

Her eyes slide back up and you’re grinning because you know what your words can do to her. You want her to love herself like she loves you. Plus, you won’t lie: you like having this power. Shy Carol is a rare sight (and a sight, she would tell you, is reserved solely for you).

Deciding the space between you is too great, you crawl forward into Carol’s bubble to kiss her and she welcomes you because really, her bubble’s got enough space for two.

When you paint, you tie your hair into a bun and use paintbrushes to hold it in place. Carol won’t admit it but she really likes when you do that. You also change into clothes you don’t care about getting dirty, like a ragged and flimsy shirt with loose threads and a pair of sweatpants with holes. They’re well-used and paint-stained, much like the plastic storage cabinets in your art room.

The designated art room of the house is organized chaos, but there’s a certain charm to it. It’s the physical manifestation of all the ideas you have in your head, and Carol feels privileged that she’s able to take a peek into your mind via the drawings taped to the walls and the sketchbooks stacked on the desk. It’s the room with the largest windows and she’s not surprised you’d created more butterfly paintings since the first one; you can see them all the time.

She’s seeing them right now from the glass sliding door leading to the backyard. It’s dark out, but a few painted ladies remain exploring, not yet ready to turn in for the night. Her cup of coffee has been empty for a few minutes now, and her attention only shifts when she hears your footsteps padding through the hallway.

“You okay?”

It’s late and the darkness always seems to warrant lowered voices. Your enquiry is gentle and fatigued, and Carol turns to look at you rubbing your eyes, an attempt to fight off sleep but that’s a losing battle.

“Yeah,” she replies, speaking quietly in turn. You join her in staring outside. “There’s been so many of those butterflies.” While the painted ladies have been around for a few weeks now, she, as well as many others in town, still like to reiterate the peculiarity of the occasion. The subject hasn’t gotten old, and it might not anytime soon. It’s too special to gloss over that easily.

You hum and smile sightly, and Carol spots it in the reflection on the glass. Then you tell her you’re going to clean up and go to bed. You sound faraway, evidence of sleep finally taking over, and she grins as she nods okay. She kisses you quickly and says good night.

As for her, she lingers for a short while before following your lead, taking her time washing her mug and setting it on the drying rack where it would be ready for the next day. One of your sketchbooks is on the dining table, so she picks it up and walks to your art room to return it. The only light on in the house is that in the bedroom, visible through the crack at the bottom of the door, but she needs none to find her way to her destination.

The moonlight pouring in from the windows is enough to illuminate the canvas sitting on the easel. After Carol sets the sketchbook down with the others, she walks over to inspect your current work in progress. It’s not finished, but you’ve completed enough of it that she recognizes herself staring back, and she understands that you don’t make paintings; you make mirrors.

This is your final draft, she realizes. It’s the culmination of all your studies, in which you’ve enshrined the planes of her face on paper and on canvas and in your mind because your soul will live forever and you carry the thought of her like a rabbit’s foot tucked into your pocket.

One of your sketchbooks is open on the desk next to the easel, and she picks it up so she can see the page more clearly. It’s from the morning you’d drawn her while in bed, the picture she hadn’t seen at the time. This is the reference you’re using. She’d been wondering why you hadn’t yet gotten back to her about pose ideas, or announced that you’d be starting the final piece so she’d better clear her Saturday to be your model. She just assumed you wanted more time to practice and to settle upon the perfect pose for the mood you wanted.

And the perfect pose, it would seem, was no pose at all. Carol’s posture in the drawing and the painting is relaxed, half her body concealed by the bedsheets she’d struggled to untangle herself from that morning (they’d just been so comfortable). She’s propping herself up on her elbow and the hand of her other arm rests atop the blankets. Her eyes stare directly ahead, like she’s watching the viewer, and even she’s unable to deny the sense of intimacy this affords. It makes the viewer an active participant rather than a mere observer, which appears to be your goal—you want the viewer in your shoes. You want them to feel what you feel.

Carol’s eyes switch back and forth from the sketchbook to the canvas, comparing the details. The painting is still missing a date and signature, but they’re present in the drawing, at the bottom and off to the side so as to be non-invasive. There’s a title too, in quotation marks: My Favorite Place. Her chest blooms with warmth and her lips curve in a fond smile. You want the viewer to feel at home.

There’s a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach, an inexplicable mix of heaviness like there’s something there and an airiness like she’s about to sprout wings and lift off from the ground. Her heart wrenches hard enough she swears it might shatter—for you, always for you. She loves you with every bone in her body and perhaps the town’s influx of extraordinary visitors these last few weeks has been her doing because every time she thinks of you, she gets butterflies.

[retiredhq]

Hello everyone! Yesterday I asked if any of you were interested in seeing a sample application to give you an idea of what I am looking for in the responses to the sections of the app and many of you said yes. So I have placed under the cut a mock application for the character I will be playing: Monarch. If you have any further questions don’t hesitate to ask! I hope this is helpful! 

STATS

Chosen skeleton: Monarch

Full Name: Elizabeth Mitchell

Age: 41

Gender: Cis female

Pronouns: she/her

Faceclaim: Carla Gugino, Keri Russel 

HEADCANONS

Beth was raised by her mother. They lived in a small trailer in Ankeytown, Ohio. For as long as Beth can remember it was just her, her mother, and a series of bums. Beth never knew what it was like to have a father or a stable relationship with a parent. A few of the men her mom dated tried to play as a father figure, but Beth’s mother thought that was a step too far and would often call off relationships once the men got too familiar. It was the ones that were rude and treated Beth more like a dog that were the ones who tended to stick around. Beth doesn’t know if her mother liked them more or if it was just harder to get rid of them. 

Beth’s mom imposed a lot of her dreams onto Beth. Beth was a pretty and vibrant young lady, but very shy and self-conscious. Beth mom forced her into uncomfortable social situations and showed her off like a prized poodle. Her mother made her sign up for the cheerleading team and vie for the role of head cheerleader. Beth had no interest in the sport but knew better than to argue or resist her mother’s wishes. So Beth worked tirelessly to maintain decent grades while training to be a flier for the cheer team. It was never enough to satisfy her mother, who constantly picked apart Beth’s performance, appearance, and presentation. Phrases like ‘if only you cared enough to brush your hair the boys might ask you out’ were common for Beth to hear. 

During high school, Beth fell in love with the works of Shakespeare and has a teacher which encouraged her passion. He invited her to be a part of the school production of Midsummer’s Night Dream but it conflicted with her cheer practice so she declined. But the thought of acting captivated her. Beth always wanted to be anyone but herself. So when she graduated college she left her small town and her toxic mother behind and moved to Los Angeles for what she thought would be a time of sunshine and self-fulfillment. 

For two years Elizabeth lived in L.A. working as a waitress and going to auditions. She used all of her tip money to pay for an acting coach and never got a callback. But in 1982 she heard of an audition for a non-traditional acting role for the U.S. government. As a last-ditch effort, she auditioned for a role called ‘Babydoll’. She didn’t get the part but she got the callback. Her sweet face and overexaggerated expressions were just what they were looking for. She was given the role of Monarch and trained for a year to fight and operate the mechanical wings. 

In 1986 while on a mission, Beth nearly died. She was using the wingsuit as they fought the Bugmen from Mars and one of them attacked her midair and pulled out some of the wires of her wings before she was able to knock them off. She didn’t realize that they’d done damage to her equipment so she carried on. While about four hundred feet up in the air, surveying the scene, her wings glitched and folded in, causing her to plummet. She fell, screaming and helpless for over three hundred feet. Fortunately, Starscreech was able to catch her before she hit the ground but that moment has made her anxious to fly too high or too far from Starscreech since. 

