#anyway. the grey skirt there was for the actual costume- black one was just something I snagged from spirit on closing day lol | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

luluwquidprocrow · 3 years ago

Text

(the three-part folding mirror)

the denouements & the snickets, olaf, r, olivia

teen

15,985 words

The year the schism gets worse is the year one of the quarterly information costume parties is held in the grand ballroom on the third floor of the Hotel Denouement.

@lyeekha won my commission in the @asoue-network fandom against hate raffle and asked for the denouements, so i put together some shenanigans with the denouements and the snickets, with slight ernest/lemony kit/dewey frank/jacques, and a few other associates hanging around ~

some minor warnings – language; smoking; brief mention of murder; referenced parental death; identity anxiety about being seen physically and personally

title from i am alone by they might be giants

10:59 PM—The Ballroom—East Drink Table

Kit skirted the perimeter of the crowded ballroom, stopping at the side wall by the drinks, one eye on the table and the other on the dance floor. She couldn’t put her back to it. Not now. There was a tall, potted boxwood nearby, unreasonably lush, almost slouching against the decorative golden pillar beside it. She picked up one of the wineglasses, the only signal she could think of to properly get his attention. She’d have to find Lemony as well; where was he?

The plant coughed.

“J,” Kit whispered, “listen to me.”

A few of the branches parted, and Jacques’s blue eyes appeared out of the green. “What happened?”

Kit breathed slowly. Her free hand curled into a fist, crinkling up the fabric of her dress. She swallowed. It did not help. She gripped the glass. Beneath her feet, the floor gave a slight shudder as the clock out in the lobby readied itself to chime the hour.

“Someone in this very room has—”

WRONG!

7:25 PM—Above The Lobby

It was Saturday night, and Saturday night always meant one thing—Guess The Guest.

Ernest stood in the small alcove situated around the gears of the hotel clock, far above the lobby, and looked down. Like any other night, the sleek gold and red lobby was filled with people, loitering around the front desks and the fountain and each other before they made their way up to the grand ballroom on the third floor. Well, the ballroom was different. This was a work event, as Frank had so brilliantly labeled it on their schedule, so no one was a regular guest tonight. Frank, who had never appreciated the joy in making up grandiose lies or exaggerated half-truths about the strangers who came in and out of the hotel, certainly wouldn’t appreciate the thrill in watching all of his associates in costume and trying to guess who was who, either. Dewey thought the game was slightly mean, because Dewey was just too kind for this sort of thing.

It was good that Ernest was not Frank or Dewey. Not right now, anyway. Ernest knew how to get joy out of the little things.

He watched a flash of green scales move erratically through the lobby, a cheerful voice calling enthusiastic greetings that echoed all the way up to the ceiling—Montgomery. There was a reason he did undercover work so sparingly. Two women in nearly identical butterfly costumes by the door, one purple and one white, hand in hand, standing close together—Ramona and Olivia. It was nice to see them together. A woman with a deep blue dress that swept around her like a wave—Josephine, here alone. Ernest had it on good authority that the Anwhistle brothers weren’t coming. Another loud voice, but deeper, following the confident swath a tall figure in black cut through the crowd—Olaf. Ernest turned away, in time to catch a glimpse of a long red cape shifting from behind one pillar to another around the edge of the room, carefully avoiding Olaf—aha. Kit. Which meant another one was nearby. Not that the Snickets had arrived together, because none of them ever did, but where there was one there was always at least one other, ready to make a decent amount of trouble. (Ernest liked trouble. The little things, of course.) And there, near Ramona and Olivia, Lemony Snicket, a figure shaped in grey shadows.

The alcove door opened. Ernest knew exactly who it was, so he didn’t give him the courtesy of turning around, keeping his eyes on Lemony. Grey was a fitting color on him, on the long line of his shoulders, his legs. Ernest’s stomach flipped over, once.

“It looks like a full house tonight,” Frank said, standing beside Ernest. He adjusted the sleeves of his jacket and folded his hands behind his back. “I wasn’t sure.”

Ernest leaned a hand on the alcove railing. “Takes more than a murder to stop a party, I suppose,” he said.

Frank didn’t reply, but Ernest knew that for once he agreed. The double murder in Winnipeg two months ago had, like any other sudden, suspicious death they’d dealt with over the years—Ernest shuddered and flexed his fingers—barely made a ripple in VFD, except that after the funeral, everyone had closed ranks significantly tighter.

This worried Frank; this did not worry Ernest. Very little truly worried Ernest, at the end of the day. That, of course, only made Frank worry more, but Ernest couldn’t help that. Frank would find something to worry about if Ernest was still on “his side”. Ernest had much more pressing commitments than the heavy, idle worry that everyone else shuffled between themselves without any results, and it wasn’t that he’d be found out. It was change. The real kind of change, not the noble one, not the fragmentary one. Change Ernest could see.

He shifted his hand on the railing once more. If he kept thinking about it, he was going to argue with Frank, and they’d rehashed the argument so many times the past few months without any resolution that it was better, Dewey had eventually insisted, if they just didn’t talk about it at all. So they wouldn’t. Ernest stood next to his brother, and the silence dragged out between them, punctuated by the soft ticking of the clock gears, and they wouldn’t talk about it. Not at all.

“Ernest.”

Almost.

“Frank,” Ernest said back, in the same critical tone, tilting his head to the side and giving his brother a look.

Frank shot him a flat and unimpressed stare in return. At least he still did that. “Promise me you won’t do anything—” he paused, his face pinching in an aggrieved sort of way before he settled on a word. “—rash tonight,” he finished.

Ernest laughed. “I don’t intend to do anything rash, Frank.” Of course not. You couldn’t carry out a pre-established plan rashly.

“I should hope not. I—”

The door opened, again. Dewey burst into the alcove, all smiles as always, and stopped on Frank’s other side and leaned over the railing, gazing into the lobby. Like Ernest and Frank, he wore the muted red manager uniform, because somebody had said it was the “host prerogative” to not dress up for a costume party. Somebody had felt bad about it when Dewey was disappointed, but somebody had still not relented, and there they were, a matched trio, everything outwardly perfect.

“Everyone’s costumes are so beautiful,” Dewey said. “Who’s that, in the big blue dress?”

“Josephine,” Ernest and Frank said at the same time.

Ernest raised his eyebrows. Frank, stooping so low as to actually guess the guest? Even Dewey blinked at him in surprise. The tips of Frank’s ears went slightly pink, but he didn’t say a word.

“Oh, Frank, you left your name tag downstairs again,” Dewey said. He pulled the name tag from his pocket, the slim gold rectangle glinting briefly in the soft light of the alcove, and pressed it into Frank’s hand.

“Thank you,” Frank murmured. But when Dewey turned away, Ernest saw the tag disappear from Frank’s fingers, most likely slipped up into his sleeve. None of them wore their name tags with regularity—the black ‘manager’ embroidery on their jackets was really enough—but Frank’s kept showing up places, and Ernest and Dewey kept giving it back to him, every time. Ernest didn’t quite know what to make of it. He wondered about asking Frank about it, but he didn’t want Frank to take it as another argument. Ernest didn’t actually enjoy arguing with Frank. About small things, sure, like Dewey’s stupid poetry and Frank’s inane hotel schedules, the sorts of things brothers argued about. But Ernest was sure Frank would make it into another one about VFD.

Dewey was studying the lobby, one hand on his chin. Ernest watched him go from one friend to another, then stop when he got to Kit’s red cape sweeping towards the stairs. It was an unusual color for her, but Dewey, whether he thought it was nice or not, knew how to identify someone from the pieces they let slip through too. Kit was straightforward about everything, and the way she walked, determined and with an endpoint in sight, was no different.

Ernest and Frank exchanged a quick glance.

“So,” Frank drawled, “when’s the wedding?”

“I look best in black,” Ernest put in. “Take that into account, Dewey.”

“I look best in blue,” Frank said. “Take that into account.”

Dewey’s face went its typical six shades of red, flushing through to his ears as well as he jumped back from the railing and sputtered, “What—we’re not—we haven’t even—I don’t—Kit’s not—you two are impossible.” He stormed out of the alcove, shutting the door with a slight snap behind him, because Dewey had never slammed a door in his life.

Ernest enjoyed a brief chuckle with Frank before his brother fell silent again. The lobby crowd was thinning as everyone made their way to the elevators or the stairs, or to the bathroom, or, perhaps, to some clandestine hallway somewhere else. Ernest could see the ring of neatly-trimmed boxwoods lining the lobby now. He wasn’t sure, but he thought there was one more than usual, sitting right inside the door.

He leaned forward, squinting. “Did we always have a boxwood there?” he asked.

Frank moved his head down a fraction of an inch and considered the lobby. “Of course,” he said. Then he straightened his sleeves one more time, and left the alcove.

7:35 PM—The Lobby

Among the Snicket siblings, there was an ongoing discussion about the best hiding place. Kit preferred the quiet, professional approach. She stood behind newspaper stands, put her face into books and brochure racks, stayed in the shadows of a store awning. Lemony was difficult about it. He thought the best place to hide was the least likely place someone would look for you; the place you wouldn’t look for yourself. He took dangerous perches in train station windows, seats in restaurants he vocally hated, or sophisticated and cramped corner cafes that had never heard of a root beer float.

Jacques, meanwhile, with a lifetime of hiding experience, always liked to hide in plain sight. People barely ever remembered what was right in front of them as long as it appeared relatively normal. And there were a number of options—a large potted plant could be overlooked among a dozen other potted plants, people received packages every day and wouldn’t notice if there was one more oversized box, every city park lost track of how many statues were supposed to be there, even a regular man in a fine suit crossing the street or driving a taxi was expected and forgettable. Another boxwood was just another boxwood sitting in a free space in the empty Hotel Denouement lobby, slowly making its way to the ballroom for optimal eavesdropping. Another volunteer in costume was just another volunteer in a lion costume borrowed from Bertrand, for the moments tonight when Jacques had to communicate information to an associate.

That was the point of the party, after all. Jacques couldn’t deny that everyone liked dressing up—he liked dressing up, a little—but the main objective for most of them tonight was the passing of relevant information that had happened in the three months since the last official gathering (not counting the funeral). It should have been at Winnipeg, as they usually were, the organization taking over the Duke and Duchess’s sprawling, sparkling mansion, the couple’s easy laughter flowing from room to room. Jacques didn’t blame Ramona for not wanting to do it after what happened there. He doubted she’d actually been in the mansion since, although it was entirely hers. But the Hotel Denouement was a suitable replacement. It was too public to ever lose its neutral position among both sides. No one was going to get killed here, Jacques was certain. But he was mildly worried something else would happen. He didn’t know what. But something.

Especially considering Lemony was here. Not that his brother was a troublemaker—Jacques would never say it out loud, at least—but because Lemony wasn’t supposed to be at the hotel tonight. He had told Jacques that he was going to be with Beatrice and Bertrand, who were working on plans for an upcoming assignment. This meant two things—one, that Lemony had lied to Jacques. But Jacques had counted on that. He had assumed, however, that Lemony meant the three of them were finally going on a date and hadn’t wanted anyone to know. Two, that if Lemony never did anything idly, without a specific purpose, then he was here for an unknown reason. Something else was going to happen, Jacques was certain. Something Lemony wanted to be here for.

First, though, he had to get the boxwood he was hiding in from the lobby to the ballroom upstairs. The pot was significantly heavier than Jacques had counted on.

8:05 PM—The Ballroom—Main Doors

Every time they all got together, Frank was so amazed at how many of them there were. Despite some noticeable gaps—Beatrice’s overbearing presence, for one, which Frank was happy to do without for an evening—the grand ballroom had barely any free space. Every available and noble associate was here, and it filled Frank with a sense that everything was going to be alright. All these people, including himself, doing what was necessary to keep the world quiet. Tonight would be fine. Ernest wouldn’t do anything regrettable; Dewey would forgive him about the costumes and the gentle ribbing; the meeting would pass without incident. Tomorrow would come. Sometimes Frank almost thought that it wouldn’t. Typically when Ernest was being difficult, but tonight even he seemed to agree that the organization—their organization—was impressive.

He spotted a potted plant by one of the drink tables, a boxwood that matched the ones lined around the room and back in the lobby. One branch was bent out of place. Frank would have to have a word with the person responsible later. But he should fix the branch now.

Everyone he passed on his way across the room gave him a quick nod, a brief smile. Frank returned it as that familiar buzzing started under his skin, like it tended to in groups. He shrugged it aside. He gave the controlled smile of a manager with everything in place, and no one said a word.

All of a sudden, his view of the boxwood was blocked. Through the mass of associates came Olaf, head to toe in a suit and mask of black, spiky fur, smiling with all his teeth, unceremoniously pushing a woman in a silver dress painted like a large, rocky moon aside on his way towards Frank. Frank steeled himself. You never knew what you were going to get with Olaf, if he would try and charm you with a reckless humor or annoy you with a joking cruelty. It was one of the many reasons Frank had never particularly cared for him.

“Ernest!” Olaf exclaimed when he got close. He hooked an arm through Frank’s. “Lovely to see you, wonderful party.”

The cold, dark hand twisted its way along Frank’s insides. It gripped down through his chest, put a film over his eyes that made the room seem distant and wrong. The party continued around him, Olaf was still talking into his ear, and Frank couldn’t hear any of it. The name tag pressing into his wrist up his left sleeve didn’t help. Just because it was his didn’t mean it was him. His name meant nothing if no one was going to care about who it was, about what made Frank instead of Ernest or Dewey. No one should need evidence to tell the difference. No one should make a mistake between the three of them. How many times would it happen?

Time was still passing. Frank blinked once, twice, until Olaf’s voice filtered back in and the noise of the ballroom swelled up once more.

“—incredibly delicious, I have to say, but, to be frank with you—ha! This champagne has seen better days, which one of you is responsible for this travesty?”

Frank smiled, a little turn of the corner of his mouth, the professional smile of all three of them. If Olaf wanted Ernest, alright. Frank would be Ernest. “Frank,” he said. The word sounded like it couldn’t possibly have come out right, but Olaf didn’t break his stride, so it must have.

“That does not surprise me in the least,” Olaf said. “Meanwhile, allow me to take up one single minute of your time,” he continued, and pulled Frank into the shadows by the door. Frank’s stomach gave a terrible lurch as the stark terror he woke up with every morning came back, riding over the dissonant gap he still felt between his body and his brain. What did Olaf want with Ernest? Had Olaf found out about him? Frank had covered up for Ernest before, but would he be able to keep doing it if more people knew?

“Have you thought about it any more?” Olaf asked, leaning close.

The sheer relief that Olaf didn’t know battled with the swooping fear that Ernest was doing something new Frank didn’t know about, and with Olaf. He remembered, with startling clarity, the last time he talked to Kit, when she told him that Olaf had been spouting dangerous ideas about the organization and trying to rope in as many people as possible. It was one of the reasons, according to the rumors Frank had heard elsewhere, why he and Kit had ended their relationship. What was he trying to get Ernest into? Ernest needed absolutely no encouragement, and neither did Olaf. He had to say something.

“I have,” Frank said. It was the safe answer when you were pretending to be someone else.

Olaf grinned again, big and excited, which was a terrible sign. “And?”

“No,” he said, because it was also the safe answer, and the faster Frank could untangle Ernest from whatever trouble he was into this time, the better. “Sorry to disappoint,” he added, with the cool tone Ernest used.

Olaf frowned. “Really? I must admit, I am a little surprised. I mean, I know you weren’t entirely on board, but you’d given it a shot before, and I was hoping you’d come around again.”

Before? They’d talked before? Frank thought a series of incredibly inappropriate words Beatrice was always using that he would never say out loud.

“But!” Olaf pivoted quickly, in his speech and his actions, spinning on his heel away from Frank and shrugging broadly. “Who am I to bend your arm about it! I’ll keep you in mind, though, in case.” He showed all his teeth, his eyes glittering. “And keep me in mind, next time you have anything else worth sharing, will you?” He flounced off again, tearing through the crowd.

It took a few minutes for Frank’s heart to go back to where it was supposed to be from where it was thundering in his throat. He put his hands in his pockets and gripped the fabric, something real and his to hold onto.

Anything else worth sharing. Since their apprenticeships, Frank and Dewey and Ernest had been tasked with organizing a great deal of information, mostly about the history of the organization, but sometimes, and especially as they got older, the very information that was passed along between volunteers. It was part of the reason Dewey had started building his personal archives in the basement. He liked the business of collecting facts. Of course all three of them were still being given that information. Of course Ernest still had access to every single piece of that information. Ernest, collaborating with Olaf, Ernest, sneaking around behind Frank’s back, Ernest, who had promised, at the beginning of all this, that he wasn’t going to jeopardize their positions by doing something stupid.

Ernest, what are you doing?

8:40 PM—The Archives, In Progress

Dewey was not hiding. He liked parties a great deal, and he loved people, but like his brothers and everyone else, he too had his own appointment to keep tonight.

His just happened to be in the basement.

He still sort of felt like he was hiding, especially the further he went into the archives. But things always needed organizing, and while he waited, he had to do something to keep his hands busy. He searched for a set of organization accounting records for five minutes before realizing he’d already shelved it, last week.

So Dewey was nervous. Plenty of people were nervous. Olivia went around all the time being nervous and no one gave her any grief for it. But Olivia didn’t have a sister to give her any grief for it. And Dewey didn’t mind, not really. He loved it when his brothers teased, because it meant they were getting along. But this time it was slightly personal. Because he was meeting Kit, and he was nervous.

Kit was—well, normal. Like Dewey was normal. He loved his brothers, but Frank was high-strung and made it everyone else’s problem, Ernest was often disagreeable for the sake of it, and with the Snickets, Jacques was always hiding in furniture and Dewey didn’t think he’d ever seen more of him than one hand and possibly an eye at a time, and Lemony was wonderful but sometimes too cryptic and morbid for Dewey’s taste. He liked things a little more sensible, comfortable, pleasant. And Kit was organized, reasonable, quiet when other people were reading, cool under pressure. She let herself get lost in books and people she cared about, underneath all the professionalism. Her smile was a careful, slow thing, something private she only showed you if she genuinely liked you. And it meant a lot to be on the receiving end of that smile.