When Exemplar disbanded Beth was told by the bureau to avoid a career that would put her in the public eye. Because she’d signed a nondisclosure agreement that kept her silent on all things Exemplar, she knew it would be best to try and lead a life where she pretended she wasn’t Monarch instead of trying to tiptoe around questions. She got a job working for Mary Kay as a door to door saleswoman. She would still get prying questions from housewives or be asked to pose for photos. But it was clear most people pitied her and her downfall more than they were genuinely excited to see her. But her boss was very excited to have a former celebrity as the unofficial face of the company. 

After the team disbanded Beth made a valiant effort to keep up with the others. She was restricted from seeing Gecko, Price, or The Creature but she was able to track down some of the other members. Those who chose to live on the east coast were easiest for her to visit. She would stop by about once a year and bring over a casserole (she’s not a very good cook so these were often secretly trashed by all except Tallahassee). She didn’t want anyone to feel too lonely or get lost in disbelief. Some of them were having trouble with denial after the team ended because of how dramatic the life change was. Beth just wanted to make sure everyone was okay. 

Most nights after missions Beth would offer to cook dinner for the team. But the team learned quickly that Beth is a terrible cook and when she made food. Somehow it tasted burnt while being undercooked. So after she offered the team would exchange nervous glances. To protect her feelings one of them would say ‘We already worked tonight you shouldn’t have to work more! Let’s get pizza!’  and they’d order pizza. They ate enough pizza that they all ended up sick of it by the time the team disbanded but it was better than eating her cooking or telling her the truth. 

(Not related to Beth but I think that the pizza guys who brought food to the Exemplar HQ had a running competition to see who could stay at HG the longest before a.) Being scared off by The Creature b.) Being escorted out by security or c.) Being mildly physically assaulted by Tallahassee). 

PLOTS

Most importantly I’d like her relationship with Babydoll to heal. It’s really Beth’s fault that there has been so much bad blood. Beth was projecting her insecurities that she learned from her mother. I want Beth to apologize to Babydoll and maybe even have Babydoll refuse to accept the apology because it’s twenty years too late. But it would be wonderful for there to be a moment when Beth saves Babydoll’s life and asks for forgiveness again and Babydoll starts to come around. Beth needs to be supportive and really prove that she has learned and changed. I want to see them turn into a healthy and loving friendship where they build each other up and kick ass together. 

I also want there to be a scene where Beth takes charge. She has never really aspired to leadership because she never believed she was worth listening to. But she’s smart and considerate and she knows her team very well. So if there’s a part where Captain Kick and Price are unavailable I think it would be great to see Beth step up to the plate. Even if it’s just working to build a plan with one other person I want Beth to be sure of her idea. 

I want Beth to get mortally injured at some point. As the healer of the team and the one who usually transports them to safety I would love to have her be incapacitated and in need of someone to rescue her. I want to see that role reversal and how the team deals with having their healer be on the brink of death. 

The general arc for her I see is one where she learns to love herself and accept that there is no such thing as second best. She must learn to strive to be the best version of herself. 

THEME SONG

Kate Bush’s - Running up that Hill 

I’m going to ignore the original intention of the lyrics and rework them to suit my purposes. To me, the song Running up that Hill embodies Beth’s relationship with the team, especially Babydoll. In many ways, Beth wishes she was anyone but herself. She wishes she was as pretty, charming, and captivating as Babydoll and would give anything to take over that role. But Beth is also very self-sacrificing and when she sees her team in danger she flies directly into the line of fire. She would risk her own life to protect them and sometimes that means diving in front of an attack and taking the blow. I especially think the line “Is there so much hate for the ones we love?” resonates with her character because she loves the team like family but sometimes she hates them and how they make her feel (inferior, frustrated, scared, etc). Additionally, the general sound and vibe of the song match the sort of dark, melancholic and thoughtful, yet groovy vibe that I get from Elizabeth. 

PARA SAMPLE

A shaking breath drawn in. She rubbed the plastic handle of her Mary Kay case, half-surprised it wasn’t worn down by now. The ritual of quelling her anxious by running her thumb over the ridge on top of the handle was one she performed at every house she stopped at. This one, painted pastel blue with a well-groomed front lawn was the perfect target. There were two types of houses she found success at: those with perfect lawns and those with nothing but a patch of dirt. Women who had spare money to spend and women who liked to look like they did. Anyone with practical landscaping wouldn’t have time for her or her long-winded, fake smile filled speech. 

Then the exhale. Moving fast enough that her anxiety could not catch up to stop her, she extended her well-manicured forefinger and pressed the doorbell. She could hear the chime echo throughout the house as the buzzing in her chest seeped upwards until her jaw clenched. She heard the definitive click-clack of heels on a tile floor and then the door swung open. Raising her head up quickly and donning a bright smile, she put on the mask over ever-cheerful feminine dignity and in a sing-song voice spoke, “Hi, I’m Lizzie Mitchell and I’m here on behalf of Mary Kay!” 

ANYTHING ELSE

Here’s an edit I made for her!

[thepastelpeach]

What Once Was, and What Now Is

hey so, like, i haven’t written fanfiction in forever but i was so inspired by everyone’s fics based on my animatic, so i decided to throw my own thoughts into the broil! sorry if it aint the best, seriously this thing tried to go in like, seven different directions. anyway, enjoy!

Virgil lands with a huff, groaning around the air rushing into his lungs to replace the breath just knocked out of them. His backside hurts from the impact and he can already feel bruises forming on his pale skin where he wasn’t quick enough to deflect the blows.

Sensing movement in front of him he cracks open his eyes, having previously squeezed them shut in anticipation for the fall. A sword glints just below his chin, the sharp tip inches from his throat, and he follows the blade up to glare at the one wielding it.

Roman smirks back, his normally impeccable chestnut hair and uniform awry. His chest heaves with exhaustion, a thin layer of sweat gleaming on his forehead, but his warm brown eyes are alight with mischief and amusement. Said amusement boils into chuckles as he lowers his sword, replacing it instead with an olive branch in the form of an offered hand.

“If it makes you feel better Ol’ Fearful, you almost posed a challenge this time around.”

Virgil scoffs bitterly, but allows the knight to pull him to his feet, “What an achievement, a knight beating a simple messenger boy. You must be so proud of yourself, Sir-Sucks-A-Lot.”

Roman just laughs louder at the venom dripping from his words, knowing full well there’s no actual heat behind them. Virgil busies himself with dusting the dirt from his clothes and retrieving his own sword- a duller practice sword that pales in comparison to Roman’s intricately crafted one- to hide the flush that usually comes to his cheeks upon hearing the knight’s laugh.

“Come now Virgil,” Roman says, sheathing his sword and approaching the other man with a hearty clap on the back, “to still think of yourself as a lowly messenger boy after all this time would be an insult to my excellent tutelage!”

Virgil allows himself a moment to soak in the physical contact before shrugging him off with a huff and an exaggerated eye roll, “You praise yourself as if you’re actually training me to be an knight. Sorry to burst your bubble Princey, but I’m no one’s squire, let alone yours. Remember, we agreed you’d teach me the bare minimum on how to defend myself, nothing more.”

He notices the way Roman usually preens at that particular nickname, but doesn’t comment on it as the knight quickly barrels the conversation forward, “Well of course I know you’re not an actual knight-in-training, but if you’d only apply yourself more I’m positive that would be a possibility for the future!”

Virgil’s catches the laugh in his throat, disguising it as another scoff, “Thanks, but I think I’ll save the heroics for the more-” he gives Roman a pointed look “brashful and annoying.”

“I’ll have you eating those words soon enough, my Dark and Stormy Knight!” Roman proclaims with his usual dramatic flare, drawing his sword again with a flourish and a set grin.