His brothers didn’t get it. He wasn’t involved with Kit, and he wasn’t going to ask her out, because you didn’t do that with Kit. If Kit wanted to spend time with you, that was her own choice. She never did anything she didn’t want or she hadn’t thought through first. That she wanted to spend time with Dewey, specifically, to see him, and no one else, was nice. It made the whole of him feel all tingly and weightless. He wanted their meeting in the archives to be as nice as that feeling.

Dewey grabbed a set of Agatha Christie translations he kept on hand for when things got boring (rarely, but Beatrice got bored easily, and if you gave her a translation she sat down for a while to prove she could read it) and walked to the next aisle to shelve them. His foot snagged on something in the middle of the floor and he stumbled, hugging the books close to his chest so they didn’t fall. He turned around to see what it was, and found Kit blinking up at him with wide eyes from where she sat on the floor, a thick book open in her lap, her long red dress pooled around her on the floor. Her dress had an off-the-shoulder neckline, but most of her shoulders were covered by the matching red cape pulled around her. In the wide diamond of skin left between the cape and the top of the dress, he could see the sharp edge of something black around her collarbone, a point of the nearly-finished tattoo she’d been getting done. The red sleeves disappeared into short white gloves, with her hands folded together at the bottom of the book pages. Oh. Dewey’s heart pounded for a horrible, exhilarating moment, his mouth going dry. He swallowed once, twice, a third time.

“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling wryly, closing the book and sliding it gently back in the middle shelf. “I got distracted.”

“Oh, no, that’s completely understandable,” Dewey said. He folded himself down beside her, crossing his legs, still clutching the books to him. “Happens to me all the time. What were you reading?”

Kit smiled again, and it was that slow, beautiful smile, her eyes lighting up. “Have you heard,” she said, “about the cookiecutter shark?”

Dewey had absolutely heard about the cookiecutter shark. “Isistius brasiliensis,” he said. “It can travel in schools, and it bites little circular sections out of fish, like a cookie cutter. Have you heard about the brownsnout spookfish?”

“Barreleye fish, has mirrors in its eyes. Toothless upper jaw,” Kit replied easily. “Anostraca.”

“Fairy shrimp, they swim upside down,” Dewey said. He leaned forward, grinning. “Sometimes even found in deserts. Frilled shark?”

This was his favorite game, with his favorite person, in his favorite place. Both of them were librarians, or librarian-adjacent, so he and Kit dealt in information, not only about nobility but about the rest of the world around them. And the whole world was so fascinating, and there was so much to know and share, so how could you not try and see who could stump the other first?

“An eel-like living fossil, with six pairs of gill slits. Chaunacidae.”

Dewey scrunched up his face, thinking. “I think you got me there,” he admitted.

“Sea toad,” Kit said, looking pleased, “and coffinfish. Deep-sea anglerfishes. The sea toad has fins that can be used as leg flippers.”

“Really? Wow.” Dewey made a mental note to check that out later. He hoped, on the scale of unsettling sea creature to pleasantly spooky sea creature, that it was somewhere in the middle. “So besides oceanic intrigue,” he said, “what else is going on with you?”

“I’m supposed to get something from Frank tonight,” Kit said. “But, I also came to give you this. From Bertrand,” she clarified, and then picked through the seams of her dress, which revealed themselves as hiding at least ten different pockets.

When he had the time, Dewey wanted to study clothing design. Kit and Beatrice always found the place for so many pockets that you could never see from the outside, and Dewey wished he had the same capacity in his slim manager’s jacket and trousers for all the things he wanted to carry around. Poetry; chocolate-covered pretzels; the pencils Kit always left behind; spare buttons; sturdy rope, in case he needed it; maybe a mini chess set. He’d have to work on it. Maybe he could hide them in shoulder pads, or his shoes.

Kit pulled out a book from a side pocket. Dewey finally put the Agatha Christie down, piling it in a neat stack between them, and took the book. It was the one Bertrand had spoken to him about last week—Undercover Underwater: Diving For The Truth, a truly terrible murder mystery novel he said Dewey had to read to believe. He was greatly looking forward to it.

“That was awfully sweet of him,” Dewey said, running his thumb over the cover. He looked for a place to put it, and then just put it on top of his book stack. It felt a little sacrilegious, if it was as bad as Bertrand said, to put it on top of Christie, but he didn’t want to misplace it. “Thank you very much.”

Kit shifted on the floor and put her back to the bookshelf. “Did you hear the Anwhistle brothers finished building that marine research and rhetorical advice center?”

“Yes,” Dewey said. “I guess that’s why they aren’t here tonight? Josephine was all alone when I saw her earlier.”

“They should’ve celebrated with the rest of us,” Kit said. “What a massive architectural achievement—and I wanted to hear about the leeches, too.”

“Yes!” Dewey exclaimed. “Have you seen them yet? I haven’t.”

“No,” Kit said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Not in person. Ike gave Lemony one of the earlier ones as a paperweight some time ago but I haven’t been able to see their recent work yet. I hear the teeth are impressive.”

“Cookiecutter shark impressive?”

Kit grinned. “Potentially.”

Dewey laughed. He wished he and Kit could go see them, together. For the scientific curiosity. For spending time with someone who really, really wanted to see him. No, for the oceanic intrigue, of course. “You know—” Oh no. He hadn’t intended to actually start the sentence, but it was out, and Kit was looking at him expectantly, and Dewey was rapidly losing all handles on the conversation. His face was heating up. Everyone else made talking to people whose company they enjoyed look so easy, but the words jumbled together in his mouth. “We should—go? I mean—not right now, but, soon, we could—to the research center—for the leeches, for, for science.”

Pink colored Kit’s face under the freckles along her nose. “For science,” she said. Then—“Not a date,” she added firmly.

“Definitely for science,” Dewey insisted. “Oceanic intrigue, and everything.”

“Yes,” she said, blinking quite a few times. “That would be fine.”

They stared at each other for the longest minute of Dewey’s life.

“We should probably get back up to the party,” he said. The archives were feeling much, much too close, all the books and shelves pressed up against him, the point of Kit’s tattoo still peeking out from under the edge of her cape.

Kit nodded quickly. “Yeah.”

8:55 PM—The Ballroom—Near The Piano

Next—Jacques had to find Olivia.

He abandoned the boxwood by the east wall, for the time being, out of sight near the piano, where a man with a white half-mask played a pleasant Beethoven sonata while a woman in a sharp, pointed gold suit argued with a man dressed as an octopus with a hat. They did not notice Jacques, even in his own costume, but he noticed them. He noticed everyone in the room so singularly. He’d almost forgotten so many people could be in one place at the same time. You spent a lot of time alone, hiding in small spaces, you got used to yourself.

Olivia was easily identifiable. Nothing she did could ever disguise the tightly-wound nervous energy coiled inside her, not the shimmery white butterfly wings curled over her shoulders or the mask of purple flowers on her face. Something always gave her away. Tonight, it was her hands, twisting together as she talked to someone in a large, leafy tree costume, so consuming Jacques couldn’t make out the face. He scanned the crowd, trying to locate Ramona in her reversed purple wings and white mask. He saw her making her way towards one of the drink tables. Ramona wouldn’t leave Olivia alone for long.

The tree left soon after, and Jacques made his way over to her, getting a decent amount of elbows into the side along the way. “Olivia,” he said, when he stopped in front of her.

Her eyes passed over him and onto the rest of the room, like she was staring straight through him. Jacques frowned. He’d certainly said something. He’d certainly moved, Olivia was right in front of him. People moved around them without sparing him a second glance; someone said a cheerful hello to Olivia and she returned it. His voice dried up in his throat, like if he tried to speak he’d never make a sound. When was the last time before this he’d spoken out loud? No one expected him to talk, in his line of work. When had he done it? No, perhaps she simply hadn’t heard him.

He cleared his throat a few times. That was a sound. That was undeniably a sound. Jacques existed here.

He touched his hand to her wrist. “Olivia?”

Olivia jumped nearly a foot. She turned her head from side to side frantically, and Jacques gave her a short wave.

“Oh!” Olivia pressed her hands against her chest and laughed, breathless. “Oh, Jacques, you startled me. How are you?” she asked, as unfailingly kind as always, as if he hadn’t just frightened her. She looked like she wanted nothing more than for Jacques to tell her the long, substantial answer, instead of the polite one. He almost did. But Jacques was here for business.

“Fine,” he said. “And you?”

“Alright,” she said, still smiling. “Ramona’s gone to get some champagne, would you like to join us?”

“Not tonight,” he said. “I have a message for you.”

Her bright smile faltered, her hands seizing together again. “I see,” she said quietly. “What is it?”

“We’d like you to take up the outpost at Caligari Carnival.”

Olivia blanched. “The—the hinterlands?” she repeated. Her voice trembled. “That’s, ah, terribly far away, isn’t it?”

“It is a distance from the city,” Jacques conceded, “but not far.” It was far from Winnipeg, though. It was very far. Eventually, Ramona would be back there, at least in some capacity. Things would be different, especially if Olivia was wanted in the hinterlands permanently.

“Jacques, I really—I don’t—I’ll think about it,” she said finally. “I promise, I’ll think about it.”

An assignment from headquarters was not exactly optional. Her eyes darted somewhere behind him, and Jacques knew who she was looking at. She and Ramona had just gotten together only recently, before the Duke and Duchess’ deaths. Any kind of love was difficult within the confines of their organization, but the solace here, Jacques thought, was that she and Ramona were both there. They would never be that far away. They might see each other a good deal less, but they would see each other.

“You can take your time to leave, if you wanted,” he said.

“I’ll think about it.” Her voice was firm. “But, thank you for letting me know, Jacques.” She gave him her soft, breezy smile again, and slipped off through the dance floor.

Jacques watched her go. They would see each other. That was an invaluable thing, in their line of work. Being seen. Sometimes even the best person you loved with your whole being couldn’t see the part of you that mattered. To be seen when you disappeared from the rest of the world—that was worth holding on to. It would be difficult. But he had no doubt Olivia and Ramona would do it.

The floor rumbled, like it always did before the lobby clock chimed.

9:00 PM—Room 687

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Does the clock always sound like that? Like it’s saying wrong?”

“Incessantly,” Esmé sighed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I think Frank’s responsible. Heaven forbid he goes an hour without reminding everyone else how little he thinks of their decisions, you know.”

9:00 PM—The Ballroom—North Drink Table

The hotel was not Winnipeg. But right now, that was exactly what Ramona wanted. The modern angles, the warm, well-lit ballroom, the dark corners and firm rigidity of it all currently felt homier than the soft, open pinks and whites of the Winnipeg mansion. She was glad to have another excuse to avoid it and the constant questions. Tonight, she was going to see her friends, and dance with Olivia, and drink champagne, because Olivia said every occasion was cause for celebration and champagne, and Ramona was going to have a good time. She picked up two champagne flutes from the table and took a sip of one in the careful way her mother taught her, so she didn’t leave lipstick on the glass. Her heart stuttered as she saw the press of plum purple streaks on the glass when she pulled it away. The hotel clock was chiming, sounding like a heavy, distorted vibration of a word. It was right. The lipstick was wrong.

Who had done it? Everyone wanted to know. The firestarters? Likely, but they had been quiet for some time, and Ramona wasn’t going to point fingers without evidence. Some older enemy? Ramona didn’t know enough about whoever that was to consider them. Someone new?

She didn’t want to think about it. Her parents were dead, and she’d found them, and she didn’t want to think about who could have done it or why they did. It wasn’t going to change that it had happened. Ramona wasn’t looking for answers. She was looking for—

An arm slung around her shoulders, jostling her and the champagne, which sloshed around in the flutes as she lurched forward. Scratchy fur and outrageous cologne bore down on her, and she knew exactly who it was.

“My dear duchess,” Olaf said, squeezing her tight. “How have you been?”

Ramona found it in her to roll her eyes. Some people didn’t like Olaf, which she completely understood. There was something about him though, as brash and outlandish and obnoxiously tactile as he was, that had to make you laugh sometimes. She felt comfortable, close to a friend. “Just peachy,” she said. She offered him the other champagne glass; she could get another for Olivia. “Champagne?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Olaf said. He hooked his free hand around both glasses and set them back on the drink table. “Look, I wanted to give you my sincerest condolences—” And he did look sincere, sliding around in front of her, his hand still on her shoulder, the joy immediately gone from his face and replaced by an uncharacteristic seriousness. She was struck by it, by how glassy and shiny his eyes were under the dark of his mask. “I’m sorry about your parents, Ramona.”

Her mouth wobbled at the edges. She knew Olaf could understand. They’d had similar positions in the organization their whole lives—their parents their chaperones, their time split between assignments and society, the safety that existed in his manor as well, its own controlled pocket of the world, like Winnipeg had been, like the Hotel Denouement was, too. She thought of the Count and Countess, still alive. She hoped they’d stay alive.

It wouldn’t do to cry at a party. Ramona picked up her flute again and took another small sip. “Thank you,” she said.

And just like that, he straightened up and pulled away from her. Some of the mirth found its way back into the shape of his mouth and his arm found its way back around her, this time a tight grip at her waist as he steered her back into the crowd. Ramona felt slightly less consoled than ten seconds ago. Easy come, easy go, with Olaf. “I hate thinking about you all alone in that big house,” he said with a sigh. “All that room, all those things—remember when I knocked into that vase in the hallway?”

“Very vividly,” Ramona said.

“A glorious time!” he crowed. “Well! At least you’ve got all of us, haven’t you. What are your friends if not your family, et cetera, et cetera.”

But he still understood. That was what made it so important to be here tonight. What were all the people in the room, the friends she’d grown up with, people she knew and loved, if not her family as well, just as much as her parents had been? They were more than associates or volunteers, stepping in around her not to fill a void, but to offer back some little part of what had been taken from her. Her throat tightened up as she thought about it. Everything they did was hard, but it was also so special. Ramona wanted to hold it close to her and never let it go.

“And what wouldn’t one do for one’s family, am I right?” Olaf continued. “So, if you ever need me for anything—a shoulder to cry on, although certainly not in this jacket, or, say, a partner in crime, or a willing participant in any daring assignment you might come across otherwise—do not hesitate to let me know, okay?”

“Of course.”

“I mean it.”

Ramona stumbled to a halt as Olaf stopped abruptly. He looked down at her with a gash of a grin. “People like you and me, we’ve got to stick together, duchess.” He gave her a squeeze one more time and then finally let go, dashing away.

Goodness, but he was rough about things. Ramona gave herself a shake, trying to collect herself back into order. She stood up on her toes to try and see where he’d gone. She didn’t get much more height, already being in heels, but she did manage to see him already making grandiose hand gestures across the room to those white-faced triplets Ramona had seen once or twice. They were younger than she was, still in their training. The three of them stared at Olaf with three immaculately raised eyebrows. Ramona chuckled a little, dropped back down, and went back for Olivia’s champagne glass.

9:40 PM—The Ballroom—Center

Over an hour had passed, and Frank hadn’t seen any sign of Ernest. He had better things to be doing than keeping track of Ernest, and yet here he was. He couldn’t have gone far—the hotel was enormous, but it was a hotel. The whole world contained on nine floors. You couldn’t disappear from it.

Frank edged his way through the dance floor, searching for him through three separate groups of associates doing three slightly different versions of a circle dance. A snake and a tree frog whirled past, a phantom with them, a tangled shape of dark greens and blacks and bright blues and exuberant laughter. When they’d gone, Frank found himself in the center of the floor and face to face with Dewey, coming towards him from the other direction, his cheeks pink.

“Are you alright?” Frank asked immediately.

Dewey blinked. “Of course,” he said. “Just dancing. Is everything okay?”

He should have known, but Ernest had him on an edge he hadn’t expected to be tonight. He tried to look apologetic but wasn’t sure how well he succeeded. “Have you seen Ernest?”

“Not since earlier,” Dewey said. “Oh, and Kit was—”

“When you see him, could you tell him I’m looking for him?”

Dewey’s shoulders drooped down. “If I see him,” he said. “Then I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you,” Frank said, and he meant it. He smiled at Dewey until he smiled back, and then Frank moved past him, pushing back into the crowd.

He hadn’t meant to be short about it, but Frank’s worry never came out like he wanted it to. It became biting irritation instead, or a slow-simmering temper he never let boil, or professional, distant orders about hotel business, or a refusal to talk at all in case he said the wrong thing. More often than not, he still wound up arguing with Ernest. He didn’t argue with Dewey, but their conversations were so much more stilted than they should have been lately.

But it was because he feared Ernest was going to slip away from him one day and never come back. Realistically, it was unlikely. After all, Ernest was still here. Indecision entering their home hadn’t taken him away from it. But what if that changed, one day, and it was Frank’s fault, because he reacted too quickly or too slowly? And Dewey—Dewey was so sweet and so kind Frank thought the world might crush him. He had to keep them close, and he had to keep them safe. It would’ve been so much easier, though, if Ernest wasn’t so difficult about it, if Dewey understood that Frank didn’t want anything to happen to him, if they would listen.

Frank glanced at his watch. It was getting late. He’d look for Ernest on the way, but for one small hour, Ernest was going to have to wait.

9:59 PM—The Floor Behind The South Drink Table

Through typical party events, The Herpetology Squad (Plus Hector) found themselves on the floor behind one of the drink tables.

“So how do you tell them apart?” Gustav asked, stirring his drink with a spoon. “Because, and I do feel terrible about this, but I can’t do it. We’ve known them for ages, and I can’t do it.”

“Frank is taller,” Monty said immediately, and very confidently.

“What, no, he can’t be taller, they’re triplets,” Hector said. “Do genetics work like that?”

“Hey Haruki,” Monty called around Gustav and Hector, “do genetics work like that?”

Haruki leaned into Hector’s shoulder and considered it. “I’m really not sure,” they said. “But, I always figured, Ernest was kind of quiet, and Frank was kind of stern, and Dewey was kind of, well, kind.”

“But that seems so reductive,” Gustav pointed out. “You can’t just identify a person down to one base trait and leave it at that. And I say this as a screenwriter and director. You need to be creative.”

“All your characters sound exactly the same, though,” Hector said, frowning. “Or, like, so different, I don’t think you’re keeping track of them between scenes.”

“Oh, that’s awfully rude,” Haruki said.