Virgil groans, but drops down into a defensive stance regardless. He’d really rather not go for another- what was it at this point? Forth? Fifth?- round, but he finds he has trouble saying no to the fanciful knight when he looks so eager and happy to just be around Virgil.

So when he rushes forward with a louder than necessary battle cry, Virgil just grins and raises his sword to prepare for the oncoming blow.

There’s a loud metallic echo of steel on steel followed quickly by the sounds of a sword scraping along tile. Virgil barely has the time to register his weapon being knocked from his hands before he’s being kicked to the ground, landing on his back with a sharp cry of pain.

He struggles to push himself up on his hands, his entire body aches and the blood dripping from the cut above his eye causes the cracked floor to blur below him. Or maybe it’s the pain in his broken ribs that’s causing his head to spin, it would certainly explain why it’s suddenly extremely difficult to breath.

Regardless of the cause, he does manage to sort through his scrambled thoughts enough to hear the click click click of heels on tile growing closer. He keeps his head bowed, still unable to look him in the eye, even after having spent what seemed like hours getting his ass kicked by him.

He chuckles above him, a dark and twisted sound that causes Virgil’s stomach to tie itself into knots for entirely different reasons then it used to. Virgil fights the urge to curl in on himself, partly because he doesn’t want to appear weak(or, well weaker) and partly cause he’s not sure he even can without passing out from the pain of moving.

He, however, sees through him and tsks almost in disappointment, “Giving up already, Virgil? I can’t say I’m surprised, you never were very good at sparring, despite my best efforts to teach you. It would seem even I can’t fix every failure.”

The words cut deep, deeper than any wound he’s been inflicted on this battlefield, and Virgil silently curses the burning behind his eyes. Virgil hadn’t ever realized how much the truth could truly hurt. In the end Virgil had failed. Failed to lead the people when they truly needed him, as evident by the cries of pain, for help, he can hear even from inside the deserted castle foyer. Failed to protect his friends, his king. He can almost see them now, Logan and Patton clinging desperately to each other as they navigate a crumbling palace in search for their monarch and friend.

Worst of all, as he finally looks up into the eyes of the man looming over him, he realizes he’s failed the one he loves the most.

Roman, his Roman with the perfect chestnut hair and white uniform and warm brown eyes, does not stare back. Instead it’s a creature who bares his face, which is covered in dirt and blood, and speaks in a broken, twisted version of his voice.

His usual white knightly attire has been replaced with a more regal uniform composed of blacks and greys, now coated in a thick layer of dust and ash. The scarf still secured around Virgil’s neck suddenly weighs ten times heavier.

A flower crown rests uptop his head, the petals of each rose a dark, consuming black. Thick thorns dig into into his scalp, thin dark veins branching out across his skin from the point of contact. Virgil notes that they seem longer and thicker than when he first saw them.

Apparently tired of his appraising, Roman raises the tip of his sword under Virgil’s chin -the cool metal causing him to flinch- and tilts his head up to finally meet his eyes, the one place Virgil was trying his best to avoid.

To starve off the inevitable, Virgil squeezes his eyes firmly shut and can practically feel Roman’s frustrated growl in his own chest, “Look at me Virgil.”

He refuses and for his disobedience is rewarded with a thin slit to the underside of his jaw as Roman slides the edge of his weapon along his skin, “Look at me, look at your king.”

Shaking and fearful of the sword inching dangerously closer to his throat, Virgil obeys. The tears he’s been trying so desperately to keep at bay rush down his cheeks, leaving tracks in the grime, as he looks into glowing yellow eyes. There’s nothing behind them, no warmth or chivalry or dumb pet names, and Virgil sobs.

The cold of the sword disappears, quickly being replaced by equally cold fingers as Roman kneels down to coo softly at him, those empty yellow eyes now unbearably close, “Now now my precious pet, there’s no need for that. I do so hate seeing you in pain.”

His fingers tighten into a vice like grip around his bruised cheek and Virgil screams at the white hot flash of pain that shoots through him. Roman laughs over his whimpers, wrenching his hand away and wiping it on his shirt as he stands back up with a flourish that, in any other situation, would have Virgil fondly rolling his eyes.

Now he just keeps his head bowed, defeated and completely broken. He had already failed, whatever came next he would deserve.

He hears as Roman drags his sword across the floor, feels rather than sees him settles the blade against the back of his neck briefly before raising it above his head, recognizes the sounds of it cutting through the air.

Virgil just closes his eyes and braces for the oncoming blow.

[gravitascivics]

THE COMMON RESPONSE

According to Ray Raphael, there are various general descriptions that summarize how common Americans faced the challenges of the American Revolutionary War.[1]  In total, these descriptors portray a list of very human reactions by those Americans that while heroic in many ways, they seem to be in line with reasonable, self-interests. The last posting shared the first four of these descriptors.

         Those descriptors are that these average Americans, first, faced workloads that dramatically increased, second, the war was a time that forced them to cut back on the availability of consumer goods, third, that native Americans and African Americans exploited the opportunities the war provided, and, of course, fourth, that they took on the burdens of fighting the war.  The reader is encouraged to look back and read that posting if he/she has not done so, but this posting looks at Raphael’s last four take-aways of his historical study.

         The next point he makes is how quickly the support for the British Crown disappeared among the colonists. As late as the mid-1700s, it was common among the colonial communities to celebrate the birthday of the monarch – King George III.  But then, as the 1700s wore on and while hesitant to outwardly demonstrate disdain for the monarch, the colonists could and did withhold celebratory demonstrations of support.  In their way, this constituted a denial of overall support for their status within the British empire.  

By the way, initially many slaves and native Americans hoped that they could gain advantages by fleeing or offering support to the British.  This did not work out and as a result many engaged in work slow-downs.  This demonstrates – in how these various groups reacted – that while defiance is not always available, lack of consent is.  By boycotting, “common people as well as leaders withheld support from the royal government.  Whether by acting or declining to act, men and women who were not rich made their presence felt.”[2]

Common in the colonies and then states, was a general testing of how effective the colonial authorities’ power was during the war.  As a recurring mode of behavior, people in subservient positions would “trash talk” their superiors, but as the war began, these Americans progressed from subtlety expressing their opposition to British rule to outward movements of defiance.  And some of these acts were quite violent – a common enough practice was tar and feathering loyalist targets.

And such demonstrations led to a cycle of defiance and then repression by the authorities.  And this take-away is that this back and forth became more intense as both sides approached the outbreak of war.  For example, the British acts led to mob actions in Boston and New York.  In short, the war itself was a reaction to rebellious acts by common people.

These acts of “defiance” took various forms.  For example, plantation owners, the least likely to be lured toward rebellious behavior, found themselves so motivated when they feared the British were attempting to incite their slaves to insurrection.  They of all people became rebellious. Ironically, once the fighting began, potential fighters among the plantation owners stayed home to look after their slaves and guard against any possibility of them fleeing their captivity.

This led to the last take-away.  That would be that this defiance-repression cycle undermined whatever British authority existed and with it any chance of establishing an aristocracy in America. “Common people rose up as never before, questioning the special privileges of their ‘betters.’  After a decade of political ferment and eight more years of war, free white Americans ceased to bow.”[3]  

The role that the common people played turned out to be complex. They were not all united on one side or the other, but generally behaved to further their individual situations. Surely, many played critical roles in advancing the American cause for independence, but many others found their situation advanced by remaining loyal to the Crown.  One such case occurred when they found their “betters” as patriots – pro-independence – and these lower-class Americans thought of them as oppressive agents in terms of their social and economic conditions.  One such area was the New York’s Hudson River Valley.  