“No, he’s right,” Gustav said. He hung his head into his hands, his glass tipping sideways through his fingers. Haruki reached over and grabbed it, twisting their arm around and up to slide it back onto the drink table where it’d be safer. “I always thought they did, and now I know for sure. I’ll have to renounce film making and go back to herpetology. Or, submarines. I can’t disparage your honor too, Monty.”

“Oh, Hector, you hurt his feelings,” Monty said. He patted Gustav on the back consolingly. “Gustav, you write wonderful scripts. I loved the, the Werewolves In The Rain.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I can’t handle a drunk Gustav,” Hector said, closing his eyes. “Gustav, I’m sorry. To be fair, I only watched—what was it—” He waved his hands around. “—the one with the—you know—”

“Vampires In The Retirement Community,” Haruki said.

“And it was once. And—hey, weren’t we talking about something else?”

10:10 PM—The Short Hallway Between Rooms 40-45 and 46-49

Unassigned numbers within the Dewey Decimal System were not the trouble they appeared to be to a hotel based on it. They still existed in the hotel, no matter how much Ernest had protested that it made no sense to have rooms that had no theme or purpose in a hotel whose very purpose was theme—Frank and Dewey’s rebuttal was that it made no sense to nonchalantly remove numbers out of their sequential existence because they didn’t fit in neatly otherwise. They existed. They didn’t have themes, even this stretch of ten, which had been previously designated but was now just a blank space between encyclopedias and magazine publications, which left the rooms relatively blank and boring, typically unnoticed and unused, but they still existed.

In the brief, dark hallway between the two sets of unassigned rooms, Frank could sit on the bench against the wall, and he didn’t have to think about family or the hotel. Frank sat featureless in the shadows and thought about himself. Usually, it meant he felt better about everything. But tonight, with the worry set aside once more for now, all he felt was that chill through his insides again, when Olaf mistook him for Ernest.

He took the name tag out of his sleeve and turned it over in his hands. Frank was a man in a manager’s jacket, with a face that looked like two other faces, someone who could be anyone. The name tag did nothing but identify him without caring who he was. What was it that made Frank himself, the imperceptible, innate existence of him that mattered? His love for Ernest and Dewey? Visible. His organization? Trivial. The fear he was going to lose everything? Meaningless and a weakness, in the face of everything else. It was hard to say for sure. He had gone his whole life getting mixed up with Ernest and Dewey and it was exhausting to keep trying to prove he was real when it felt like the world was rubbing him out. He leaned his back against the wall.

He heard Jacques before he saw him, like always. Exact, economical footsteps, nothing extraneous, the tap of his expensive shoes on the rugs, the swish of his jacket. Everything measured, as it had to be.

Jacques appeared around the corner, that bent piece of the boxwood plant stuck in his hair. He seemed to brighten when he saw Frank, like Frank’s presence set something off inside him. Frank watched him. What did Jacques see, when he looked at Frank? What was it that made Jacques notice, over and over again, over other people? How was Jacques so certain that when he looked at Frank right now, at that moment, that Jacques was looking at him?

Jacques sat down next to him on the bench. Frank had seen him in a mask earlier, something terrible and orange, but it was gone now, and he faced Frank fully. He was inches away from Frank, and Frank could see every part of him, even in the dark—the calm, if tired, resolution in the set of his jaw, the way he waited, still and patient, as if he could do nothing else. He had the darkest eyes of his siblings, a steady and unchanging deep blue.

“That which is essential is invisible to the eye,” Jacques whispered.

Frank let out the breath he’d been holding. How long ago had he said that to Jacques? “I initially said that to insult you,” he said.

“It was deserved,” Jacques said. “And I never forgot. Do you know how I always know it’s you now?”

“Enlighten me.”

He put his hand against Frank’s jacket, resting his fingers against the fabric to the left of the buttons. Jacques kept it there, and he didn’t take his eyes off of Frank for anything, not even when the heartbeat under his hand sped up. Frank felt almost split open to the core. He always did, every time. Jacques saw whatever it was. The man who was always hiding knew exactly who he was, because he looked.

“How very sentimental of you,” Frank managed. His breath hung between them. He traced the side of his thumb over the collar of Jacques’s shirt, just below the skin. If he moved his hand just a centimeter he’d be able to feel his heartbeat as well.

“It’s the truth,” Jacques murmured. “Sentiment is—dangerous. Truth is immutable.”

“Do you know how I know it’s you?” Frank said against his mouth.

“How?” Jacques asked.

Frank finally pulled the branch out of Jacques’s hair. “You do terribly stupid things.”

Jacques laughed, and the sound vibrated all the way down through Frank’s throat.

10:19 PM—Room 366

Frank had to be somewhere. Kit was not overly concerned with finding him, but she would rather do it sooner than later. She worked from the ground floor up, combing through the hallways but finding no sight of the Denouement, until she was on the third floor again. The faster she found Frank, the faster she could, maybe, go back to talking to Dewey. About completely professional things, of course. The fact that she felt different when she was with Dewey was simply because he was pleasant, welcome company. He wanted to look at leeches with her, for the delight of science. They expected nothing from each other but a nice time.

She immediately pictured Beatrice waggling her eyebrows at her, if Kit had said that out loud. Not that kind of nice time, she thought, but the mental Beatrice kept laughing joyously at her.

“He’s a nice person,” she grumbled to the empty hallway. He was calm. Regular. Okay. The exact opposite of everyone else, Beatrice. Could she go five minutes without them all picking apart her romantic life? This was why she wasn’t interested. This was why it was strictly nice. There were other, more important things that needed her attention.

The door to Room 366 was ajar, and Kit, who had naturally been trained to investigate the suspicious, investigated the suspicious. She slid herself carefully through the gap in the door and into the dark room. She’d been in there a few times to know it was an absurdly comfortable meeting room, with plush chairs and a bookcase that spanned the length of the far wall. A figure sat against the side wall, reaching up and tapping ash from a cigarette out the open window. For a moment, they looked like a blank, featureless shadow, until a light outside the window shifted and Frank—no, Ernest’s face resolved itself in front of her. The tip of the cigarette burned bright orange against his fingers.

“I heard about you and Olaf,” he said. “Would you like an apology, since I’m sure you’ve been getting enough I told you so’s?”

Kit sighed. “I really don’t want to talk about it.” But she shut the door and walked over, sitting down on the floor beside him. She took her own pack of cigarettes out of one of her dress pockets and accepted Ernest’s lighter to light one. She never carried her own.

“He did,” she muttered, giving the lighter back. She brought her legs up and wrapped an arm around them. “Tell me, I told you so. Not in so many words, of course, but I knew he was thinking it.”

“Ah,” Ernest said. “The disappointed look of, I’m not going to say it, but I’m going to think it, in your general direction. Which is worse.”

“Exactly,” Kit said. “At least argue with me so I can tell him he’s wrong.”

Ernest breathed out a long line of smoke. “Yes.” She thought he was going to say something else, but when he didn’t, Kit pressed on.

“He acts like it was my fault,” she said. “Should I have known better? I—” It was a harsh thing to admit, but she and Ernest didn’t do this to lie to each other. “Yes. Fine. But he acts like I can’t be left alone now to make my own decisions. He keeps following me, hanging around.” She slouched against the wall. “My own brother thinks so little of me.”

Ernest hmmed. “Well—”

“Do not. Do not say I’m short. I’m not short. Jacques has one inch on me, Ernest. Esmé is short. I’m not short.”

“Sorry,” Ernest said, laughing.

“Say it,” she said, and pushed her elbow into his side.

“Ow—Kit, you are anything but short.”

“Thank you.” She took her elbow back. The two of them sat in silence, blowing out small circles of smoke as the cigarettes smoldered down. “What’s Frank disappointed about?”

Ernest waved his hand with the cigarette dismissively. “Frank’s disappointed he can’t find a tie that matches the custom paint in the lobby,” he said. “It doesn’t take much for him. I was five minutes late, I didn’t give him the mail on time, I missed a meeting, and he just—” He did an obviously perfect impression of Frank’s unimpressed stare.

Kit snorted. She had to admit, Frank did look like that a lot, even if you caught him in a good mood.

“If he wasn’t so difficult,” Ernest muttered, “he’d be almost bearable.”

“Wouldn’t they all,” Kit sighed. “Brothers.”

“Brothers,” Ernest agreed.

10:25 PM—The Ballroom—West Hors d’oeuvres Table

Dewey stood at the hors d’oeuvres table, away from the crowd of his friends, surveying the food. At least, with everything going on, there was always good food to look forward to. It was awful to glare at it like he was. He’d felt so good after talking to Kit, and now he was glowering at little rows of canapes like they were the source of his problems.

He wasn’t usually upset with his brothers. No matter what they did, he knew they had their reasons, and Dewey loved them regardless. But sometimes they really were impossible. Frank’s quiet temper and Ernest’s secrecy and indifference had driven such a wedge between the two of them that when Dewey suggested they didn’t talk about it, it had seemed like the best idea at the time to get them to go forward. Otherwise, he’d been worried that Frank was going to say something he’d regret, because he wasn’t going to change Ernest’s mind, and Ernest might’ve done something terrible. Dewey didn’t think he was capable of something truly terrible, because Ernest was his brother, and he knew Ernest. They both believed in a right way to live, just in different ways, so Dewey respected him. You couldn’t let anything change that. But he was still as worried about Ernest as Frank was, and he had just wanted the arguments to stop.

But it had led to Frank and Ernest almost refusing to talk to each other, ninety percent of the time. The other ten percent was pleasantries or conversations that skirted the edge of an argument, which was worse. Dewey particularly hated it lately, when he was asked to pass messages between them, typically from Frank. He wasn’t a messenger system, he was their brother, and he was, in fact, if either of them cared to remember, the oldest. But they treated him like someone to protect because he wasn’t as forceful as them. He frowned down at a section of tiny shot glasses of—he picked one up. Gazpacho. It looked so charming and Dewey couldn’t even appreciate it.

What it came down to was, the schism couldn’t come between him and his brothers if they didn’t let it. Just like his current irritation couldn’t come between him and his brothers if he didn’t let it. He considered it, because he was angry, but he didn’t let it change anything.

He found a narrow, palm-sized spoon from one of the other hors d’oeuvres and poked at the gazpacho with it. He thought, for a moment, about the Anwhistle brothers, sitting in their brand new marine research and rhetorical help center, probably having a lot of fun together talking about fungi and grammar. Gregor and Ike were two of the most different but most companionable people Dewey knew. Nothing got between them. They probably didn’t forget who was the oldest. Who was the oldest out of them, anyway? They probably didn’t let it matter.

Oh, Dewey was letting it get to him. He piled some of the gazpacho onto the spoon and took a bite. He wished Bertrand had been able to come. Bertrand would’ve loved the appeal of the gazpacho as well. Bertrand didn’t have a single sibling to complain about and he would’ve enjoyed the gazpacho wholesale. He could’ve stood around with Dewey at the table, and maybe they’d have brought in Lemony, too, and talked about flavor profiles. Lemony, who was legitimately the youngest of his siblings, commiserating over cold soup about how they never stopped trying to protect him either. Who could possibly think Lemony of all people needed protecting, too? There was always that quiet, competent energy around him.

Dewey finished the gazpacho and put the jar on a passing hotel attendant’s silver tray. Where was Lemony, actually? He was sure he’d seen him earlier. Dewey remembered, because it was the first time he’d seen Lemony in a long while. Wherever he was, Dewey was sure it was probably more enjoyable than here.

10:32 PM—The Ballroom—Dance Floor

“Josephine,” Olaf said, sidling up behind her, “Jo, angel of my eye—”

“The correct word for that expression is apple,” Josephine interrupted. She did not take her eyes off of her plate of puff pastry. “We’ve been over this.”

He continued, persistent as ever, his smile stretched like candy. “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me, angel of my apple?”

“No.”

10:45 PM—The Elevator

The night was passing by, and Kit still hadn’t found Frank. She’d made it all the way up to the ninth floor with no sign of him. Was he the type to be on the rooftop sunbathing salon? Unlikely. But she should check, just in case.

She had her hand against the rooftop door when the elevator dinged behind her. Kit turned to look. The elevator doors parted, revealing the gold-walled interior with rather harsh lighting, and there was Frank, standing with his hands folded behind his back. He caught Kit’s eye and gave her a slight nod. “Kit.”

“Frank.” She stepped into the elevator beside him and pushed the button for the third floor. As the doors closed, she smelled smoke for a moment, and her heart leapt before she realized the cigarette smoke must’ve clung to her gloves. She tugged them off and stuffed them into one of her pockets.

“I heard the Anwhistles finished the research center,” Frank said, as the elevator started to move down.

“Yes.”

“And the mycelium—are they still working on it?”

“As far as I know, yes.”

Frank sighed. “Do you have any concerns?”

“Some,” Kit admitted. There was no denying it was dangerous. Necessary, but catastrophic if it ever got out of hand. “If anything happens, it can be dealt with.”

“Good,” Frank said, decisively. Silence dropped through the elevator, the hand counting down the floors moving slowly from eight, to seven, to six. Frank raised an eyebrow; Kit realized she’d been staring at him. “Is something wrong?”

“I was under the impression that there was—” More, or something else entirely. It was Kit’s understanding that Frank was to give her a list. There was usually only one kind of list that mattered in their organization, and unless she had radically misjudged the ages of the Anwhistle brothers after personally knowing them for years, they wouldn’t be on that list. “—something more specific,” she wound up finishing.

Frank looked at her with his impassive, unimpressed mask. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

The hand moved again, six to five to four. Kit had the strangest sensation that she was missing something. She should’ve been given that list, not subjected to a brief interrogation, especially about something she was already aware of. The smell of smoke flitted in front of her again.

Disbelief shot through Kit like an arrow, pushing the air from her lungs. She felt like the floor was dropping out from under her. She didn’t want to believe it. She couldn’t. She stared at the man in the elevator, and he stared back, cool and collected. It couldn’t be. Because that would mean—but the longer she looked, the more certain she was.

“Frank quit smoking,” she said quietly, “but you didn’t.”

The corner of his mouth turned down. “I—”

Kit slammed her hand against the stop button on the button panel, and kept her hand there, boxing him in against the wall even after the elevator had halted, the counting hand stuck between four and three.

“Don’t lie to me, Ernest.”

One Month Ago—City Headquarters

It wasn’t like there was, say, an initiation ceremony or anything. They’d been through that already, there was no need to do one again. You knew what you were getting into this time, you were just, “changing sides”. And it was so subtle that it barely mattered. Nothing about Ernest’s life really changed otherwise. He ran a hotel with his brothers. He ranked tea brands with Dewey during lunch. He played loud music in Room 784. He carried a lighter in his pocket that he used for other things. He went to headquarters, sometimes as himself, sometimes as Frank, never as Dewey. He acquired messages, and took his sweet time delivering them or delaying them, spaces of time where nothing changed, either. He almost wondered what the point had been, until he overheard Frank spout off some noble patter again. At least he wasn’t like that. At least Ernest knew better.

And since nothing had changed, no one knew. Not even the “firestarters” knew there was another one, namely because Ernest hated the name and disliked a great deal of them, but also because Frank made him be so careful about it. He thought a few people in VFD suspected, or at least suspected someone of switching, because everyone could feel something was happening and they were trying to pinpoint a source, and it was only a matter of time before someone suspected a Denouement. Triplets were naturally suspicious. But it wasn’t like they could do anything, even if they ever had proof—how often did anyone know which Denouement they were talking to, anyway? It was likely Ernest could exist like this for the rest of his life.

The thought almost stopped him on his way into the city headquarters. Day after day of calculated, performative nonsense without an end in sight. Age sagged through him. His bones were too heavy and to move them another step was impossible. He kept walking.

What had made Ernest change? That, exactly that. Change. He’d lived in VFD for practically his entire life, and nothing was different there, either. There had been no great strides made towards the nobility they all talked about, only tiny little steps that were easily set back. Ernest watched his friends and his family get sucked in by this big, dramatic fight that never ended, a fight none of them had ever initially had a part in. He’d learned that you couldn’t achieve “nobility”, whatever that even was, by a bunch of absurd spy behavior and kidnapping, or by coded messages and age-old discussions that went nowhere, or by acting like information weighed more than your life, by pretending any of that was normal. None of it did anything. Ernest was going to find some way to make something happen, to make what they’d lost worth it, and if it meant Frank thought he was a traitor, fine. He’d do it even if Frank didn’t appreciate that Ernest was doing it for him.

The note for Frank that he’d intercepted said that there was a file under the fifth floorboard of the back staircase in the city headquarters. Frank was supposed to give it to Kit.

He made his way to the back staircase. It went up to the observatory, which no one had used since Esmé burned that spot into the rug with her telescope out of protest. The corridor and the staircase were, predictably, deserted. Ernest slowly lifted the fifth board, but it came away without resistance, so he pulled it up all the way and saw the slim folder waiting inside. He took it out, replaced the floorboard, and sat down at the bottom of the stairs. He opened it.

He wanted to crumple the folder in his hands but he made himself breathe and look at it. It was the upcoming recruitment list. There were some he recognized faintly, distant associates, long-lived families in VFD, but a majority of the names he’d never seen before. New families to carve apart. He flipped through the pages—addresses, dates, times. A few photographs. Ernest closed his eyes and held them shut tight. When he opened them, he was still looking at the folder.

Of course none of it mattered, he thought bitterly, shoving the folder into his jacket. He could intercept or stop a thousand messages and there would still always be more. There would always be more children, more fires, more lies, and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stop it.

Ernest leaned the side of his head against the banister. He thought about Olaf, suddenly. He’d been trying to corner everyone lately, Ernest among them, talking his ear off about big ideas that Ernest agreed with, but Olaf had a habit of taking an age to follow through with them. Ernest did not have the time to wait an age. He’d shared some information with Olaf a few times, on the off chance that it would spur him into action, but Olaf had hidden it away, for “later”, and it obviously had not helped.

Maybe the only way you could fight a long game was to play the long game back. Maybe that was what Olaf was doing. He was on to something, at least, with his words. Maybe Ernest could try again. Maybe he could learn to wait. Maybe the payoff would be worth it. Maybe.

Ernest stood up. He didn’t at all feel like going home, but he wasn’t going to stay at headquarters any longer.

The staircase creaked. When he looked up, he saw Lemony Snicket at the top by the observatory door, standing like he’d always been there.