Either way, a general spirit of rebellion prevailed regardless of which side these common folks took.  And in this, little thought was given to the eternal questions of liberty.  Instead, these people were reacting to their immediate conditions; conditions that determined how common people took up their roles on whichever side of the conflict they supported.

In doing so, they took up a vast variety of roles and functions during the years of conflict from as early as 1765 to 1783.  And within the war itself, the level of democratic practice within the American military structure cannot be undervalued from electing noncommissioned officers to refusing to obey orders.  For example, “… try as he might, George Washington was never able to force his men to kick women camp followers out of the wagons.”[4]

To pick up on a question the last posting poses – is Raphael a critical historian? – this blogger feels that while he is attracted to that mode of thinking, he is more of a myth buster.  As such, the judgement here is that he serves a useful role.  Whatever one’s historical vision is, it should be based on truth.  And the truth is that the role average Americans have played has not been given its appropriate level of attention.  Raphael’s work addresses this shortcoming and gives that essential segment of the Revolutionary generation its proper due.

As for some of his conclusions, he generally seems to represent any federalist motivations – in the form of allegiance common Americans had for federal values – as overstated in most accounts of the war.  The case for their role in spurring the sacrifices of these people needs to be realistic.  And here one needs to be cognizant of the difference between espoused theories and theories-in-use.[5]

Simply stated, the argument Raphael seems to make is that if people do not behave in certain ways, they therefore do not really share in some ideal(s). And even using his descriptions of what the common folks faced during the war, one can readily understand why those folks did not sustain that level of commitment toward the values that they initially cited at the beginning of the war.  Even Raphael describes these common folks holding initially highly patriotic fervor at that time.  

Who among any population would sustain the level of sacrifice the war extracted from those people and remain so motivated?  Perhaps among fanatics as one is led to believe, for example, the Taliban have.  Surely, even back then, Americans were not known to being so socialized as to adopt and sustain that level of tunnel vision such fanaticism entails.  And does one really want that level of single-mindedness?  

The suggestion here is that one does not.  The reason for that can be the topic for another posting.  But, given the initial response Americans exhibited and their willingness to sustain the effort for so many years, one can judge that among them they shared high levels of federal values.  That was exhibited by their ongoing communal, collaborative, and cooperative dispositions and behaviors that they exhibited for the duration of that long war.

[1] Ray Raphael, A People’s History of the American Revolution:  How Common People Shaped the Fight for Independence (New York, NY:  Perennial, 2001).

[2] Ibid., 385.

[3] Ibid., 386.

[4] Ibid., 386.

[5] See Kenneth D. Benne, “The Current State of Planned Changing in Persons, Groups, Communities, and Societies” in Planning of Change, eds. Warren G. Bennis, Kenneth D. Benne, and Robert Chin (New York, NY:  Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1985), 68-82.  Espoused theories refers to ideals and theories-in-use is how a person sees and plans to react to the realities the person perceives.  The latter does not undo the former.  Both are important in determining how people behave.

[loveiscosmicsin]

Breakfast for One, Kingdom for Two

Title: Breakfast for One, Kingdom for Two Rating: G Warnings: None

Prompt: “Free” @ignoctweek​

In the post-apocalyptic world, Noctis tries to indulge Ignis in the smallest pleasures only he could provide.

-

"Do you need rest, Your Highness?" Gentiana's airy and detached inquiry roused a reaction from the weary monarch. "No, I..." Ignis sat up a little straighter, rolling his shoulders back. "I was merely resting my eyes." He rubbed his neck, loosening stiff muscles. "Yeah, it's called sleeping." Noctis interjected as he entered the infirmary, causing the Messenger and the Prince Consort to turn their heads.

Noctis couldn't tear his eyes away from the patient lying on the cot. A young girl no older than eight, comatose and sickly complexion riddled with black veins, one of the visible symptoms of the Starscourge. Victims typically suffer from night terrors. The plague didn't discriminate between the young, old, strong, and weak—knowing that the littlest of ones always suffer in war made his stomach churn. "Been at this since I've been away?" Ignis nodded. Gentiana inclined her head, her eyes shut always with an air of clairvoyance about her. "O King of Kings, the void left by your absence was immeasurable." "Hey Gentiana." Uncertain if Messengers required sleep like mortals, Noctis figured it wouldn't do any harm to include her in his inquiry. "When was the last time the two of you got any sleep?" "Your concern over this humble Messenger's welfare is acknowledged, but needless. It is heartening to see such benevolence demonstrated by the Grand Prince Consort." The Messenger sang praises, a faint smile alluding to a secret on her ruby lips. "Those around him are drawn to the fortitude he exudes. It is said with great confidence that the Savior chose a virtuous mate."   Noctis' favorite bespectacled prince and right hand man pressed his fingertips to the girl's wrist before folding the patient's arm over her abdomen. Despite being blind, the Prince Consort honed his other senses and refused to allow his disability to impede him. Not even advanced medicine could recover his vision. When the Oracle herself said that Ignis' eyesight couldn't be rehabilitated even at the fragile capacity of her power, it just drove him to him to do what he could for his people and allies. "I think so, too." Noctis' effortless smile fell when he noticed the copious black coffee cans, empty or otherwise, littered a desk. Noctis knew Ignis had overworked himself again. "Don't tell me you've been running on Ebony this whole time." Noctis crossed his arms. "You're gonna burn yourself out." "Lady Lunafreya's sudden departure was not without consequences. As of late, many have fallen to the plague, but I have been able to minimize and even lifted symptoms in a matter of days." Luna found it difficult to leave Nihilsomno, one of Lucis' hidden strongholds and headquarters of the last king's army and surviving citizens, after a brief reunion with Noctis. After having the world believe that she had died in Altissia, Luna was forced to hide into seclusion so she would be wholly restored to assist the King of Light once more. Devotees were overjoyed with the return of uplifting prayers and those infected by the Starscourge found a second chance at life. But when she caught word that there were survivors at Tenebrae trapped and destitute, she was torn. The woman knew it was best for her to stay, but the Oracle must be a beacon of hope and alleviate suffering to those who need her. The Lady Oracle left with a volunteer army and Nyx Ulric, promising to return to Nihilsomno soon. There were more victims of the plague than there were healers. Given his adverse feelings towards Gentiana and her true identity, Ignis wasn't one to turn away help. A cure without the Oracle's powers wouldn't be imaginable had Prompto not found Verstael's old research notes though it took time and effort in isolating and treating patients. People wouldn't have stood a chance without Gentiana and Ignis. But even so... Noctis laid a hand on the advisor’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “Ignis, you need to take better care of yourself." "Understand that my sleep is but a small sacrifice for the greater good, Noct. Best that we heal our own lest we encounter them as abhorrent monstrosities in the long run. We can then re-focus our efforts to other matters." Ignis need not elucidate on what he meant by that. The prophecy of the Chosen King and Savior of the Star. Noctis was to purge the world of the Starscourge and restore balance to the world with the power of the Providence at the cost of his own life. For ten years, Noctis had obtained the royal arms of his forebears and been drawing power from the Crystal day by day in order to fulfill the demand. His retinue and closest followers, Ignis especially, rejected the notion of the heavy sacrifice. Ignis had stated himself that the King's calling was only a set of guiding principles and there had to be an alternate method. Unfortunately, finding the solution was easier said than done, taking a backseat to the impending apocalypse and the unpredictable fate of mankind. There was no arguing with Ignis once his mind was decided. Not within good reason, at least. Noctis watched Ignis rise unsteadily to his feet and move to the next bed, he and Gentiana followed. "Is there anything I can do? Fetch water? Fluff pillows?" Ignis was appalled. "I couldn't possibly—" He paused, his good eye widened. "Actually, there's something you could do. It must be dawn by now." "Just say the word and I'm on it,” the king replied without a beat. "Could you prepare me a meal?" "Except that." Noctis inhaled sharply, lips trilling dramatically. By meal, Ignis must mean for himself. At least the expectations were low. "I'm not great with food, remember?" "It would be unwise. To be defeated by one's culinary prowess or lack thereof would manifest great chagrin to us all." "Thanks. Thanks a lot, Gentiana." Noctis grumbled under his breath. Astrals weren't known for their best sense of humor, but this poor mimicry must have been a consequence of being at Luna and Nyx’s side. "Not that I'd want to poison Ignis on purpose." "I know that all too well." Ignis interjected to the king’s admission, chuckling in his fist. "I haven't forgotten the first time you cooked for me. Your onion volcano was disastrous." "Hey, you liked the way I was flipping shrimp left and right in ways you couldn’t imagine. I was on a roll. Until I burned my hand." "Burned the food at that, but your form was... unique." "I was distracted. You're not easy to please." "Noct, I'm famished." Ignis sighed tiredly, removing his visor before pinching the bridge of his scarred nose. "So famished that it doesn't matter how badly you cook. Though I hope it's not too much to ask that you keep the charred portions to a minimum." "I don't know..." "Oh." Disappointed by the reluctance in the king's tone, Ignis couldn't mask the resignation in his expression. "All right, all right, all right. Just stop with the face." Noctis could never resist Ignis when he did that and fortunately for him, the strategist rarely used that tactic. "You're really got your heart set on this, huh?" Ignis nodded, grinning brightly. Noctis' hands were tied, anything for his husband's happiness. "I'm pleased that you're so willing to grant my little request." "All right, what do you want? Do I need to grab a pen and pad for this?" "Something crispy and light. Toast with jam, perhaps? Or if you're feeling ambitious, an omelette. Either one should pose little difficulty to you." "Okay, got it,” Noctis quickly pressed his lips against Ignis’ temple. “Be back soon." "I'll be waiting right here, my love." Noctis made his way to the kitchen and visited the pantry and storage for the key ingredients. Fresh eggs haven't been in stock for some time so the rations stored in the fortress were abundant with boxes of egg powder. It wasn't as tasty as the real deal, but it staved off hunger effectively. Food, supplies, ancient technologies, a collection of tomes surrounding the Lucis Caelum magic, and other secrets were found here, resources provided from beyond the grave. "Thanks, Dad," the king murmured to himself as he collected the ingredients in his arms and closed the door shut. At his age, Regis commanded an army and amassed a barrier over an entire city. Noctis had brought refuge to survivors and recently enlisted the help of mercenaries to fight for him, unifying parties with royal and independent factions with survival as the main goal. There was still a long way to go until Noctis proved himself the king everyone expected and not just the over-glorified version promised in the legends. While the King of Light pensively calculated the victories as well as losses accounted for in the war and his people's sentiments toward him, he soon found that he wasn't alone. Iris, daemon slayer and first-ever appointed Shieldmaiden in Lucis, was present and drinking root beer. “Hey there, Noct,” she tipped her bottle to him in an informal salute. Noctis blinked before setting the ingredients on the counter. “How long have you been standing there?” “Hmm...” Iris rested her cheek on her palm. “Long enough for you not to notice for a good couple of minutes. What are you up to so early in the morning?” “Making Ignis breakfast. He wants an omelette and toast...” “That’s sweet of you.” Iris extended a finger to the bread box to Noctis’ right. “Need any help?” “No,” Noctis said immediately as he popped two pieces of bread into the toaster. “I, uh, I got this,” he gently added. “Oh... All right, have it your way.” This was a daunting task posed before the King of Light. Iris trying not to make it obvious that she wasn’t looking over his shoulder when she thought he didn’t notice didn’t help matters. It had been years since Noctis cooked, Nihilsomno was staffed with professionals and there were a few occasions that Noctis was present with Ignis, given that all he did was slice and moved ingredients from point A to point B at his husband's instruction. Noctis only had the experience as a part-time chef in his youth, but that was putting it mildly, he mostly waited on tables. "I shouldn't let this get to me. I've come too far to stop now. I can handle breakfast." Noctis' superb chopping and dicing skills were put to the test. Cooking may not be his forte, but he sure knew his way around the blade. At least Ignis wasn't monitoring his progress or that would've dialed the pressure up a bit. As famished as the prince claimed, it was doubtful that he would refrain from being critical of the food. "Can it be saved?" Noctis asked Iris, grimacing at the horrendous results of the first attempt. "How did you manage to overcook and under-cook this?” Mortified, Iris set down her second root beer she had been nursing to poke at the omelette with a fork. “It's runny in the middle and incinerated on the sides. You can't give this to Ignis." "Geez, Iris, give me a little more credit than that. I wouldn't eat this. At least the toast turned out okay...” "Oh, I'm just teasing. It's cute that you've taken your spousal duties just as seriously as your kingly ones. Let me give you a hand this time."   “This... actually looks edible.” Noctis sighed in relief as he added the finishing touches of the omelette with a little ketchup. Iris rolled her eyes playfully as if the king was staring the obvious. "Let me know what Ignis thinks." "Will do." Ignis rose from his seat, expression yearning when Noctis returned. "Ah, I smell something heavenly." "Your breakfast,” Noctis set the tray down. “It only took two tries. I had this in the bag." "I smell toast... and eggs? I'm intrigued." "Omelette just like you asked. Got you some juice since you've been drinking nothing but Ebony all the time." "You spoil me." "Afraid I don't do it enough. Wait, you're not going to eat here, are you?" "Is there a reason I shouldn't? There's still plenty of work to do here and I can eat quickly." "Gentiana, think you can cover for him for a bit?" Gentiana nodded. "She says it's okay. Come on, let's go to our spot so you can unwind." "Our spot. You mean...?" "Yup, the abandoned enclave." The designation had a caved-in roof and a humongous tree had long stretched its branches far and wide. The royal couple found time to sit under its canopy. For some reason, flowers had no problem growing there though they were a new species that had no trouble flourishing in darkness. They still haven't figured out what to name them and Ignis was fascinated by the glow radiating off its petals. Had the world not been void of light and ash didn't rain from the heavens, it would've made a phenomenal stargazing spot. "I suppose I can't eat this all by myself..." Noctis took the tray. "You underestimate your appetite and my cooking." Though he may nibble on some toast if Ignis insisted. And he wouldn't dare oppose food on the end of the fork, that is, if Ignis was offering to feed him. "You haven't given me food poisoning yet so you may be right." Ignis rose to his feet with an elated sigh. "Shall we?" "After you, Your Highness." Noctis took a step to the side. Instead of walking past him as Noctis anticipated, Ignis reached out and hooked a hand over the king's arm, just a little above his elbow. "After us, you mean to say." Ignis turned his atrophied gaze to his beloved and smiled. Noctis blinked at the bold statement. They were inseparable. Duty took high precedence above all else, but they were one, and they wielded the same sword. Marriage ebbed and flowed and while they had their faults, they would always have each other's backs through it all. Ignis stood at Noctis' side to see that dawn would return one day, Noctis vowed to never leave him. "Right." Noctis chuckled, playfully shoving his weight against Ignis. These days the prince didn't shy away or hold his tongue. Not that Noctis minded or most of the ways Ignis did use said tongue. Together, His Majesty and His Highness enjoyed a brief reprieve, reminded that every once in awhile they mustn't forget the subtle nuances of their relationship, no gesture was ever too small because the little things were what attracted them to each other since the beginning.

[catsafarithewriter]

Secret Santa: What Happens in the Cat Kingdom...