“What are you doing up there?” Ernest asked.

Lemony watched him carefully. Ernest got the distinct feeling that he was being appraised. He shivered. When they were younger, you could look at Lemony and see the gears working in his head, like watching—yes, like watching change take shape and form and meaning before your eyes. Lemony Snicket was going to do anything, lead them all anywhere. Ernest hadn’t been foolish enough to believe a twelve-year-old in a brown hat was going to demolish VFD from the ground up. Then Lemony had disappeared, and in the years after resurfacing at sixteen, he looked less and less like that powerful, mythical figure everyone had worshiped and more like he’d seen too much. Ernest sympathized.

But here, Ernest finally saw it, that hunger they’d all talked about. In his eyes, bright blue in the shadows. Physical change, a juggernaut of determination. Ernest’s breath caught in his throat.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Lemony said softly. “Do you think we could talk?”

10:50 PM—The Elevator

Damn.

The disbelief on Kit’s face was gone, replaced by a blazing, dangerous fury, the threatening and exacting professionalism she hid inside her on full display. She wasn’t all that short, Ernest thought, inanely. He wasn’t going to be able to bluff out of this one. She knew. It was significantly more terrifying than Ernest had imagined it would be. How stupid could he have been, to forget about the way that cigarette smoke would cling, to think Kit Snicket wouldn’t notice. “Kit—”

“How long?” Kit demanded.

“Does it matter?”

He could see that it very, very much did. Kit was already disgusted over dating Olaf; that she’d spent so much time with Ernest when he wasn’t on her side was going to eat her alive, Ernest knew. He winced.

“It wasn’t personal,” he tried.

She glared at him. “What were the names Frank was supposed to give me?”

That, he was going to hold on to. They’d already burned the papers, anyway, up in the observatory. No one was going to get that list now. “I guess you’ll never know,” Ernest said.

Her hand clenched on the button panel. She stepped closer. For a wild and uncontrollable second that seemed to spin out into eternity, Ernest imagined she was going to kill him.

“The elevator is going to start again,” she said lowly. “We’re going to walk out into the lobby. You’re not going to make a sound. We’re going to go to headquarters.”

Ernest didn’t like what he was going to do next. But he was always going to have the upper hand for one distinct reason.

He swallowed and straightened the edge of his sleeve. “Who’s going to believe you, Kit?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Regrettably for you, I am at a distinct advantage,” Ernest said. “You and I are the only two people in this elevator. You did think I was Frank. Who will be able to figure out who was who when you try and tell on me? Who can really know for sure?” He hesitated, but it was true. “Why, I could be Dewey, even.”

Kit slapped him across the face, her cheeks flushed a fierce red. The force of it stung hard, knocking Ernest’s head to the side. She removed her hand from the wall and stepped back.

“Does it help if I’m sorry?” he asked, gingerly rubbing the side of his face.

“You aren’t,” Kit said.

Ultimately, it was true. He wasn’t. He was sorry he’d been caught more than that he’d done it. Ernest regretted nothing about what he’d decided to do. Not in his line of work; and Kit was the same, too. But he was sorry he was going to lose a friend.

Kit didn’t have friends, though. You were with or against Kit Snicket, and she always made that abundantly clear. Ernest touched his cheek again, and then lowered his hand.

“I’m not,” he said. He took the elevator key out of his pocket and put it into the lock on the button panel, watching Kit the whole time. She watched him back. The elevator slid into motion, settling down on the third floor.

The doors opened.

11:00 PM—The Ballroom—East Drink Table

“Who?” Jacques asked.

Kit turned slowly back to the dance floor. Was one of them still here? Had she been followed out of the elevator? She locked eyes with a Denouement across the room. Which one? Was it Frank? Was it Ernest, again? Was it Dewey? The clock was still rumbling under her feet. The glass trembled in her hand and she felt almost sick, anger and shame and fear churning through her. She was in a nightmare and she couldn’t shake it off. The triplet held her eyes for a long moment and then walked away.

“Kit.” Jacques had a hand on her arm; he must’ve gotten out of the boxwood. “Who?”

But she couldn’t get the words out, not here. Ernest was right. She was at a disadvantage when she couldn’t prove it. If she pointed the finger now, what would be done? What could be done? How could he do that to Dewey and Frank? To put them in the position where they’d unknowingly cover for him merely by existing? Did they know at all?

What would she do if her own brothers—no. She couldn’t even think it. Kit couldn’t fathom the idea of her brothers doing anything like this.

“We have to find Lemony,” Kit said.

11:02 PM—The Ballroom—Main Doors

Frank still couldn’t find Ernest. He did not have the time for him to be hiding like a child; where was he? Frank had looked everywhere over and over and was back in the same ballroom again, scanning through the associates for what had to be the hundredth time. He caught Kit’s eye—and stopped.

There was cold and intense fear looking back at him. It was unbearable to have it directed at him, and Frank turned away after a few seconds.

Ernest. A thousand possibilities ran through Frank’s head, each of them worse than the last. He had had enough. Frank strode towards the main doors, just as he saw Ernest making his way out of them as fast as possible. Finally. Frank followed him out into the hallway and grabbed onto Ernest’s arm, whirling him around.

“I asked one thing of you tonight,” Frank said.

“Don’t do anything rash,” Ernest repeated. He wrenched his arm out of Frank’s grasp and put his hands in his pockets. “And I didn’t, thank you.”

“Apparently I wasn’t specific enough,” Frank said. “When I said that, I clearly meant, don’t do anything stupid that’s going to compromise the family and our position in it. What information have you been giving Olaf?”

“Who said I was?”

“Olaf.”

“You know, that hurts a little, that you’d believe Olaf over me.”

Frank’s jaw clenched. Fine. Olaf was less important, anyway. “Then what did you do to Kit?”

Ernest raised an eyebrow. “Did I do anything?”

It was agonizing, seeing such a carefully blank mask on your own face staring back at you. Frank didn’t hate him, but he came close. “What have you done, Ernest? Do not lie to me.”

Something fractured through Ernest’s expression. “I just—miscalculated,” he muttered. “She found out.”

“She found out?” Frank echoed, his heart skittering in his chest. It had finally happened, and Frank couldn’t protect Ernest this time. Kit wouldn’t keep this a secret, not by a long shot. By morning—by midnight, because nearly the whole organization was already here—everyone would know. And Ernest didn’t seem the least bit concerned about it. “Ernest—”

“It’s fine,” Ernest said coolly. “Considering she can’t prove it.”

The world detached from Frank’s consciousness. Kit’s fear made a sudden, terrible sense. Ernest had used him as a shield between himself and the organization, on purpose, he’d positioned Frank and Dewey as pawns whose only use was whatever Ernest wanted. Frank could feel his hands shaking. They didn’t feel like his hands.

Ernest sighed. “Don’t look like that,” he said. “You’ve pretended to be me, that’s the only way you would’ve found out about Olaf. Don’t act like you didn’t use our face as an advantage too. That’s what we do. That’s what this family does.”

Anger burned through Frank, hot behind his eyes. That had been different. A sharp fury that had been building somewhere inside him all night snapped apart. “You are not a part of this family.”

He regretted saying it the second the words were out. Of course Ernest was still his brother. That was an immutable fact. But Frank was so tired of trying to hold onto Ernest when Ernest so blatantly didn’t care. He wasn’t looking at family, he was looking at a stranger, who stole his face, who used his name, who threw it around like it meant nothing, who denied everything noble and proper and real. It wasn’t how a brother was supposed to act. But it was how Ernest acted, and now Ernest was staring at him with an open, wounded expression, something Frank hadn’t seen since they were children.

Frank ran a hand over his face. “I didn’t—”

“No.” Ernest’s jaw trembled for a second, his mouth pressing into a thin, flat line. “I don’t think I am.” He took one step back, a hard glare in his eyes, and then walked away from Frank.

11:20 PM—The Rooftop Sunbathing Salon

Ernest hadn’t figured on Frank being angry, because, primarily, he hadn’t figured on Frank finding out at all. He hadn’t figured on Kit realizing what he was doing, either. Well, that was on him, but Frank didn’t need to be so—he didn’t have to say—

Shit, Ernest thought, breathing hard. He came to a stop in the dark, empty hallway some floors up from the ballroom and let himself think it, pressing his palms into his eyes. Shit, shit, shit. He’d have a brother after this, sure, a family member who stood by him and ran a hotel with him and played nice, but he didn’t know if he’d have his brother. He would have an associate, like everyone else, a found family of people who loved on conditions, not a family. Not his family.

He had to find Lemony. Just because he’d been hiding all night didn’t mean he was exempt from this.

Lemony disliked heights, open spaces, and decently-sized bodies of water, which was why Ernest found him on the roof, sitting on one of the pool chairs, his mask discarded beside him. He was studiously avoiding looking at the pool or the ocean or the night sky, dark and enormous above him. The rooftop salon was never used at night, but there were small lights along the edge of the pool and the railing, giving off slivers of stark white light. The brief anger Ernest felt downstairs evaporated the longer he watched Lemony not-watching the world around him. He wanted to say a million and one things to him, but the one that came out was, “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

“What do you know about exposure therapy?” Lemony offered as a response.

“Enough to know you probably shouldn’t use it for heights,” Ernest said. “Among other things.”

“Point taken,” Lemony said. “What would you say if I told you I was now too frightened to move?”

“That you brought it on yourself,” Ernest said, but he didn’t mean it. He walked over and sat next to Lemony on the pool chair. Ernest stole a quick glance at him again, brief and fleeting. To look consistently was dangerous; Ernest always had to make a distinct effort not to touch.

“Your sister found out,” he said. “Not about you, but about me. She also hit me.”

Lemony’s head shot up. “What?” He reached out, his fingertips lightly brushing Ernest’s jaw as he turned his face towards him. They trailed warm over his right cheek, where his skin still smarted from Kit’s hand. Here in the dark, Lemony’s eyes were so bright again, full of concern, directed right at him. Ernest held himself so still, barely breathing.

Falling in love, if you could call it that, with Lemony was what Ernest personally considered the most ill-advised thing he’d ever done, even after lying to Kit. Lemony loved other people, and it was clear in everything he did, in the way he looked when they weren’t there. But Lemony understood what Ernest wanted, and Ernest craved that with a destructive ache.

Really, who else were they supposed to fall in love with but each other? They didn’t know anyone else. No one was going to get this life but them. It was probably why half of VFD had a crush on Beatrice, honestly. It was terrible, but none of them seemed to be able to stop doing it. Ernest included.

“You—” Lemony’s hand jerked back, shrinking down between them onto the chair. “What happened?”

“She knew I lied,” Ernest said. “About the information and about being Frank. I got out of it, but—she won’t trust us again, I think. And Frank—probably won’t trust me either.”

“I’m sorry,” Lemony said. “I didn’t mean for—”

Ernest shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. It wasn’t. He and Lemony had both just wanted something, desperately. Ultimately, they’d still succeeded, in the end. They had. Change he could hold in his hands had happened. He still felt hollow about it all, everything drained out of him, but he didn’t regret doing it. Not at all. The hurt would go away and he’d do it again. “What we did—that mattered.”

“It did,” Lemony whispered. “But I never like the cost.”

“Why did you do it?” Ernest asked softly.

Lemony smiled ruefully. “I guess I didn’t want to stop trying.”

The real, noble answer, Ernest thought. Why the “firestarters” and Ernest would never get him. He raised his hand. Slowly, without looking, he put it on top of Lemony’s. Lemony turned his hand over and gripped Ernest’s tightly. He knew that the way Lemony would try from this moment forward would be different than the way Ernest would, and he wanted to have this moment while it lasted.

Ernest stood, tugging Lemony up with him, and let go of his hand. “You should go back downstairs,” he said.

11:30 PM—The Ballroom—South Drink Table

The party would be over soon, but you’d never know it, the ballroom still thronging with people. But most of the dancing had died down, and Dewey was taking mental stock of how clean up would start. He found one of the attendant’s silver trays and picked it up, estimating how many glasses he could fit on it.

Frank came back into the ballroom and made a beeline for him, pale. Dewey’s shoulders tensed up yet again. What had happened now?

“I can’t believe it,” Frank muttered, grabbing a wineglass.

“Whoa, hey, hold on.” Dewey took the wineglass back and set it off to the side. “What happened?”

“He—” Which meant it was Ernest. Again. Dewey’s patience with both his brothers tonight was wearing extraordinarily thin. “He’s been passing information to Olaf this whole time.”

“To Olaf?” That was not what Dewey had been expecting. A flare of worry burned through him and curled his hands around the tray. “But—”

“No,” Frank said. “This time, I’ve had enough. I’m tired of covering up for him, and he’s going to have to deal with this mess himself.”

Olaf was certainly a threat in one way or another, but it seemed a disproportionately vicious answer for Frank. Dewey frowned. “Did something else happen?”

Frank looked so—frantic, was maybe the word, a terrifying energy breaking out of him in quick bursts of anger on his face. He looked at Dewey, and the emotion seemed to cage itself back in.

“He was found out,” Frank said quietly. “About being a firestarter.”

Dewey had counted on it happening. It seemed unlikely that it would be able to remain a secret forever. It still hurt to hear. Things wouldn’t be the same as they had been, if people knew about Ernest. Dewey imagined the division between the three of them only growing larger, and he didn’t know if he’d be able to do anything about it if it got too wide.

Something broke in Frank’s expression again, and Dewey startled—it looked like guilt. “Don’t defend him,” Frank hissed. “Dewey, he’s going to get away with it. He’s going to ruin what we’ve worked for, what you’ve worked for in the archives—do you want all of that information in the hands of the enemy?”

Dewey clutched the tray. “Ernest isn’t the enemy,” he said, darkly. The agitation from earlier at the hors d’oeuvres table shot back into him.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Frank said. “I—”

Dewey slammed the silver plate down on the drink table. A real, genuine slam, like he’d never done before, the glasses around it rattling. Frank stared at him, gaping a little.

“He’s still here,” Dewey said. “That’s enough.”

“Dewey—”

“That is enough.”

12:00 AM—The Lobby

Jacques had never seen Kit so unsettled. Even when she’d been arrested she’d kept her composure. But she stood beside him in the empty lobby, tapping her foot against the floor, her arms crossed over her chest. He still couldn’t get out of her what had happened, but it was obvious from her face in the ballroom that whoever betrayed them had to be one of the Denouements. It was a sobering realization, the worst possible outcome of the schism that had been building for too long. One of three identical triplets being a traitor complicated matters, although it was easy to figure out which one it was that had done it. Things were going to change after tonight.

He took a small, brief moment to appreciate that Kit actually wanted to stand next to him and acknowledge him as her brother. Lately, he’d gotten the impression that she couldn’t stand him. But now she needed him, and it was a relief to Jacques to still be needed by his siblings. He never thought he did that successful a job of managing to keep them all together.

The elevator dinged, and Lemony stepped out, adjusting his jacket. The only evidence he’d been at the costume party was the mask tucked under his arm, because his suit was as plain as ever.

“Finally,” Kit muttered, and she ran over to him, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly, something none of the siblings had done since they were children.

Lemony froze, and then hugged her back. He met Jacques’s eyes across the lobby.

Jacques knew it, immediately. Lemony had played a part in what had happened tonight with Ernest. It shouldn’t have surprised Jacques as much as it did. Lemony had held a perilous position in the organization for years now, and this wasn’t the first time he had wound up disagreeing with Kit about recruitment. But it was the first time it had involved other people. That made it dangerous.

Lemony shook his head a fraction of an inch. Part of Jacques relaxed. The three of them might still be okay. He wondered, with a slight jolt, how the Denouements would fare.

Kit pulled away from Lemony. “Where were you?”

“Did you know the rooftop sunbathing salon has night lights?” Lemony said. Jacques couldn’t help but chuckle as he walked over to his siblings. “Very pleasant. I recommend it.”

Kit rolled her eyes, and she led Jacques and Lemony through the lobby and out of the hotel.

“I’ll drive you both back,” Jacques said. “It’s on my way.”

“You brought the taxi?” Lemony asked.

“Regrettably,” Jacques sighed. “I still seem to have it.” Headquarters refused to take it back for some reason, even after Jacques insisted he didn’t need it. It had been six months since the initial assignment with it and he was still driving it, and probably would be, for the foreseeable future. He took his keys out of his pocket.

“I’ll drive,” Kit said.

“You will not drive,” Jacques said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly,” Kit said, snatching the keys out of his hand and walking briskly out of his reach. “Jacques, did you say something about hives? There aren’t any bees nearby.”

“Trees?” Lemony said. He jogged ahead a little and caught up with Kit’s pace. “They do look particularly lush this time of year, now that you mention it.”

“No one is in a rush, and Kit, give me my keys you are not going to drive—” His siblings raced ahead of him down the front drive, and Jacques ran after them into the night.

1:55 AM—The Ballroom

Olivia and Ramona stayed on to help the Denouements clean up. Ramona had insisted, saying that it was no trouble at all, and she owed them for being so kind to host the party. She was very good at insisting; Olivia had never seen anyone able to resist the charm of Ramona cheerfully demanding she was going to help and they were going to have to deal with it. She hid her smile in the champagne flutes she was stacking on a tray as Ramona talked with one of the triplets on the other side of the ballroom. She picked up the one rimmed with half-rings of Ramona’s deep plum lipstick and giggled.

She’d have to tell Ramona about what Jacques told her, of course. But for once, Olivia wasn’t all that worried about dealing with it. It had been an extraordinarily pleasant night otherwise. Ramona was happy, some of the glow back in her face, so Olivia was happy too.

All the glasses were stacked, the plates piled together, the tablecloths folded up, the lights finally dimmed. There was only one Denouement left in the room, and he stopped Olivia and Ramona on their way out. “Olivia, could I speak with you?”

“Of course,” Olivia said.

“I’ll wait for you outside,” Ramona said, squeezing her hand, and she disappeared down the hallway, the hem of her dress sweeping the floor behind her.

Some people expected Olivia to be able to tell the Denouements apart, and some people expected her to be as clueless as most others as to who she was talking to. It wasn’t terribly hard to tell them apart, because Olivia liked to pay attention, but what she could never remember what when she was supposed to know and when she wasn’t. Here, she knew the one in front of her was Frank, most definitely. There was a weight to the way Frank carried himself, not like he assumed he was in control, but like he assumed he had to be.

“What is it, Frank?” Olivia asked.

He hesitated, which was rare for Frank. “When was the last time you saw Miranda?”

Olivia blinked. Had she misheard him? “What?”

“Miranda,” Frank said again. She hadn’t misheard. “When was the last time you saw her?”

Miranda?

“I—I don’t know,” she said quickly. “I—” When was the last time she saw Miranda? Years and years ago, wasn’t it? Shortly after they’d been taken. Olivia hadn’t minded. Miranda was older than her, not by much but by enough, and enough that they weren’t kept together. Miranda had thought it a chore to look after her, and Olivia hadn’t liked being seen as a chore. She wanted a sister, not a babysitter. So she’d been okay when Miranda was gone. They went to different classes, made different friends, passed each other in the hall without saying a word until their apprenticeships, where Olivia was shuffled around from chaperone to chaperone and Miranda—went where? What had become of her?

The questions spun through her head, dizzying, but they kept coming. What did Miranda look like, now that she thought of it? Had she looked like Olivia at all? Would she recognize her own sibling, like she could easily identify the Denouements? Would she know Miranda if she saw her in a meeting, on the street, at one of these parties, if she was an enemy? But what made a person wasn’t appearance—how did Miranda act? What made Miranda, in the way Frank’s quiet made him? How could she not know what made her sister? Miranda was her sister and it hit Olivia, squarely in the chest, that she didn’t know a single thing about her.

She pressed her knuckles to her mouth, her gaze darting across the floor. How had she gone all this time without thinking about her? How could she not know? How much had she forgotten?

“I’m sorry I asked,” Frank was saying. “Olivia. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Olivia whispered. She took one step back, then another, almost hitting the edge of her dress with the point of her heel, and another, then made herself turn around and leave, back downstairs, through the lobby, anywhere else but there.

Olivia hurried out into the night with the front doors banging open after her; the humid air was sticky on her skin, sitting heavy in her lungs as she tried to inhale. She saw Ramona past the front archway, leaned back against her car a way down the front drive, her shoes beside her and her feet in the grass, the shape of her soft and fuzzy in the heat. Olivia tore off her mask and scrubbed her hand over her eyes, wiping the tears on the side of her dress.

There was a weight on her shoulders, more than just the heat. She had the horrible sense that she was going to turn around and see Miranda. Olivia wanted to leave. She wanted to leave the city, she wanted to go somewhere she’d be away from this. She wanted to take Ramona—would Ramona go with her? She had her own things to care about besides the violent anxiety shaking Olivia from the inside out. She had a duchy to take care of. She didn’t deserve to have to deal with Olivia.

We’d like you to take up the outpost at Caligari Carnival. The carnival was miles from the city, out in the hinterlands, flat and desolate blankness. Maybe she should go. Maybe that would be better. She would be away from the city and be one place where no one had to bother her and she couldn’t bother anyone else. Maybe.

Olivia squeezed her eyes shut again, and when she opened them the tears were gone and Ramona came into focus, all of her slender and beautiful in the moonlight. Olivia ached to look at her.

She went over to Ramona and slid her hand into hers, tucking her face into the smooth skin of Ramona’s shoulder. “I want to go somewhere else,” she whispered.

“Hey,” Ramona said, her other arm coming up and folding around Olivia, drawing her close. “We can go anywhere you want.”

Behind her, through the open front doors, Olivia heard the hotel clock starting to chime again.

#asoue #a series of unfortunate events #lemony snicket #jacques snicket #kit snicket #frank denouement #dewey denouement #ernest denouement

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haylanmakesstuff · 4 years ago

Text

Day 19, 20 of my 21 day Skeksis Costume Build

DAY 19: OCTOBER 28th

So close! Halloween was just a few days away. Today is Monday and Halloween is only Thursday! Today I worked on the arms and collar.

1.) You can see in my starting photo for the day I added some “snakes”, including some long strips of black chiffon to the snake area, and some creepy cloth from the dollar store doing the same, front and back.

The arms are covered now, so they were attached to the body (though always removable). You can see in the below picture the grey cloth safety pinned to the arm that will later cover, like a winged weather, the handle, my hand and arms, concealed within.

Still watching She-Ra and The Princesses of Power. It’s so good y’all!

2.) Now I’ve built up both the practical and cosmetic arm draping. This includes the practical: the stuff that hides my arms, hand, and puppet handle for the arm within it, and the cosmetic: the flowing gold lame wrapped around it, dangling.

The practical grey material you see is sewn to the torso of the costume, but only safety pinned to the arm – that way the arms are still removable. I just hide the pins under the gold pieces. Those gold pieces are tied into place, then glued into place, leaving a little room for the safety pin to hid in.

You can also see here to hide where the arm is attached to the frame, I used a $1 kids black cat costume I found at a thrift store, tore it apart and stole the furry pieces, and created the poofy black sleeve-shoulders the real character has. If you notice 2 blue round balls with masking tape on them (that’s bubble wrap), that’s what’s inside the shoulders to keep them poofed out, otherwise they would hang saggy and not look great. This black poof also has a hidden safety pin to assist in removing the arms. Looks like I’m watching As Above, So Below, just in time for Halloween.

DAY 20: OCTOBER 29th

Making the lower body’s skirt, head and neck pin, strap for helmet, and working on the collar.

1.) Today I got to test the costume again. Probably the only time you’ll see Skekso in Totoro tights. Kinda Skeski, am I right? Get it? Get it? Anyways, this is one of those moments where you really start to see that it’s going to work and it’s just so much fun and totally rewarding.

2.) I filled in the top of the collar with gathered black chiffon, and in this shots you can see how the neck comes out of the hole in the middle.

3.) This black neck chiffon needs some gold tinges to it, so I used Gold paint and put it on lightly with a brush.

4.) Now I need to start on the lower body/skirt before I run out of time. That’s okay, this is the easy part. Here is a very unflattering picture of the base white skirt. It was actually the lining of one of the curtains I thifted for the robe material. I tore it out, made a floor length skirt with a drawstring at the waist as a base for it:

5.) Now from testing it earlier, I knew the helmet needed some improvements so it would be more comfortable to wear, and also stay put on my head and not slide around. I wanted to have good movement, and a sliding helmet does not provide that.

That is a shot of the helmet and head without anything blocking it. See that red carabiner in the back? The framed backpack still had a loop from it’s original use on it, and while messing around with it, husband discovered it and realized we could take some of the slide out if we used the carabiner and attached it to the loop of the backpack. It worked and was very helpful. Before use another year this is something I would fix and have a better system for – this was great for short notice but not as good as I think it could be.

6.) I needed a Skeksis head that was removable for storage and travel, but also not going to fall apart during wear and use. So, the neck PVC pipe is permanently attached inside the head, and the other end is permanently attached into the helmet. Where it detaches is actually towards the lower middle of the neck, here:

That is a regular old nail that pushes through as a pin to keep the two together. The hole is drilled tightly for fit, so the nail is snug, but can be taken out to remove the head from the helmet. I later put a string around the nail’s head and attached it to the pipe because I was afraid of losing the nail, which would make the whole costume un-usable.

7.) Going back to the lower body/skirt, I used a cheapo hula hoop and sewed it up inside of it to make a hoop skirt that will give the body a little bit of size (before this is was very much up and down/flat). If and when I do improvements to the costume with more time, I want to bulk out the body so it’s not so thin.

I look like I’m on the way to some Norse Festival.

8.) Now I have to make the skirt look like it’s just a continuation of the robes I already made on the torso so it looks like one seamless robe. I just matched the position and materials and started sewing.

That’s all for today! Come back for the final post about my journey through the Forbidden Forest to build this Skeksis costume in 21 days. Happy Halloween All Year!

#skeksis #the dark crystal #dark crystal #dark crystal cosplay #dark crystal costume #cosplay #costuming #costume #skeksis cosplay #skeksis costume #handmade #handmade halloween #happy halloween #jim henson #age of resistance

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iamacolor · 4 years ago

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fashion queen! which nct era has the best fashun in ur opinion?? and if u were a designer which neos would u pick as ur models?

I was so excited to answer this that I wrote several pages and it basically turned into a style analysis for each unit so I sure hope you have some time on your hands to read everything I’ve just written! (I did not reread so sorry for any typing mistake)

NCT is known to be experimental in their music and that’s also the case in their styling so there’s a lot for me to get into even though sometimes it’s a miss. One thing I will say though is that when it comes to the styling in mv/teasers, what’s around the clothes is super important because if you have a very specific styling concept, your set design or graphic design needs to complement that and give the audience more clues on how to read all these elements together (the cherry bomb era is a great example of that with all the added graphic elements and the predominance of the colour pink) and recently I’ve found that the creative team has not really gone further than just putting nct in an outfit in front of a basic background so it makes for a pretty underwhelming result

But let’s move on to my favourite styling eras. I’m going to do this per unit (I’ll finish with NCT U) and define an era by its teaser pictures and the mv (and not go through all the performance looks during the promotion period)

I’m putting this under a read more because it’s reaaally long (I put pictures so that it’s not just one big chunk of text)

NCT 127

Easily the most experimental unit when it comes to fashion, especially in their first years where they would wear mix of sportswear, grunge references, avant-garde fashion and a lot of layers. When it comes to their debut “Firetruck”, I think it fitted the song really well but that it didn’t fit all the members equally (especially the younger ones, for me Taeyong and Taeil pulled it off the best – it’s expected of Taeyong but I also think that Taeil always stand out when they go for edgy/unconventional look, I think it really suits him).

Anyway, just to say that they were off to a very strong start and then I’m just going to kindly ignore the Limitless styling and move on to Cherry Bomb!

One thing nicely done for CB is how when you look at a group picture they’re clearly all following the same concept but they’re not necessarily matching or giving off the same vibes if you take them individually. I love the use of the colour pink which brings a) a great visual impact (you don’t ever see that much pink at once – especially on men) and b) an harmony despite the shapes and styles of their outfits being so vastly different, you’ve got ties, tousled, shirts, little frilled collars, stripes and all-over prints, sportswear and formal wear… (ex: taeyong’s short jacket is reminiscent of something a little luxurious, even maybe historical/noble with the little added embroidery-like details, it reminds me of these boleros jackets worn by toreros that are often red/gold VS doyoung’s overalls is an outfit that has a much more recent origin as it was first worn by factories workers, it’s usually blue or grey and is meant to be practical rather than pleasing to the eye -> here it fits very well with the general setting of the mv in what looks like an empty industrial storage space)

This second look is more of a game on how to deconstruct formal wear (there are less prints and no bold colours, their hair is less messy…) but they don’t just add sportswear like the bomber jacket, you can find rock or more “modern” elements with the leather jackets or the jean jackets. All in black and white so great contrast with the previous looks, although that mix and match concept is still there. My favourite elements are the checkered ones (worn by taeyong, taeil and haechan) as it reminds me of the strategy element of the chess game which fits pretty well with all the weapons and other arms visible in the mv (a bit like a nod to the game battleship)

This one I love that they developed their own print, especially since it’s another graphic element used elsewhere (see their album cover), because it’s a great way to really introduce their identity as a group, through the different visual elements they put out in a comeback, it’s like a logo but as a print. And all the teasers and the mv did a great job at mixing 2D/3D contents so that’s another nice way to be cohesive. It’s not my fave look out of the 3 (especially because I do not approve of that belt-suspenders-bag they gave Johnny, it’s like everything you don’t want to put a dancer in and it’s ugly as well) but I still like the fact that’s it’s another nod to the battle/strategy aspect of this comeback, like they’re on a mission to hit the stage and conquer it

Then fast forward to my other favourite one, Simon Says! (No teaser pictures here because they don’t show anything or they show not enough lol)

First of all THE MASKS

Oh how I wish they could’ve been shown more (imagine teasers with the members wearing them!!! I would’ve loved individual teasers based on each of the masks concepts) Once again, a great to have group concept without making everyone wear the same thing. They’re all super different and full of details. Haechan’s is the only one from what I could who’s mask is actually a mask and not a fully covering hood. The materials and techniques used on these are either evocative of “fragile” things like glass and flowers but theses elements have their own hidden strength. Some others are covered in lace, pearls, fringes or fur…all these things are usually considered to be precious or even luxurious but it covers their faces and their identity and they throw it away in rebellion (and I think it’s also super interesting how Taeyong who takes off his mask first has the least ornamented one)

Then the outfits themselves. Simon Says in an interesting MV because unlike most others they wear one outfit for most of the MV (the second one appears quite late in the mv and is lit and staged in a way that makes it less visible). It’s a mostly grey/white set of outfits which is usually a colour combo for office wear or maybe factory workers, it’s not something that can seem very exciting or edgy. The styling in these outfits reminds me of the works of Japanese designers who came to Paris in the 80’s and kind of shook the whole high fashion system by bringing a different type of shapes, aesthetic and purpose to fashion (Rei Kawakubo, Yohji Yamamoto…). These designers went on to become super successful and inspired another wave of “avant-garde” designers nicknamed “the 6 of Anvers” (Anvers is a city in Belgium), this group includes Martin Margiella, Dries Van Noten…And to me the outfits in Simon Says really fit into this aesthetic. Unconventional fits, various layers, it’s not so much mix and match than a work on contrast between structure and fluidity (Yuta’s half skirt with un-trimed edges, Haechan’s long shirt with the long bow and the fitted jacket, Mark’s top with the various see-through layers of different lengths…).

An other interesting details (which to me calls back to the mask and that tension in the song/concept of letting go/being free of expectations), is the way they all have thick strings tied on their feet/ankles. Not holding them back because their feet aren’t tied together but there’s still this clear restriction of the garment itself, a reminder that there are tied to something and not completely free (also an interesting choice when dressing dancers who would need to have no added weight or discomfort in their outfit to dance but visually something is holding their ankles)

Honorable mentions:

Kick It– they managed to create very memorable outfits while taking inspirations from already well known elements (both for the fighting/training outfits and the bomber jackets). The black and white outfits especially are very original as performance outfits/dancing clothes since the og garment they’re inspired by has already such a strong identity outside of the performing arts and I don’t think I’ve ever seen it be used as a stage outfit? Or concept? It’s a nice exemple of how you can take inspiration for something designed to be useful and to be efficient (in fighting) and turn it into an aesthetic.

Truthfully, martial art training outfit was already an “aesthetic” on its own but they made it a performance costume and now I do feel like it’s one of these looks that everyone will remember (like if there was a “most memorable kpop outfits” list it could easily have kick it’s black/white fits). The rest of the outfits for that concept weren’t as memorable/original to me although I feel like it showed a new approach to the styling of nct 127 as a group since they all had very similar outfits this time (especially when wearing the jackets).

Also, interestingly, that shot of Jaehyun that had everyone go “wow” ? Well it’s impactful because it’s him and he looks like that and it’s shot in a very specific way, but it’s also even more impactful because he’s the only one who gets to wear that kind of outfit in the mv. Everyone else has 3 sets of outfits (black and white, shiny black, red jacket and black pants) but he has 4 and that suit is only used in that shot which makes for a greater impact!

And I feel like Kick It in terms of styling opened a new era for NCT 127 has it kind of broke their usual mix and match/edgy concept. This time they were clearly referencing something already well known (either martial arts, the 90s…), and the members were all matching and they kept on doing that with the military jackets in punch, the other 90s concept in nct 2020…

Touch – for the way the outfits match the sets (in all their individual sets their outfits have a detail in a matching colour), the focus on colours !!! You can see that this whole concept was designed with this colour game/colour progression between the outfits and the set in mind. It’s just very pleasing to the eyes and a great contrast to their usual stuffs (also I wrote my graduation paper on colours so I am really into creative use of colours like this)

OK now moving on to Dream!!

The interesting thing about Dream compared to NCT 127 is that from the beginning although their outfits had to match the song an the concept of the comeback it also had to match their age. Dream’s a group that had to look young when debuting (to the point where they wore outfits that made them look even younger than they were which is rarely done for boy groups) and then they had to transition into adulthood, and all of that had to be made visible. In that aspect, I really like the styling for We Young and Boom (especially when you look at them at the same time).

For We Young, the styling is meant to be reminiscent of school/boy scout uniforms but with a marine vibe. It makes for playful outfits that aren’t too childish but that also aren’t grown up. I prefer the “seaside” outfits as I don’t really like school uniforms as a concept for styling and I think it’s really a choice that suited them and the song so well, it really fitted their energy. It’s playful but it also has a vintage touch to it as these outfits with their stripes and their squared flap at the back date back to the XIXth century (I just found out that it all started with the queen Victoria dressing up her kid in an outfit inspired by the royal navy uniforms for a painting after a cruise ).

Boom on the other side is their first proper “grown-up” concept. We go up was already more grown up but still very “teenager-ish” and although they were mostly teenagers when they did Boom it was clear that this was supposed to be their first entry into “adulthood” as a group at least. And although they did wear a sportswear/casual outfits which is something that isn’t related to age (and I really like the black and white “skeleton” set which already feels more grown-up and more “stylish” than the other casual outfit) , they wore two other “grown-up” elements: suits and all-jean outfits.

And yeah teenagers, and kids wear jeans too but a full jean-on-jean outfit is more of a “grown-up” fashion choice and it makes them look like young men rather than boys. As for the suits, I just really love when stylists play with the codes of that garment (length of the jacket, tightness of the pants, the way the shirt is tucked in…).

Notice how Renjun has a really short jacket, Chenle’s pants are wide, Jeno has a tail…Once again, a really interesting aspect of Kpop is the variations of the same concept based on the members. In the mv, there is a tension between their more grown up selves (the one in suits, the one with a craft/a path) and their young selves (the one running around in the field, the one laying down in the flowers and eating a cake). And there is also in these outfits and the contrast between them this tension, this contrast…which path should they go? The jeans are the more laide back, innocent outfits, whereas the suits come with responsibilities and status (and you’ll notice that in the scene where jisung is left alone to blow his candle it’s when he’s wearing jeans not when he’s in the suits).

Now on to WayV!!