So, not so secret since Shelby is the one who got me going down this route, but, uh, Merry Christmas @tcrmommabear, and here is your Christmas present, which involves the Lost Ladies, the Bureau, and the ensuing chaos. (A bit of light-hearted humour for once!)

Haru hadn’t been sure what to expect upon meeting Baron’s sister.

Of course she figured that, being made alongside Baron, she would likely share a little of his... dramatic tendencies.

She didn’t disappoint.

Baroness Louise von Gikkingen was a tall, white-furred feline dressed in a long dusty-pink double-breasted jacket that swept all the way down to the hem of her green dress, compete with a matching cravat and parasol. Neat white gloves bore resemblance to Baron’s, and discreet lace lined both her dress and parasol. All in all, the whole attire was wholly impractical for anyone who dubbed themselves adventurers.

A little like Baron’s suit.

She didn’t come alone either; she was accompanied by a long-furred cat with white-and-tortoiseshell markings, not much taller but with more strength to her build. This was Persephone. Persephone was wearing a slightly more practical, but no less stylish, coat that looked suspiciously like a pirate’s coat. The tricorne hat and twin swords didn’t help matters much.

Louise was also not expected for another week.

Baron’s sister grinned at them, a grin that said the owner knew exactly what she was doing. “Baron. It’s been far too long. You’ve made quite the name for yourself, so I’ve heard.”

“As have you, it seems,” Baron replied. “How many of the stories are true?”

“All of them,” Louise promised, “except the boring ones.”

The twin Creations paused, considering the other, and then Louise swept Baron into a hug that looked like it could break bones. “Stop being so proper and hug your sister, dammit.”

“It’s good to see you too, Louise,” Baron managed. “May I introduce the Cat Bureau—?”

Louise released him. “But of course,” she said, bowing in a manner that was notably similar to Baron’s style. “Introduce away.”

Baron reclaimed what dignity he retained by returning to the kettle to distribute tea. He motioned to each Bureau member as he spoke. “Louise, this is Toto—“

“A pleasure.”

“—another Creation who helped me establish the Cat Bureau, and this is Muta—“

“Heya.”

“—who has been with the Bureau for nearly fifteen years now, and this is Haru—“

“Hi.”

“—a former client who has recently become part of the Bureau and,” there was only the slightest pause before he finished with, “a good friend,” but there was a knowing grin already on Louise’s face.

Louise bowed again, but this time in a movement that seemed far more natural, and motioned to her plus one with, “Baron, Bureau... Baron’s girlfriend—“

“Oh, I’m not—“ “We’re not—“ Haru and Baron protested.

“—may I present,” Louise continued, “the great and magnanimous once-Cat Queen and my ex-girlfriend, Persephone.”

The cat in the pirate coat rolled her eyes. “I wish you’d stop introducing me like that.” She looked to the Bureau with an apologetic smile. “I’m her wife. Of seventeen years, may I add,” she said pointedly to Louise.

“You’re Lune’s mother?” Haru asked.

Persephone perked up. “You know my son?”

“I... may have saved his life. And his wife’s. And almost been married off to both him and his father. And now be godmother to his kittens.” Haru smiled weakly. “Um, hi.”

“No way.” Louise turned to Baron. “You’re dating the hero of the Cat Kingdom??”

“Louise, we’re not—“

“I’m a hero?” Haru interrupted.

“Sure you are. Come on; you saved both the current Cat monarchs and caused the then-Cat King to abdicate? You’re a legend!”

Baron coughed tactfully at this point. “Of course, I suppose the stories also tell of a dashing cat who also helped...?”

“Oh, of course.” Louise turned to Muta. “Is it true you threatened to eat the entire castle?”

Haru watched as Baron took an aggressively large sip of tea, fascinated. She had never seen Baron so riled, and with so few words to boot.

“So, you’re the human who saved my Lune?” Persephone joined Haru, leaning against the sofa arm. “I suppose a thank you is in order then.”

“Oh, there’s no need,” Haru said quickly. Her mind jumped to the last time a cat had been in her debt. “Really. No need. At all.”

Persephone looked at her strangely, and Haru realised she was being Odd. Then the ex-Queen laughed — and it was a loud, abrupt laugh — and said, “Fair enough.”

“Is Louise usually so...”

“Not to quite this degree,” Persephone replied. She watched the Creations’ interactions with obvious amusement. “I think it’s a bit of sibling rivalry.”

“But Baron would never stoop so low—“

“I’ll have you know, I saved a princess from an unwanted marriage!” Baron’s tea was slammed down on the table, killing off whatever Haru had been about to say.”

Words failed Haru. “When...?”

“That’s you, Chicky,” Muta whispered. He was grinning from ear to ear.

“Oh, sure,” Louise replied airily. “I mean, kudos to you. You saved an almost-princess from an unwanted marriage. I just eloped with the Queen.”

“I can’t help feeling that you’re being a little sarcastic.”

“Me? Sarcastic? Never.”

“You know,” Haru said, “I always imagined that Baron’s sister would be as...”

“Emotionally constipated?” Muta offered.

“I was going to say as reserved as Baron, but that works too.”

In the time that Louise had been visiting, she had regaled then with countless stories, and Haru — given Baron’s own track record for the dramatic — would have believed them. All except for the wedding stories. She had told six conflicting versions so far of her and Persephone’s wedding, and each one getting progressively more outlandish.

“Accidental. As it turns out, you should probably research a world’s nuptial customs before visiting.”

“Online wedding. So, not a great service, but the reception was amazing.”

“We posed as pets for a year and our owners married us.”

“We disguised ourselves in the Cat Kingdom and got Natori to officiate it.”

“We never actually married; we just call each other wife.”

Haru rejoined Persephone, who was watching the precedings on the sidelines with a far too knowing look. “How many stories does she have?” Haru asked.

“Well, let’s simply say that if we wait for her to run out, we’ll be here for a while.” The cat took a long sip from her cup. “I hope your homeboy has a lot of tea stocked up.”

“Enough to sink a battleship,” Haru said. “So... what’s the real story? How did the wedding go?”

“Oh, there’s no story.”

Haru considered Louise’s behaviour so far, coupled with the fact that she was created alongside Baron. “I… find that hard to believe.”

“No. I mean there’s literally no story.” Persephone finished her tea and eyed the remaining sludge at the bottom of her cup. Then she grinned at Haru. “We don’t remember.”

“I... what?”

Louise snapped her head up, ending whatever remark she had been about to fire back at Baron. “Sephie...”

“Louise, they have to know sometime.”

“Yes. Next century. Let’s book it in the calendar and forget about it until then.”

“Louise...”

“Is that the time? Let’s go, Sephie; I think we have a party to crash in the Reptile Kingdom somewhere...”

Persephone gently grabbed Louise’s arm as the white cat started for the door, and steered her back to the group, strong-arming the parasol out of her grip and returning it to the coat-rack. “Louise, I think your family might want to know why they weren’t invited to the wedding, don’t you?”

Louise sagged and then sank down into the sofa, dramatically graceful even in defeat. “Fine. We don’t remember because we were blindingly, fantastically drunk that day. Happy?”

The Bureau exchanged glances, but Haru was the one to eventually raise a hand. “I have a few questions...”

Persephone leant down and kissed Louise’s head. “I’ll explain.”

“Fine.” Louise pulled her down to the sofa. “But sit while you’re talking.”

“Why? Are you missing me already?”

“Of course. But also together we look smoking hot and who are we to deny everyone that?”

Persephone laughed, throwing her head back and then leaning against Louise. “As you wish.” She looked to the waiting Bureau with a smirk as slanted as her pirate hat. “So, I believe the Human World has a place called Las Vegas...”