WayV are different from the two in the sense than when they debuted they couldn’t have an “age” concept or an edgy concept because 127 and dream had already taken those and I feel like for that reason they’re still looking for what makes them stand out visually from the others (and in my opinion it’s not in whatever they were wearing for turn back time!). WayV’s concept is space and time travel, it’s building a new life, a new worl, going beyond anything! In my mind, they’re either supposed to feel a bit “otherworldly” (either spectacular or literally like they’re from another world/another universe, a little bit futuristic maybe?) or to look like explorers/travellers (they have a lot of travel/transportation “gears” references in their outfits). Their MVs also have a very different production than the other nct mvs (the scale and the way it’s filmed, the sets…it’s a different approach and it’s usually much more “grand” for their title tracks). The great thing about WayvV styling is usually that they match the outfits well with the world that the mv is set in (like in Moonwalk for example you get a sense of the world they’re in and the fact that it’s not ours or at least not as we know it now through the way they dress – you can’t really say oh it’s inspired by this era or by this or that because -at least- to me it immediately gives me a vibe of something that could be worn in a sci-fi movie, almost like a costume) or that they allude to travel in their styling.

When they debuted with Regular they went for a very sleek and high fashion look which worked really well for them! Even their more “casual” looks were a bit striking and I think that’s very “wayv-like” to me.

Same goes for Take Off where they mix the individual styles (and I don’t like ten’s leopard fur sleeveless jacket at all) and the group concepts – the “flying” outfits and the “racing” outfits (that last one is my favourite! I love the silhouette it creates with the tight pants and the larger tops with an emphasis on the waist).

There’s something a bit extra to WayV - which is why some of their outfits remind me of costumes more than fashion while at the same time they’re the most “high fashion” unit– like the “flying” outfit in Take Off are recognizable as “flying gear” but you can’t really tell what they’re flying, it feels once again like something that they could wear in like star wars or a similar kind of story.

Imagine a movie about 7 men on another planet trying to come together to overcome the dark forces or whatever’s bad on their planet in a futuristic society with a mix of “traditional” and “trendy” outfits? That’s WayV. The movie the 5th Sense? That’s WayV but on steroids. They’re also the only group with actual characters in their mvs, they’re all supposed to have a backstory or an individual setting and find a way to get together in their mvs.

Anyway all that to say that it’s hard for me to pick an era for them because they’ve only had a few and they still feel like they’re looking to solidify their concept, and since moonwalk and turn back time really set the styling in different worlds than ours, you have to look at how they fit in that world rather than ours and I think Moonwalk does it best since it’s the most cohesive one visually. But then I think Regular had the best individual styling!

Okay this is super long but we’re finally getting to NCT U!!!!

Number one favourite:

The Year Party outfits!!!! I’ve already talked about this but I love when they say we’ll put them in suits and then since they have to make a different one for each of them they cut bits an dpieces of the suits here and there, play with lengths. It’s not a revolutionary concept but in terms of searching for a shape, searching for variations of an already so famous, so well-known garment (everyone has seen a suit, and so many designers have already deconstructed it and then put it back together and so on) it’s so nice, it’s almost like a full collection given how many members there are and it’s just a good tailoring work.It almost feel like an exercise of how many variations of an outfit can you think of? And it looks fun to do! It’s all about the details and the way the layers are set together.

The accessories add to the “formal attire” aspect of it. It almost has a ceremonial look to it. A bit of royalty with the futuristic vibe usually associated with WayV. The dark blue suits were pretty classic, the most interesting details (for me at least) were on the light blue ones. Especially since it’s a rare colour to find in formal wear or in ceremonial wear. In general, I feel like it’s a pretty rare colour in fashion outside of like shirts and baby clothes? I think it was a great styling choice for a content like the year party although I do wish they (either NCT or WayV who’ve touched upon this kind of outfit a bit already) would do a full comeback with this kind of styling (like the lighter version of the black and green outfits in SuperM’s One). It’s not revolutionary but it was something new for NCT and I really hope they use that elegant/futuristic concept once again.

Also in these outfits, the jewelry is super important and adds to the “grand” aspect of these outfits. The concept is that these aren’t ordinary outfits for ordinary men, we’re witnessing something “special” and so they aren’t wearing their usual jewels either (of course the big chains are still there but differently look at that necklace jaehyun is wearing)

Honorable mention:

Boss & Baby Don’t Stop (they’re different but they go together in my mind lol). Look at them in their uniforms! And also they had doyoung wearing these sunglasses

Ok I think I’m done, if you’ve made it this far thank you so much and I hope it was a nice read!!

As for who would I chose as my models…it really depends on what I’d make them wear tbh for menswear the things I’d like to design would either be something like formal wear or knitwear – I’d pick Lucas, Taeyong and Doyoung (I think they’re the most model-like members and could pull off pretty much anything even my non-edgy concept because I can’t do that lol and they pose very well) and then depending on the concept I’d pick between Winwin, Jaehyun, Kun, Jungwoo, Taeil, Haechan and Shotaro (the way I struggled to remember all the members at once…there are too many really)

#this is soooo long omg I didn't know I had that much to say wow #I hope you've managed to read it all and that it was somewhat coherent and clear #now it's time to eat #nct #nct 127 #nct dream #wayv #nct 2020 #fashion #leemarx #I've got mail #vinformation

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zhuilingyizhen · 4 years ago

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mdzs juniors // modern looks

trousers? idk her.

Lan Jingyi

being the fashion diva he is, you know he takes great care of himself. his hair is always really soft and he has a skincare routine he follows religiously.

the ends of his hair (which is still v. long, bc i need ponytail ljy, but he cuts it sometimes) are dyed blue, and he wears his hair in a ponytail.

only his right ear is pierced at first, but he gets the other one pierced too so he can wear long dangly earrings.

jingyi’s fashion taste is definitely the most out there, compared to the other juniors. he prefers dresses over skirts (but likes both of em), and hates jean shorts but likes jeans.

he wears a lot of light blues, and l e a t h e r

(not neccessarily together though. he has a black leather jacket he wears with red)

go-to outfit is a white tee or crop top paired with high-waisted jeans. probably wears checkered vans or something, but also likes leather boots. despises heels.

he also likes ripped jeans & graphic shirts, but can and will enjoy wearing a cropped tank top with a short skirt.

loves experimenting with makeup and nails, especially doing up his eyes

eyeliner!!!!!!

sometimes he goes out wearing a hot dog costume just to hurt jin ling. oyzz thinks it’s both the worst and best thing ever. lsz is facepalming so hard rn...

(but he loves them. most of the time.)

Ouyang Zizhen

cropped hoodies. jl thinks they’re an abomination.

go-to outfit is a short-ish brown-beige hoodie with a plaid skirt.

wears the most jewelry!!

a jade necklace lsz gave him on his 16th birthday. emerald earrings jl gave him. (ljy got him a 5-year book subscription to this one book box company).

he also has a flower hairpiece his sister gifted to him. his hair’s just long enough to tie up in a bun

smells like ginger lilies. it’s the perfume.

the ends of his hair are dyed this bluish-green?? idk how to describe it but if you’re on tumblr you probably know what i mean.

wears very cutesy stuff, but hates overly tight clothing (only cause it’s not comfortable for him, if you wanna wear clothing like that, go for it!)

will wear yoga pants, but never black on black bc he likes color.

has really soft clothing. probably the most diverse in texture of clothing.

changes the color of his nails like every other week. fools around with them a lot, and is pretty good at them now.

pastels!! flowy clothing!!

everything has to be matching. he has like five different phone-cases (they were on sale) to match certain outfits.

randomly has this galaxy cat shirt that he adores.

sometimes wears color-changing contacts for fun, or to match an outfit.

sometimes wears concealer, but not much more makeup than that. special occasions call for eyeshadow!! absolutely rocks a smokey eye.

ugh he’s just so soft

Lan Sizhui

sometimes will wear cropped tops, but only with a blazer/cardigan.

hates collared shirts with a passion. is forced to wear them anyways.

not as fashionable as oyzz & ljy. as a child be basically wore the same outfit in different colors everyday.

really likes floral patterns!!

kpop idol hairstyle. it’s like that short messy-but-not-really kinda way.

puts on clear nail polish. he and oyzz do nails together once or twice a month.

a lot of blues, greys, and whites.

wears vampire sleeves?? idk how to explain it. they’re like... poofy but elegant.

skinny jeans!! he likes the dark blue ones.

turtlenecks!!

likes lacy clothing! or just lace in general. he thinks it’s pretty.

in place of headbands, he and ljy have these woven cloth bracelets they wear almost 24/7.

wore a white dress once and the other juniors almost died,, it was amazing on him

doesn’t wear any facial makeup (once almost stabbed himself in the eye with a eyeliner pencil, has never recovered)

likes wearing flats.

has this one cross earring hat he wears on his right ear, to really complete the soft bad boi/idol look.

has this white flowy button-up that he adores. wears it all the time, with black yoga pants or dark blue jeans!

Jin Ling

the most floofy, oversized clothing. will bury himself in a comfy sweatshirt or hoodie and never leave.

surprisingly the only one of them who likes heels, cause they make him taller.

longer hair than oyzz, but shorter than ljy’s. wears it in a ponytail, with bangs framing his face (kinda like jzx’s hairstyle)

when he isn’t wearing a hoodie or sweatshirt, he’ll steal Jingyi’s beloved black leather jacket. Jingyi doesn’t really mind, bc he lives for jl dressing up.

the outfits ljy makes jl try on are scary.

will wear dresses and doesn’t give a fuck about what anyone has to say about it.

has a thing for ribbons. idk why-

not a fan of plaid or patterns in general. however (unrelated), he will wear eyeliner/mascara on special occasions.

oyzz gifted him a lotus fragrance. he has no idea what to do with it though.

sometimes wears pink lip gloss.

he wears a lot of yellow, blue, purple, white, and sometimes pink. refuses to wear red, but sometimes is forced to.

jean shorts during the summer!! the one season where he can’t wear hoodies/sweatshirts.

once ljy forced him into this denim overalls-skirt thing. very cute.

sneakers & boots.

comfort > fashion

sometimes he’ll be in the mood to dress up (ljy’s favorite days) and actually put an effort into looking nice. the others melt.

#mdzs #ouyang zizhen #jin ling #lan sizhui #lan jingyi #mdzs juniors #mdzs headcanons #the untamed #hcs #outfits #fashion #modern au #junior quartet #addy rants #about shit she doesn't know about #:)

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nomolosk · 4 years ago

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Snapshots (AU Yeah August 2020)

read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25655623/chapters/63093985

Day 17- Masquerade

Adrien walked into the large room the museum was using as a ballroom that night and quickly stepped to the left to get out of the press of people entering behind him. He looked over the crowd, secure in the anonymity his mask granted him. He glanced over everyone there, looking for… he didn’t even know what. Just that he’d know it if he found it.

He hoped his costume wasn’t too outlandish. He had spent almost his whole allowance on it, but it had been well worth it. It was snake-themed, a mandarin style suit in muted blues and greens with a subtle scale pattern and a few yellow diamond accents. He’d thought about asking for a cowl instead of a collar, but decided against it at the last minute, even though it would have hidden his far-too-noticeable hair and served as a pretty good imitation for a snake’s hood. But he had considered how hot it might get in the ballroom, and ultimately decided on the collar. Instead, the bottom edge of his mask had little points that looked like fangs.

A flash of bright color caught his attention and he reacted just in time to save someone from either crashing into him or tumbling to the floor at his feet.

“Watch it!” someone shrieked, and Adrien looked up to see a woman in a yellow satin ball gown embellished with black chevron stripes glaring down at the person he’d caught- a shortish woman in grey and pink. He absentmindedly helped her stand back on her own two feet, while keeping an eye on the offending party.

“Aren’t you even going to apologize? Ugh, I don’t know why I even bothered to come to this. If I hadn’t already ordered this fabulous thing,” the yellow-clad woman continued, smoothing her hands down her torso, “I wouldn’t have. Sabrina! Why haven’t you cleared away all these peasants? Let’s go already!”

Adrien found himself glaring at the woman’s back. He could have said something but she was already gone. He looked to his side, only noticing now that the grey and pink was a mouse-themed costume with a cocktail length skirt. Thankfully, she had forgone a rubber nose and whiskers, but she had pulled her black hair up into two adorable space buns that served as ears. Her hands were on her hips as she, too, glared at the space where the other woman had disappeared into the crowd. He found himself smiling at her.

“What a hornet,” he said, drawing her attention. She snapped her head up at him and he caught his breath. She had such blue eyes. “Are you okay?” he asked, once he regained control of his tongue.

“Y-yeah,” she said, blushing a little. “Sorry I fell for you.” Her eyes widened and he thought she blushed, though it was hard to tell with the mask. “ON you! Fell ON you!”

Adrien chuckled. She was adorable. And alluring.

“It’s not a big deal. You can’t help it if someone rudely pushes past you.” He hesitated a moment before deciding to give it a shot. “I… don’t suppose you’d like to dance?” He nodded to the middle of the ballroom.

“Oh, um,” she stammered. “I’m a little clumsy… I wouldn’t want to step on your toes.”

“Don’t worry about it, my feet are pretty tough,” Adrien said, and greatly daring, he grabbed her hand and pulled her through the crowd onto the dance floor. Once there, he searched her eyes for any hint that she didn’t really want to be there, relieved when he saw none. They began a simple box step, keeping quite a bit of distance between them at first. Adrien liked to think he was a good dancer- certainly the many lessons he’d had should make some difference- but he had never had a partner who responded so readily to his cues. They both quickly relaxed, and he pulled her a little closer for convenience.

They moved agilely through all the other dancers, nimbly avoiding bumping into backs or stepping on trailing skirts. It felt like they’d been dance partners for years, and he could see that she was just as surprised and delighted as he was.

“So what should I call you?” Adrien asked, after a few minutes of simply enjoying the dance. The mouse looked up at him and blinked. “Actually, let me guess,” Adrien said, grinning a little as his rarely seen mischievous side showed itself. “Mousinette?”

She raised her eyebrows and gave him an indulgent smile.

“Ratagirl?”

She grimaced at that one.

“Um… Hamsterella?”

That made her giggle, and Adrien chuckled too.

“I’m a mouse, not a hamster!” she insisted. “I did think of going with a hamster, because they are the cutest, but I thought everyone would have assumed I was a mouse anyway.” She smiled. “Anyway, you can call me Marimouse.”

“Marry mouse?” he asked, with his own raised eyebrow and a smirk. “It’s a bit soon for that, don’t you think? Not that I’m all that opposed...”

She gasped and playfully slapped his shoulder before putting her hand back into his. “You know that’s not what I meant! It’s just a mash-up of one of my nicknames with ‘mouse.’ Anyway, what about you?”

She ran her eyes over him, leaving, had she but known it, pleasant tingles in the wake of her gaze. Adrien inhaled slowly and held his breath a moment to keep himself under control.

“Hm, how about Viper? No,” she shook her head, “too aggressive. Um, Sir Asp? Baron von Wurm?”

Adrien grinned broadly. “Aspik. You can call me Aspik.”

She smiled back.

Usually, Adrien hoped time would fly at these fancy parties, but tonight… oh, tonight he wanted it to last forever.

----

Universal surveyed the masked crowd. She’d been wandering through the streets, enjoying the freedom everyone around her was indulging in behind the masks she’d granted them, when she’d felt a sudden sharp pull toward the museum. Now, she looked over the crowd, trying to pinpoint which couple had generated that pull. Most everyone here seemed to be either equally attracted to their partner, or neutral. There was one woman who was actively repelling the people around her, clad in yellow and black in a bee-themed dress. No one else seemed to stand out…

She caught sight of a turtle/fox couple that was putting out palpable waves of attraction and decided to follow them as they left the crowded ballroom. The only other couple that came close to their intensity was snake/mouse themed. However, turtle and fox seemed to be the better bet at the moment- they were only barely aware they were still in public and had found a darker corner in which to indulge in each other. The snake and mouse pair were much more reserved, seeming too shy for passion.

Universal had a feeling that if Ladybug and Chat Noir ever made it official, they would be all over each other- that much repressed emotion had to break out some time- so she headed toward the fox and the turtle.

@auyeahaugust

#mlauyeahaugust #auyeah2020 #miraculous ladybug fanfiction #snekmouse #masquerade #prompts

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hellyeahomeland · 5 years ago

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Things Carrie Wore This Week

TCWTW hive, last week we ate. This week, we feast.

This is the same ensemble Carrie was wearing at the end of last week’s episode but I just have to say I totally love it. Carrie in all black is perfection.

Her earrings are these little silver dome studs. Remember when Carrie wearing earrings was a surprising occurrence? Props to the costume department this season because Carrie has worn ALL THE EARRINGS and looked great doing it.

~the last Theory pantsuit~

She buttoned both buttons... again. I was exasperated last week... I’m now so mellow about it all that I don’t even care. Hey, it’s waist-defining. You do you, Carrie!

She did TUCK IN HER SHIRT. I’m gasping!!! The shirt is (probably) a long-sleeve blouse, in this actually very nice olive-y green color that looks more brownish here. This is great, too! Sorry, I’m reveling in the tucked shirt. If she’d done a French tuck I would have passed through to another dimension.

Interlude the First:

Bonus ~Things Tasneem Wore This Week~

This fucking gorgeous ~eggplant~ ensemble. This is officially my favorite of the season, but purple is my favorite color so I’m not impartial. And the pearls! Which, per Nimrat Kauer, are actually her mother’s? I love that! I love this show! Thank you life, thank you love, it is true, there are some angels in this city!

Anyway, where were we?

Oh, right! Carrie goes to the West Bank and throws on this actually lovely dark teal Henley. This is fabulous! I love the sleeve length. The color is wonderful and looks tremendous on her.

Here’s the full look. Her dependable black skinny jean, the black suede boots. Oh, and the gun. This is your look, Carrie. This is an A. Bravo.

Interlude the Second:

~Bonus Things Hugh Dancy Wore This Week~

ANOTHER FUCKING KNITTED TIE. I am beyond amused at this homie and his tragique facial hair and his $10,000 suits and his Park Slope knitted tie.

I’m just... honestly kudos to Hugh Dancy for bringing the ultimate sliminess to this role. He was overjoyed, you could tell. But these knitted ties. How many does he have? Eighteen? In different shades of blue and grey? Anyhoozles, I’m sure John Zabel landed squarely on his feet and is headlining his own Fox News primetime show.

ARE YOU ALL READY? WE’RE ABOUT TO GO TWO YEARS INTO THE FUTURE.

How does one describe the feeling when the camera slowly pans over to Carrie Mathison, hair perfectly curled, sitting in her beautifully- yet moodily-lit Moscow penthouse at her vanity, wearing a silk robe in a lovely shade of mauve, applying mascara? Remember that other dimension I mentioned above? I’M IN IT.

I’m... speechless. You know that meme that’s like “when you listen to your new favorite song so many times that you eventually get sick of it”? I’m in danger of reaching that territory.

She’s wearing lingerie?? She’s smiling?????? She!!!!!!!!!!

(admittedly the lingerie doesn’t fit that well but WHO GIVES A SHIT)

(we’re all in agreement that everything Carrie wears in the last twenty minutes has been a gift from Yevgeny because he is apparently rolling in cash and loves to shower her with presents, right? and she indulges him because she loves him and she knows she looks fucking awesome?)

PAUSE to just take in this scene:

The mid-century-style vanity with all her makeup neatly arranged. Y’all, I’m wheezing!!

His and hers stools at the foot of the bed.

The largeness of it. This bedroom is massive!! I thought Saul’s bedroom was giant (it is), this is on another level.

“I just like how he’s always leaning. Against stuff. He leans great.”

Another smile. God, these close-mouthed smiles, I’m truly in another reality.

ANYWAY: the necklace. It’s a Dominique Cohen “diamond pendant necklace (large), in 18k yellow gold, 22-inch chain,” 0.85 carats of white diamonds. It is now officially called “the Carrie” and you can buy it for the low, low price of $3600 (really, it’s on sale).

Yevgeny being a man who knows jewelry is so damn on brand it’s ridiculous.

Not the series but IJLTP.

Interlude the Third: Carrie and Yevgeny: A Height Difference Made in Heaven

(married couple)

(how is he so giant)

(she’s wearing heels and still just comes up to his chin!!!!)

They’re a match made in heaven, and that’s actually where I am right now.

THE COAT. THE HEELS. It’s hard to tell in this photo but her toenails are also painted black. In case we had any doubt that Carrie is living her best life!!

This coat is gorgeous and so unexpected. They could have just had her wear a more standard black peacoat, but instead they went with this decidedly more elegant textured (beaded?) number. Also, Yevgeny had the coat waiting for her when she walked down the stairs. Did she pick this out beforehand? It’s very much an evening coat, I’m just wondering how he knew that’s what she’d want to wear.

Good God the last twenty minutes of this episode are just Carrie looking stunning and radiant. It’s what we deserve, and we absolutely love to see it!

Ok, the earrings! They are also Dominique Cohen (and therefore almost certainly a previous gift from Yevgeny?), specifically the 1.5-inch oval diamond hoops in 18k yellow gold with 0.44 carats of white diamonds. You can get them for the low, low price of $2750 (again, they’re on sale!).

Y’ALL. THEY MADE A CARRIE COLLECTION. CARRIE MATHISON HAS A COLLECTION. OF JEWELRY. NAMED AFTER HER.

My girl’s not just surviving, she’s thriving.

The outfit. The top is by Narciso Rodriguez, from his pre-fall 2018 collection: “matte black sequin embroidered one-shoulder silk top.”

Given that Claire Danes’ favorite designer is Narciso Rodriguez and they are dear friends, do we think this is from Claire’s own wardrobe? ‘Twould be fitting, I’ll say that. The whole ~lewk (especially the asymmetry!) is so Claire it’s wild.

I”m fairly certain the skirt is Narciso Rodriguez too, because why not?!

The much-speculated-about purse is the Tango bag by Tissa Fontaneda (sells for $770, but she bought two so that’s $1540). Again, très distinct. The taste!

CARRIE HAS A TANLINE. CARRIE A. MATHISON.

From which remote beach location did they just return? Croatia, maybe? Or Fiji? Please let me know your thoughts.

By the way, it goes without saying how fabulous Carrie looks. She looks gorgeous. The curled hair is... *chef’s kiss* It got me thinking whether this is a look (the curled hair) she goes with more often than not now... I can’t decide!

The ring! What an unusual ring. I love how geometric it is. God, Carrie wearing three distinct pieces of jewelry is something I’ll never get over. I’m also calling that this is one of Claire’s own, since my favorite ever credit in a Claire Danes photoshoot is “rings: Danes’ own.”

Interlude the Last: Claire Danes Wearing Eyeglasses

The ponytail.

Her Zoom username being “Le iPad (2)” is sending me.

I had to include this because this is a thing Carrie wore. Love the (presumably white) Oxford shirt. This photo will always haunt me. This is Carrie too. No one’s just one thing.

What is Carrie wearing at the end? How about an honest-to-God smile?

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

IN CONCLUSION: I LOVE YOU, CARRIE.

#phew what a journey #homeland #homelandedit #things carrie wore this week #carrie mathison #prisoners of war #*#god i'm so overwhelmed #i'm getting choked up #favorite #by: sara #carrie mathison: an icon a legend and she IS the moment

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tydy-the-megnet · 5 years ago

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Five Times Michelle Jones Wasn’t Nervous When Meeting an Avenger (And One Time She Was)

What’s up?! merry christmas and felice anno nuovo! This is a gift for @megnetsworld (appropriately named) that was originally supposed to be a christmas gift but i’m a tardy hooligan so.

anyway, a month or two ago I was like “i know you like iron dad but if you had to choose between famvengers and peterchelle which would you choose?”

she chose famvengers, so i was like “but you like peterchelle, right?”

and she was like, “obviously” so i was like “:D”

anyway, little did she suspect I’d do ALL THREE!!!!

enjoy. I hope this puts a Meganwatt smile on your face

…..

The first time Michelle Jones met an actual Avenger was in school, when Dr. Bruce Banner came to give a speech about biochemistry. The speech itself was fine; Dr. Banner was mild-mannered and it got a little stale at points but all around made sense at least.

Really, it was pretty standard to have a scientist come talk at an assembly every now and then, though Dr. Banner was a rather high-profile case. He looked very much like a scientist with his pristine white labcoat and shiny green tie.

The weird part of the event came afterward, when Dr. Banner was leaving. The man dragged Peter – and by extension, Ned and Michelle – to the side. Just to say “Hi.”

“Hey, Mr. Doctor Professor Bruce Hulk Banner, sir.”

Bruce stopped awkwardly at the boy for just long enough for Michelle to roll her eyes at her friend.

“Oh my god, you’re Bruce Banner.”

And there was her other friend, just as awkward.

“Hey.” She shrugged, looking at the famed scientist with bored eyes.

Bruce shook his head, blinking, and looked at them, “I, uh, just wanted to ask how I did? It’s been a while since I’ve done a speech, let alone for teenagers. Did I do alright? This school is pretty up there with its education, so I don’t think I went over your heads, did I?”

“It was great—” “—The coolest thing to ever happen here—” “A little boring.”

Peter and Ned looked sharply at her and she smirked.

She almost felt bad when Dr. Banner actually deflated. As if there was an even smaller ego, like the Hulk but tiny and feeble. More so than Banner, anyway, who genuinely looked like he couldn’t hurt a fly.

“It was? I tried to make it interesting with the slideshow and demonstrations…”

“Don’t listen to her, Dr. Prof. Banner, she’s just not into biochem.”

She shrugged, “Not even becoming a hulk myself could make it interesting.”

He blinked, but Michelle didn’t say anything after that.

…

The second time Michelle met an Avenger happened one weekend when Peter brought Ned and Michelle to the Avenger’s Compound. She caught Clint Barton, more famously known as Hawkeye, snaking into an air vent.

“What’s going on?” She asked, peering curiously at the wriggling archer.

He paused, his body still half dangling from the vent, “Nothing. Who is this?”

“Michelle.” She answered. Swift as an arrow, Clint was on the floor again, staring at her with his arms crossed over his plain grey tee shirt.

She stared back unflinching, brows furrowing, “Are you shorter than me?”

“No,” He said without missing a beat. He was ignoring the fact that he had to stare up at her, even if only slightly, “Who are you? And what are you doing here?”

“I told you, I’m Michelle. I’m with Peter.” She replied lazily. Nodding to the vent, she added, “What were you doing in the vents?”

He paused, considering the question. “That’s official Avengers business. Classified. Top secret stuff. Parker or Quill?”

“Parker. Who’s Quill?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“Thank you.” She offered a half-smile.

Clint gave a sound that was equal parts scoff and laugh, or at least she thought it was. “I’m going to need to investigate this matter. Protocol, you understand. Come with me.” It was obvious he was going for intimidation, but Michelle knew she was allowed here; she’d been invited in, after all.

So she shrugged and followed.

She could also tell that Hawkeye was having fun, from the gleam in his eyes and relaxed posture. Knowing he was a spy made Michelle think he already knew a lot about her – likely more than she would be comfortable with, but it wasn’t like she could do anything about that.

“So,” He said, leading through the corridors toward where Michelle vaguely recalled the foyer being, “Our little Baby Avenger brought himself a girlfriend, huh?”

…

The third Avenger Michelle met was Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, and it was because Clint introduced her. Unsurprisingly to those who knew her, Natasha was more suspicious of Michelle’s presence at the compound than Clint seemed to be. It was fair, Michelle mused, since she probably shouldn’t have been wandering around the compound by herself.

But hey, she was curious, and Peter and Ned were nerding out over a plane, so here she was. She wondered if she was about to be arrested. She kept her bored stare on Natasha’s steely face, even as her stomach crawled toward her feet.

When Natasha failed to say anything after a few moments, Michelle started helpfully, “I’m with Peter.” She paused, waiting for any sort of reaction, but her poker face was unmalleable. “Parker.” She added for good measure.

Natasha nodded slowly, before speaking to nothing in particular, “FRIDAY, send for Peter and his other friend. And tell him not to leave his friends unsupervised in high-tech facilities.”

“Yes, Miss Romanoff.”

“I know who you are,” Natasha said. Even though Michelle already knew that Natasha knew who she was – and likely knew that Michelle knew that she knew – it was very weird to her those words spoken aloud.

It was also incredibly ominous. Very “Big Brother.” Though Michelle doubted Orwell knew about S.H.I.E.L.D. or what it would come to be when he wrote 1984.

It was at several minutes of awkward silence while Michelle waited for her friends under the watchful eyes of two former S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. And they were some of the top agents, too. Michelle had thoroughly scoured the data when Natasha had dumped that information into the public web several years ago. Hungry for information and curious of the shadow organization she’d only ever heard rumor of on the darkest parts of the world wide web had Michelle combing through file after file of everything she could find as soon as she could find it.

In fact, she probably knew more about these two agents than some of the other Avengers, though she’d never claim so.

It only made it funnier when Clint said, “You know, normally this is the part where you’d ask us questions? Is there anything you want to know?”

Michelle glanced thoughtfully at him, ignoring the sharp look Natasha gave him, “Yeah actually.” They tensed up, as if they hadn’t actually expected her to ask anything. If that was true, then they clearly didn’t know that much about her. She quirked an eyebrow at the pair, “Was George Orwell a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent?”

…

The fourth time Michelle met an Avenger, she should have been amazed at the fact that she now had met three of the original Avengers. The same team that had saved New York from a real life Alien Invasion. And yet, as she stared up at the god of thunder, there was no amazement to be felt. No, at that point she only felt weird, because she was staring at a myth, and that myth was staring back.

Except that myth was staring at her with a mouth full of poptarts, and a box in his arms.

With a mighty gulp, Thor Odinson finished his mouthful of poptarts, never ceasing his big, blue-eyed stare, and set the box on the table.

He stood to greet her, “Hello. I am Thor Odinson of Asgard. I do not believe we’ve met,” He stated kindly, “This leaves me concerned, for I thought only the Avengers and allies were allowed into this place.”

“Hey. I’m Michelle Jones of Queens.” She replied, debating whether to curtsy. She wasn’t wearing a skirt, so she decided against it. “I’m an ally. I’m Peter’s friend.”

“Ah! I see!” Thor stepped forward, and it seemed like he covered the entire kitchen in a single stride, “You are Young Parker’s companion.” The way he said it had her face heating up, like he was insinuating something, “Barton informed me that you were visiting with Parker and his other friend.” He cocked his head, “But I also understand that you and Young Leeds are not to wander the grounds unaccompanied.”

“I wasn’t wandering,” Michelle replied honestly, “I was just coming to get a snack.” And she found one, she thought, steadfastly keeping her eyes on Thor’s face.

“Ah! Of course! And how rude of me to interrupt!” He turned and leaned over the table, grabbing the box of poptarts he’d been devouring and offering it to her like a trophy of war, “Would you like one?”

Michelle stared at the box for all of two second before replying, “Sure. I love blueberry.”

Thor’s jovial laugh filled her ears and she soon found herself sitting with him, finishing the box and sharing stories. She quickly steered him from his tales of valor toward Asgardian politics and economics (he was a prince, after all) and found herself telling exciting stories of historic earth battles as best she could (history was one of her strong points).

The mythical man wasn’t all that strange, really, she mused as Thor spoke.

…

The fifth time Michelle met an Avenger, she met Captain America and the Falcon together. By now they had already heard of Peter’s two friends who were visiting for a weekend, so she didn’t get the skeptic treatment, but she did get treated to two soldiers in uniform. In his uniform, Steve Rogers looked almost exactly like the pictures from her history book – the costume was a bit different now. He did look exactly like he did in the PSAs though, right down to the look he gave her when he first saw her. So much was that obvious, that she couldn’t resist the temptation.

“Hey, I know you.” She said simply, pointing to the old soldier with a half-smile, “You’re the PSA guy.”

It was so satisfying to see the Captain America redden under her scrutiny. More satisfying than tricking Peter into admitting he was Spider-Man, more satisfying than acing her last French test, more satisfying even than beating Ned at Trivial Pursuit: Star Wars™ Edition.

Sam Wilson’s bewildered look made the comment all the sweeter, because enlightened Michelle to the fact the he did not know.

“PSA guy?” Sam turned to Steve, who was giving the floor an awkward-yet-still-award-winning smile, “What does that mean?”

Michelle replied before Steve could, bringing out her best Captain America voice, “Hey kids, I’m Captain America, and I’m here to talk to you about bullies. A bully is someone who regularly harms or intimidates those weaker than them. Maybe they think its cool, but take it from someone who was frozen for seventy years – it’s really cool to follow the rules—”

“Jeez, do you have the whole thing memorized?” the relic said through an embarrassed chuckle. He then straightened up, looking at her with a stern face that reminds her that she’s staring at a World War II captain, “Are you a bully? You know, the nazis were bullies, too. It’s why I had to beat them up. Don’t be a nazi – be cool, like me, Captain America.”

Michelle snickered at the line, which Steve had pulled directly from that same PSA. Sam looked back and forth between the two, bemusement slowly fading to amusement. “What are you two talking about?”

“I recorded some PSAs a few years ago.”

“They show them in schools. They’ve become a meme.”

Sam nodded, “I’ve got to see that.”

“They’re all on Youtube.”

Steve rolled his eyes.

…

“This is her?” Tony Stark queried, his eyes staring into Michelle’s eyes as if judging her every being. He was leaning on the counter of the Avengers’ kitchen, looking too casual in his jeans and a band tee, sipping coffee from a mug that says “#1 Avenger.”

“Yeah,” her boyfriend answered, licking his lips. Peter was standing beside Tony and doing that awkward shuffle that betrayed his nervousness. He kept glancing between Michelle and Tony as if one was going to combust at any moment.

She was stood across from Tony, her stomach flipping and flopping while the man calmly took another sip, so she figured it would probably be her in the flames.

The sixth time she met an honest-to-god Avenger was the time Peter Parker introduced her to Tony Stark; and seeing how the genius was basically her boyfriend’s father-figure these days, Michelle decided he was the most important, too.

She wished she could see her own face in that moment, so she could at least know what kind of expression she was making at Tony. From his solemn stare, she couldn’t be sure what he was feeling. Michelle prided herself on her observational skills, but there wasn’t much to observe other than the billionaire’s eyes that refused to blink.

“She’s cute. Good job.” He turned abruptly and clapped his free hand onto Peter’s shoulder.

Both teens practically exploded at the impact, from the way their held breaths left their bodies. Smiling tentatively at her, Peter moved closer, but was interrupted by Tony saying, “Hey, Pete. Why don’t you go get that other guy? I still wanna talk to him about how he hacked your suit.”

It seemed to Michelle that it was a subtle way of saying “Don’t make out in front of me, please.” But Peter didn’t seem to catch on when he obediently left without taking her.

Now she was alone with her boyfriend’s might-as-well-be father, who happened to be a famous billionaire philanthropist.

“I honestly didn’t think he could do romance. He seems too awkward.” He said suddenly.

Michelle replied honestly, glancing at the doorway Peter had used, “He’s still really bad at it, but I am too, so…” She trailed off.

“Ah, so you’re like that.” He laughed into the mug.

She looked to her feet and began scuffing her shoe against the linoleum tiles of the kitchen, “Yeah. I don’t mind it, though. And I don’t think he does either.”

“Oh, not at all.” He responded flippantly, and though she wasn’t looking at him she could tell he waved a hand, “He’s always talking about how cool you are. I thought you’d be out of his league.”

The words came out like a reflex, “Yeah, he’s lame like that.” And she almost jerked her head up to stare at him wide-eyed.

His laugh kept her eyes aimed down, though. “So,” He asks next, “Do you know about his internship?”

She did glance up at that, but her gaze only made it to his chest where an arc reactor clung to his shirt – Peter had said it housed nano-tech – and she answered with a question, “You mean the Spider-Man thing?”

“You do know. That’s good,” Tony decided, “It means he doesn’t have to make up dumb excuses when he’s late to dates.”

“Yeah, he’s really bad at that.” She managed a shaky laugh and finally met his eyes again only to see how amused he was. She blinked, and suddenly she was standing straighter, almost indignant.

“Oh?” He asked, noticing the change immediately, “Are you done being awkward now? Can we have an actual conversation? I heard from the others that you didn’t even react to them.” he smiled when she replied by flipping him off. “That’s it, relax, kid. I already gave you my blessing, not that he’d listen to me anyway. Why am I the one to get you all nervous? Thor’s an actual god, you know.” He said it mockingly, without any real reverence, as he takes a sip from his mug.