“Oh.” Suddenly Haru could see where this was going. “And the Cat Kingdom…?”

“Has Catmas.”

“Catmas? Like… cat-Christmas?”

“No, Chicky,” Muta said. “It’s literally called cat-mess ‘cause all the cats are in a mess the next day.”

Haru made a face at Muta. “I’m really struggling to tell whether you’re having me on because that’s just the way you talk but also it sounds like something the Cat Kingdom would actually do.”

“Oh, it’s legit,” Persephone said. “Plus, the Cat Kingdom has always been fond of its puns. So: Catmas. A festive held around the same time as your Christmas, involving much celebration and eating and catnip wine.”

“So much catnip wine,” Muta added, a tad wistfully.

“You always gave the impression you couldn’t stand the Cat Kingdom,” Baron remarked.

“Make decent catnip wine, and then we’ll talk.”

“Regardless, on Catmas, it’s not uncommon for couples to marry, provided they have the wedding rings and... not much else,” Persephone said. “You don’t even need an official cat to, well, officiate it. You just grab the nearest cat, sign the paperwork, and bamm. Married. We... wouldn’t have been the first couple to marry while under the influence of catnip wine.”

“What a night to have forgotten,” Louise sighed.

“So, simply put, that’s what happened. Like I said, there’s not a story.”

There was a pause as their audience digested this, and then Haru said, “Okay, so I might not know much about cat weddings, however close I got to one myself, but surely, if there are records, then there might be records of who officiated the wedding too? Perhaps they might be able to tell you how it happened?”

“She has a point,” Toto said. “I doubt anycat would forget marrying off their Queen.”

“Unless they were stinkin’ drunk too.”

Haru batted Muta. “That’s not helpful. Baron? What do you think?”

“I think that the current Cat King and Queen might just allow us to peruse their records if we ask nicely.”

After the Cat Kingdom adventure, Haru had assumed she would never meet Natori again.However, it turned out that only the ex-Cat King’s advisor had any idea how to navigate the old archives or the impractical dating system of the Kingdom.

“And why exactly do you wish to check the marriage records?” the old cat asked. Haru wasn’t sure Natori was ever enthusiastic about much, but he seemed particularly tired to be called out of retirement for something as trite as marriage records. Even the reappearance of the long-lost once-Cat Queen only caused a raised eyebrow. It seemed Natori was really doing his best to live a quiet life after everything.

“It’s for a case of utmost importance,” Baron said, and if there was a crack in his voice at the outrageous lie, Haru didn’t catch it. “We’re looking for a wedding that took place on Catmas, seventeen years ago.”

Natori made a face and started down the aisle of records. “You’ll have a job picking one out from the masses then. Seventeen years ago... that would have been the Year of the Lake Thief.”

Muta guffawed. “Guess what I was doing that Catmas.”

Natori spared a withering look to Muta and then pulled a heavy tome off a shelf. “Which names is it?”

Baron smoothly retrieved the book from the old advisor. “We’ll take it from here. Thank you, Natori.”

“Just don’t go making a mess. This room has a very strict system.”

“Yeah. Of nonsense,” Muta muttered. He grinned pointedly when he earned a final glare, and then dropped the smile when Natori left.

“Was the lake incident really on Catmas?” Haru asked quietly while the others flipped through the records.

Muta snorted. “Lots of things seem like a good idea on Catmas. Can’t remember much of that night. Unfortunately, a lot of other cats did.”

“And thus, Renaldo Moon, the legendary cat criminal, was born.”

“Hey, here it is!” Everyone crowded round Louise as she singled out a line. “On the Catmas of the Year of the Lake Thief, Her Majesty, the Great Cat Queen Persephone, the Just--”

“I didn’t write that title,” Persephone muttered. She leant over Louise’s shoulder and continued with, “--wedded Baroness Louise von Gikkingen--”

“--the Dauntless,” Louise added.

“How about the Reckless?” Baron offered.

“Try the Rude. I’m trying to read this. Wedded Baroness Louise von Gikkingen, which was officiated by... Renaldo Moon.”

There was a long, long silence. All eyes turned to Muta, who had paused, mid-bite of a fishcake he’d stolen from the Bureau before leaving. “Huh,” he eventually said, and swallowed his mouthful. “I really was busy that Catmas.”

Baron pinched the bridge of his nose and, very slowly and painfully calmly, said, “Muta. Why didn’t you ever tell me that you married my sister to the long-lost Cat Queen?”

“There was a lot of catnip wine drunk that year and I honestly don’t remember much of it.” He smirked. “Sounds like I had a blast though.”

“So, the good news?” Haru said. “We have the cat in question already here. The bad news: He remembers precisely zero about it too.”

Persephone flipped the book shut and returned it to its shelf. “Well, it was always a long shot, but at least we tried, Louise. Louise?” She turned to see her wife staring morosely at the wall of records. “Hey, Lou?”

Louise ignored Persephone and instead side-eyed Baron. “Oh, don’t give me that look, Baron.”

“What look?”

“The ‘my sister has just done something stupid’ look. At least I had the guts to propose, even if it is on a drunken Catmas night.”

“And what does that mean, Louise?”

“Oh, I don’t know; how about you ask your lovely lady client who you are obviously smitten with?”

Persephone froze, mid-way in trying to stop the ensuing argument, and at that point, backed away. “Nope. You’re on your own now, darling.”

“Louise,” Baron said, very very calmly, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t drag Haru into this--”

“No, no,” Haru said. “Haru doesn’t mind being dragged into this. She has a point there.”

“Haru, please--”

“If you’re going to call out Louise for her choices, I think she’s allowed to fire back a few points about your love life.”

“Haru--”

“You jumped off a flipping building the first time I confessed how I felt.”

“That... I’m not... I wasn’t trying to... call out Louise’s choices. I was simply...”

“Judging,” Louise finished.

Baron sighed and then smiled at his twin. “Louise, after all the years we’ve known one another, do you think I’m going to judge you at all for getting drunk--”

“So very, very drunk,” Louise supplied.

“--and marrying the cat you fell in love with?”

“I think you’re a little surprised.”

“Granted. Yes, I am surprised. And yet, not as surprised as I thought I’d be. You have got a track record of jumping before you look--”

“Hark who’s talking,” Haru murmured.

“--but since when have you cared what the rest of the world thought?” he finished.

“It’s not that. It’s simply that...” and here Louise hesitated. She glanced away and met Persephone’s eyes. “I didn’t want anyone to think it was a rash, spur-of-the-moment, drunken decision. I mean, yes, I was drunk, but I had the rings, I was going to propose - I had it all worked out, it wasn’t meant to go like that--”

Persephone laughed, that same laugh that rang round the room, and brought Louise into an embrace. “You idiot,” she sighed softly. “Do you think I would ever have stuck around for so long if this wasn’t love? Adventures and fun aside, it’s being together that matters most. That’s the biggest adventure of all.” She paused, and then added, “But I do really like our regular adventures too.”

Louise laughed back, albeit a little weaker. “Duly noted.”

“So, is everythin’ sorted?” Muta finished the last crumbs of the fishcake. “We all good? Cause I couldn’t help noticing a buffet when we came in...”

“I think we’re good.”

“Does your sister always cause so much chaos whenever she visits?” Haru asked. She waved off the couple from the Bureau doorway. It had only been a few hours, but she already felt knackered.

Baron watched them leave with a feline grin that looked uncannily reminiscent of Louise’s mischievous smile. “Always.”

“Oh, okay.” Louise and Persephone vanished through the portal, and Haru looked to Baron. “Also, your sister is right. We need to talk about us.”

[impressivepress]

Art and the Russian Revolution | Academy Travel

The first-time traveller to Russia may well set out enthralled to see the rich harvest of European Old Master paintings in the Hermitage Museum, as well as the wondrous collection of European modern art now housed in its vast extension. The same traveller, however, might well return having been ‘converted’ to another remarkable body of art, the 19th century art tradition native to Russia itself. 

The Russians themselves are often more proud of their own, autonomous art tradition than they are of Catherine the Great’s imported foreign masterpieces. The Russian painters developed their form of Realism largely independently of Realist art in the rest of Europe, such as that of Gustave Courbet in France. And they did so in the face of the massive authority of the Imperial Art Academy in Russia. Art historians concede that this was a major renovation of art practice in Russia, against the stultifying effect of institutionalised practice.

In museums such as the State Tretyakov Gallery (Moscow) and the State Russian Museum (St Petersburg), visitors can marvel at the achievements of groups such as The Peredevizhniki (‘The Wanderers’, or ‘The Itinerants’), who rejected the lucrative but arid historicist themes of official academic art, and developed their own autonomous brand of realism to record political and social conditions in late Imperial Russia.

The munificence of Mr. Pavel Tretyiakov

The superb corpus of Wanderers’ works collected by Pavel Tretyakov (1832-98) and donated to the City of Moscow in 1892, amounts to a gallery of snapshots of Russia’s social problems in the decades before the revolution. It is a virtual roll-call of the many interlocking political and social problems that occupied the minds of educated and progressive people in the 19th century.

The historian of the Russian Revolution knows that art serves as a seismograph of deeper shifts in political and social attitudes. The art of the Peredvizhniki contains intimations of a deep malaise in Russian society regarding the traditional backwardness and the poverty of peasants, as well as the newly-created social problems of urban workers created by minister Witte’s program of accelerated industrialisation. These paintings are not clarion calls to revolution, but they are intimations of the social conscience that will lead to reform movements and, eventually, to revolutionary action. The two poles of Wanderer art are a humane sympathy – even indignation – for the poor and the oppressed, and a critical hostility to the tsardom, its police state and its ally, the Orthodox Church.

Criticism of the tsarist state

Of all the political features of later Imperial Russia, the tsardom itself was the most difficult to attack, at least directly. The persons of the Tsar Nicholas I and Nicholas II were still deemed to be sacred, and to rule by Divine Right, or by God’s will. Any criticism of the tsar was a criticism of God. This orthodoxy was backed by the massive spiritual power of the Russian Orthodox Church, which was itself one of the main pillars of Imperial power. This force was, if anything, more intimidating even than the activities of the Okhrana, or secret police. Finally, there was also a psychological impediment to open criticism of the monarch. For generations, Russians had seen the Tsar as ‘the loving father of the people’, and believed that he could do them no wrong. Moreover, they equally firmly believed that any problems in Russia could not be the fault of the ruler, but of his inept administration. Russian literature is littered with hostile representations of government officials, the most notable being Nikolai Gogol’s play, The Government Inspector (1836). Painters could make more oblique references to the existing order by criticising the Church.

Criticisms of the Russian Orthodox Church

Vasily Perov (1834-1882) was an early leader in this socially-aware realism. His Meal time at the Monastery (1876, The State Russian Museum, St. Petersburg) is, first, a shockingly satirical depiction of the Russian clergy. It depicts Russian monks feasting in the luxurious surrounds of the monastery’s refectory. Ironically, this occurs under a statue of the crucified Christ, himself the apostle of renunciation and poverty, and the champion of the poor and the disinherited. Ironically, a poor beggar woman with children is completely ignored at right, while a supplicant male figure is berated at the far left by a priest, visibly annoyed at a delay in serving wine. Between these two poles of poverty, the monks represent extreme luxury, with their piled platters of food and glasses of wine. One inebriated monk appears to have collapsed on the ground. The upper classes are also implicated here: the decorated official and his wife who enter at right also ignore the begging woman. Perov was an established genre painting, but this work goes beyond a mere jovial depiction of everyday life. It transcends the titular subject, becoming an apocalyptic vision of Russian society as a whole, in a manner anticipating Ilya Repin’s monumental painting, The Procession.

Sympathy for the poor folk

Nikolai Kuznetsov’s Inspecting the Estate (1879, State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow) explores the power structures that dominated every aspect of peasant life. Kuznetsov was not of peasant origin; quite the contrary, he was born into a noble family in the Province of Kherson. His father owned an estate, and Nikolai almost certainly observed scenes in which the landowner – or his foreman – apprehended poachers who were hunting illegally on his land. The well-dressed owner sits in a light, high-speed cart, and shakes his whip at the poacher, who stands with the incriminating game lying at his feet. The hunting dog reiterates the aggression of the master. This is no mere rebuke: this will end up in the local court, which will always find in favour of the landowner.

Ilya Repin, the peasant who became painter of peasants

The leading figure of Russian realism was Ilya Repin. He had good credentials to take on such a subject. He knew poverty personally, having grown up in a poor peasant family. He had risen above it by taking on the career of a painter. He was one of the many liberal thinkers who not only noticed the social problems in Russia, but agonised over them. He wrote: “I am applying all my insignificant forces to try to give incarnation to my ideas; life around me disturbs me a great deal and gives me no peace—it begs to be captured on canvas.” He visited France and Italy (1873-1876), where he saw the radical work of Gustave Courbet and Edouard Manet, both of whom showed scenes of modern life not merely as chronicles but as commentaries on contemporary society.

Repin began his career of social commentary with a painting that has become iconic: Barge Haulers on the Volga (1870-1873, State Russian Museum, St Petersburg). He chanced upon this scene during a holiday in the Volga region in 1870, and used his academic sketching techniques to do multiple detailed studies of each figure. He struck difficulty with local peasants, who refused to pose for him – even as paid models – because they believed that their soul was lost once an image was made of them. Repin had to turn to ‘fallen’ figures, such as an ex-soldier and a dissolute priest, for his models.

True, his gang of just 11 people is not as large as in reality. It is also all-male, whereas whole gangs were often made up of women. (Indeed, Russian peasants tended to choose wives not for personality or good looks, but for strong shoulders and sturdy stature, which made them an asset to hire out for water carrying and barge-hauling!) He nonetheless captures the utter exhaustion – and hopelessness – of the poorest of the poor. Just one young recruit lifts his head with an expression of rejection and defiance, hinting at the spark of future rebellion. The painting, curiously, was purchased by one of the Tsar’s sons!

Repressing the Intelligentsia

The tsarist state also repressed members of the middle classes, especially the many members of the large, university-educated intelligentsia that devoted itself to scathing criticism of the regime.

Ilya Repin’s dramatic masterpiece, They did not expect him (1884-1887, State Tretyakov Museum, Moscow) shows a young political radical returning unexpectedly from exile in Siberia to his middle-class family home. An old woman rises in amasement at the gaunt apparition of this victim of Russia’s Okhrana. Two children look in amasement at their lost father. The doyen of Russian revolutionary history, Orlando Figes, reminds us that the tsarist regime literally manufactured its own enemies: by repressing all forms of criticism – from moderate to radical – with equal brutality, it forced opposition into the extremist camp of assassinations and bomb-throwing.

This story of the liberal critique of the tsarist social order deserves far more systematic study of the sort done by David L. Jackson in his superlative The Wanderers and Critical Realism in nineteenth-century Russian Painting. (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2006). Visitors to Russia would also be well-advised to devote special attention to Ilya Repin’s greatest work, Religious Procession in Kursk Governorate (1880-1883, State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow), which offers a panoptical and apocalyptic vision of a chaotic, repressive, violent and unjust society lurching towards upheaval and revolution.

~

Dr Michael Adcock · Sep 13th, 2019.