She almost said something about how much she liked Peter or something about how important Tony’s opinion of her was because Peter thought the world of him. Tony had said Peter wouldn’t listen, but she knew it would still make things weird.

But she said none of that. Instead she said, “It’s because rich white men are the scariest thing in the world.”

He choked.

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myownworldstayout · 5 years ago

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Prompt #30 Betrayal

@felixmonth

“I look ridiculous.” Felix said curtly, glaring at the mirror in front of him.

The blonde behind him scoffed, dismissively waving her hand back and forth. “Fe, you look fine. This play is meant to be dramatic and old.”

“Allegra, how am I supposed to ‘protect the princess’ if I can’t even move? The design is just impractical.”

“Well, your ‘princess’ is the one who made it, so you’ll just have to deal.” Allegra stated, placing her hands on her hips as she looked him over. His outfit was truly regal. He wore a light grey dress shirt lined with gold and a pair of white dress pants that were tucked into his black boots. They even gave him a bright red cape to wear with it, along with a black and white mask. It wasn’t all that bad. Felix just liked to complain.

“Can someone tell me why a simple guard’s outfit is fancier than mine? I’m supposed to be the Prince! I can’t be out shined!” Claude huffed, crossing his arms and eyeing Felix. His costume was purely blues and whites, and though he didn’t have a cape, he was decorated in golden pins that proved his ranking.

Allegra rolled her eyes, opening her mouth to respond when Allan cut in.

“Actually, Felix isn’t just a normal guard. He’s a royal attendant, meaning he’s a special guard that specifically guards one person, In this case, that person is the princess.” He informed absently, looking over his clipboard to make sure they had everything in place.

A smug grin crossed Claude’s lips.

“Oh? I was wondering why Felix wasn’t the prince. I’m sure you’d love to stay by her side and protect her for the rest of your life, wouldn’t you?”

Felix threw him a glare, refraining from lunging at the boy simply because Allegra was still tugging at his outfit.

“Are you quite finished?” He snipped, glancing back at her.

“Yeah, yeah, calm down..okay, I’m done.”

Felix breathed a sigh of relief, stepping off the platform. He didn’t think Allegra could be pickier than Marinette when it came to clothing. Where was that girl anyway? Perhaps she was getting changed somewhere else?

“Alright, positions!” Allan suddenly yelled, quickly running backstage right after.

Claude slid up next to Felix, lightly nudging him in the side.

“Don’t worry. I won’t woo Marinette too much.” He winked, ducking through the red curtain and onto the stage before Felix could throttle him.

Felix pulled open the curtain with a scowl, but stopped short when he saw what was on the stage.

Or rather, who was on the stage.

“Wow, Nette, you went all out!” Claude praised, patting a flustered Marinette on the shoulder.

“Y-you really think it’s okay? I feel like it’s a little.. much.. on me.” She admitted, reaching up to play with her hair only to remember she’d put it up in a bun for the costume.

“Okay? It looks awesome! Right, Fe?”

Felix sucked in a breath when the two abruptly acknowledged him. Marinette whirled around, Her bluebell eyes finding his.

“Oh, I-I didn’t see you there.. What..do you think of the dress?” She asked, uncertainty lacing her tone. She was wearing a fuchsia colored gown that seemed to have endless layers around the skirt. Golden swirls lined the bottom of the skirt, emphasizing the golden earrings dangling from her ears and the golden locket around her neck. The front of her sleeves stopped just above her elbows, but the back of her sleeves trailed down to her forearm.

Felix swallowed, trying to form an answer instead of standing there like an idiot. He could hardly breathe, let alone talk, and he was expected to tell her how she looked more like a goddess rather than a princess?

He felt his cheeks heat up, and cursed Claude’s crap-eating grin. Oh, he would pay for this later.

A gasp came from his right, and Allegra acted as his saving grace, running out onto the stage. “Oh, Mari, you look absolutely enchanting!”

Before she could respond, Allan came out as well, looking extremely displeased. “What part of- Oh, cool dress -What part of ‘get in positions’ don’t you guys understand??”

Allegra pulled a pout, but retreated to the backstage again. Allan nodded with satisfaction as she left, then dragged Felix behind the curtain as well.

The play began smoothly. Everyone seemed to be remembering their lines. The crew members didn’t appear to have trouble switching out props. To be honest, though, Felix barely noticed any of that. He was too busy gawking at Marinette. He still couldn’t get over how gorgeous she looked. Felix didn’t know how he even remembered his lines the few times he was up on stage. Anytime his eyes caught Marinette’s, his heart just skipped a beat and his brain went into overload.

It wasn’t until a certain scene came up that Felix actually started paying attention to the lines.

“Ah, My beautiful Princess. It’s been eternities since I’ve seen you alone.” Claude sighed, lightly taking Marinette’s hands and pulling her closer.

“And you look so stunning under the moonlight. I wonder how it will feel when I finally have you all to myself.” He continued, brushing her bangs to the side.

Felix rolled his eyes towards Claude’s antics. He was always so over dramatic.

“Be patient, my love. My attendant will accept you soon enough.” She said softly, perfectly in character. He couldn’t help the irritation pricking at his mind towards Marinette calling Claude “her love”, though.

Claude smirked, gently cupping her cheek. “I don’t doubt it.. But, if you would, perhaps I could have a sneak peek?”

Felix straightened. That wasn’t supposed to be his next line.

“W-what?” Marinette stuttered, obviously caught off guard as well. She then cleared her throat. “Uh- but what if- won’t my attendant see us?”

“I understand your concern. All I ask, is a simple kiss.” Claude requested, his smile widening.

Felix gripped the part of the curtain closest to him, glaring daggers at the brunette. He certainly didn’t miss the brief, yet mischievous glance Claude gave him.

Marinette blushed and Felix growled.

“I- well- uhm- I-I suppose.. If it just a kiss..” She faltered, hands coming down to fiddle with her dress since her hair was up.

Felix didn’t even think about what he was doing. The next thing he knows, he’s on stage, pulling Marinette away from Claude.

“What doth you think you’re doing?” He seethed. No. There was no way he would let Claude get anywhere near Marinette with those kinds of intentions.

Claude dramatically gasped, feigning surprise. “Ah, my good sir, I can explain-”

“There’s nothing to explain.” Felix cut him off, standing in front of Marinette and pulling out his sword. It was fake, but he needed something to smack Claude over the head with.

The ‘Prince’ drew out his sword as well. “I merely asked for her affections, and she said yes! You would betray your Princess’ wishes?”

Felix scoffed, thrusting his sword towards Claude. “The only betrayal I’ve committed is not protecting my Princess as much as I should have. Clearly, if I had done my duty, she wouldn’t be anywhere near you.”

Claude dodged the attack, moving to strike him back. Felix blocked it and quickly spun Claude’s sword around. The sword went flying into the audience, but Claude seemed completely alright with Felix winning.

“I am sorry, your majesty. I promise to protect you better in the future, and give you the man you deserve.” Felix apologized, taking Marinette’s hand and bowing deeply in front of her.

She nodded solemnly, a hidden mirth in her eyes. “Oh? And who might you have in mind?”

Felix smirked, bringing her knuckles to his lips in a gentle kiss. “I assure you He’s much closer than you think.”

#Felinette #Felix Culpa

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austerlitzborodinoleipzig · 5 years ago

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Ranking the programs - JGPF 2019 Junior Ladies

Started doing it last year, did not finish, let’s try to be better this year. Again I want to say that the order is strictly personal. It entirely depends on my personal tastes. A program can be objectively good, and leave me entirely cold, which means he’ll be at the bottom of the list. Also in my case, music can break or make a program and is a least responsible for 50% of my enjoyment of said program.

So let’s dive right into it with the junior ladies. This year’s crop had on average better choreo than last season (mainly because there were only two Daniil G progs :) ). From least favorite to favorite.

THE SHORT

6 - Please don’t make me love you - Daria Usacheva

Daria is a very gifted skater who is able to pull off the atrocious program she’s given. She tries really hard to detail every single movement, she’s surprisingly polished for her age and sells the short. Unfortunately the choreo is shit, so there’s nothing to show. The music is horribly cringy, the rest is typical Gleich, with its gazillion transitions that do not match the music at all and could be transposed to any piece of music.

What about the costume? Nice dress, but that’s also part of the typical Eteri-girl package, with lots of rhinestones. Olga Ryabenko did not knock it out of the park this time. Also I don’t like the colour she wears. I don’t care for the pastel-y grey and pink. Give me bright colours you cowards! 5/10

5 - Chopin, Nocturne in C Minor - Haein Lee

Nothing wrong with it. Nothing great about it either. A bit bland, a bit boring, a bit of a safe choice for Haein who is a wonderful skater with great lines and musicality

What about the costume? 5/10 Again, I find the colour boring. Not fan of the outline either.

4 - Tron Legacy/The Fifth Element - Viktoria Vasilieva

I applaud Viktoria for deciding to skate to something a bit different. The choreo with its straight and angular arm moves is a good fit. She’s not the most expressive skater but has a lot of energy and is really musical. You will rarely see her missing a musical beat.

What about the costume? I disliked her previous dress, the black one with the yellow fluo lines; but her new one is an improvement. 7/10. I like the geometric patterns. Lots of sparkles, makes for a nice effect when she spins.

3 - Boy on a Ball - Kamila Valieva

For the life of me, I can never remember to name of the music Valieva skates to, so I just refer to the SP as the Boy on a Ball, of the Picasso SP. I absolutely adore the concept. The painting coming alive is a wonderful idea. I love the music choice. Very minimalist, delicate, and somehow fitting... The execution does not follow through. The choreo is far too busy for such a music. I actually don’t mind the leg kicks. I think they fit the program and the character she’s portraying. It also gives the program a distinc look. I like it. Otherwise... This SP had such potential and is disappointing. Mostly I can quite love it because I’m always fairly underwhelmed by Valieva’s performance. I think the girl is putting on herself an insane amount of pressure, she nearly always looks like she’s going to burst into tears at the beginning, and always rushes through. So far she has not shown any connection with the music and always rushes through.

What about the costume tho? 10/10. Straight from Picasso’s painting. I love it.

2 - Don’t Rain on My Parade - Alysa Liu

One of my favourite programs of the season. And one I rewatch the most, just because, I know it will put me in a good mood. Never fails. This program is just pure joy. It fits Alysa like a glove. And the lyrics are so her. The music choice is deliciously tongue in check. Anyway Alysa is one hell of a performer. The choreo is great. Lots of transitions added since last season. The stepsequence is a blast! I mean how can you not love Alysa doing the fingerguns on “Eye on the target and BANG”. Also the attitude, the wink, the flying kiss during the second spin... It’s great. It just is.

What about the costume? The pink dress, with the big blue gem is cute. Not very original but very cute. 7/10

1 - Alfonsina Y El Mar - Ksenia Sinitsyna

A masterpiece. It’s intricate. It’s mature. It’s soft and delicate. The choreo is full of details that are like small gems. And Ksenia is really the full package, and fingers crossed she will make it to the top, without being part of the Eteri team.

What about the costume? Really beautiful. I like the blue colour used. I liked the cut of the dress, and the V-Line. I like the wave-like patterns in the back and along the collar. 9/10

THE FS

6 - Exogenesis Symphony part III - Kamila Valieva

That FS is a big no. How you take Exogenesis and manage to choreograph something that does not reflect the music in any way is beyond me. Seriously nothing is choreographed according to the musical accents. Kamila skates, the music plays. Nothing to see.

I do like the costume tho. The purple grunge butterfly is interesting, and definitely a bold choice. 9/10

5 - Introduction et Rondo Capriccioso, de Camille Saint-Saëns - Viktoria Vasilieva

I adore Rondo capriccioso, and the choreo is decent. Nothing to write home about, but nice.

What about the dress? Meh 5/10

4 - Je suis Malade - Daria Usacheva

I was really sceptic at first because I did not think a thirteen years old could pull this off. Unfortunately Daria is currently the best of Eteri’s junior at interpretation, so the team decided “LET’S GIVE HER BIG DRAMA PROGS”, instead of, I dunno, something less heavy.

Not only does Daria manage not to get drowned by the overwhelming vocals, she actually succeeds in pulling this off. I’ve read an interview where she said that she was a bit scared at first, but really feels her FS, and it really shows. She’s skating her heart out, and her performance, is not only intense, but also wonderfully sincere. She stays honest, and true to herself, does not cheat, and was able to make this beast of a FS hers. Truly outstanding.

What about the costume? I like it. Like the heart-shaped ornementations along the neckline. I like the dégradé of red. 8/10

3 - Illumination - Alysa Liu

Alysa’s coaches makes A+++ choices in terms of packaging. This is a very nice FS, as mature as can be expected of her, and really designed to help her grow artistically. I love the music. The beginning is a bit empty, as she basically skates up and down the rink, trying to land her crazy content, but after that it goes nicely. Alysa is always very musical, focused, and gives the energy and power this piece of music requires.

And the costume? 7/10. Very nice.

2 - Oma Asa Toma/Dakini IV - Ksenia Sinitsyna

The choreo is a wonder. Intricate and full of interesting steps and turns. Lovely choreo for the arms. Probably because this is a demanding program, with all the combos backloaded, Ksenia tends to put aside the performance to focus on the tech. Understandable, but because of that the program does not snap like it should.

The costume? Well there’s a discussion to be held about cultural sensitivity, on insensitivity, but Ksenia’s dress and makeup were meticulously crafted, with nothing left aside. I appreciate that commitment to details. 7/10

1 - Riverdance, Firedance - Haein Lee

The Stepseq is one of the best of the season. When all the jumps have been landed, Haein just lets it loose and sets the rink on fire. And it’s so fucking great to watch!

Costume - Haein’s dress remind me so much of Mao’s dress for her last FS, that I cannot not love it. The red suits her really well. I love the rose in her hair. I like the shape of the skirt. 9/10

#figure skating #jgpf #haein lee #alysa liu #kamila valieva #daria usacheva #viktoria vasilieva #ksenia sinitsyna #ranking programs is my passion

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oh-its-souichi · 5 years ago

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Arcade

Yo!

Shigaraki X Reader (kinda??)

Daughter’s name is Shi... again! because typing D/N really upsets my flow if ya dig

Request: kittenlordofdarkness said to oh-its-souichi:

Yooooo I just recently found your blog and let me say that your writing brings me LIFE!! Like omg it’s amazing! The way you write Shigaraki is so amazing and seeing him actually get a bit of fluff and normalcy in his hectic life is awesome. Could I please have anything with him, his S/O, and their kid? Like maybe he gets pestered into going to an amusement park with them but actually ends up kinda enjoying some of the stuff like the haunted houses or arcades

Warning: FLUFF a--n--g--s--t, Shig is a lil soft, I got so excited for this request that I overthought it and fudged it up :( :( Shite grammar

It had been a long ass day.

He had been drug around by a small fearless grey haired girl in the sweltering heat going from ride to ride, costumed character to costumed character and he was over it.

It wasn’t supposed to be him bringing Shi to the amusement park, it was supposed to be you, but unfortunately you came down with a horrid flu that kept you bed ridden and barely conscious.

He pictured your paling and hallowed face in his mind and felt his chest pull uncomfortably. He wished you would just get better so he didn’t have to waste time worrying about you. It was a pain in the ass.

To lost in his own thoughts he didn’t realize Shi had stopped walking in front of him to gawk at a sign and he ran into her almost knocking her over. “What the hell” he cussed reaching out and grabbing her arm, with a pinky up, so she didn’t fall. “Sorry daddy” she said quietly dropping her gaze to the ground. He furrowed his eyebrows looking down at her. “What are you doing?”

She pointed up at the sign she had been staring at and smiled shyly. “Can we play together?”

‘Play together?’ he thought following where she was pointing until his eyes were met by a florescent orange sign that read “Arcade” A mischievous smile spread across his face. “You want to play video games?” He asked croaching down in front of her. She dug her shoe into the dirt and twisted her body around nervously, the skirt she wore swaying with her movements. “Yeah. Grand Theft Auto!” she exclaimed looking at him, her E/C eyes widened happily.

He stood up "That games not going to be here" He said walking towards the building, two little footsteps trailing behind him. “Just don’t cry when I annihilate you like your mo-” his mouth froze and he felt his whole body cringe at the words that were going to leave his mouth. “Like Y/N does” he continued irritably.

Shi listened intently fumbling to keep up with him. “You play with mommy?” she asked watching as Shigaraki opened the door pushing her lightly in. He nodded. “Yeah. Sometimes” he grumbled looking around. The arcade was surprisingly nice. The carpet was black with florescent rocket ships and stars printed on it. The only real light source in the room were the black lights on the ceiling and the screens. I wasn’t dark enough for him to drop his hood and avoid being recognized but being here was easier on his anxiety. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. He glanced down at Shi who was staring in complete awe at the scene around her. He smirked “What kind of game do you want to play anyway?”

She prodded her lower lip in thought her eyes still wandering around. “Oh I know!” she exclaimed jumping beside him. “Fighting game! No killing game. I want to kill, daddy! I will just pick okay? Am I allowed to?” she smiled tugging on his jeans. He patted her head as lovingly as he was capable of. “Whatever. I’ll get coins you pick out a game” he said trying to hide his happy face from her. She squealed and ran off into the rows of arcade machines pushing past the people that stood around them.

He scratched lightly at his neck before turning around and walking towards the back wall that was lined with coins dispensers. He pulled out few crumpled bills out of his pocket and carefully straightened them out against the machine closest to him. After he got it in an acceptable state he entered it into the slot. To the left of him a group of kids ran in, all of them talking and loudly among themselves.

“Did you hear they got that new game??” One of them said.

“Theres a new game what’s it called??”

“I don’t know. I just know its new!!”

“You idiot”

Shigaraki smirked taking his coins. ‘At least Shi doesn't talk as much as them, how annoying.’ he thought about to discard another bill until a familiar scream met his ears. He whipped around and looked in Shi direction to see her being pushed, her head smacking off of one of the plastic chars as she fell.

‘Who the hell?’ he thought scratching at his neck and walking in her direction.

There was a boy who seemed to be a few years older towering over her a shit eating grin plastered on his face. “I’m playing this game little girl. Go find a different one.” Shi glared up at him tears falling from her eyes her mouth remaining shut. He sped up his pace but before he could reach Shi the little girl had lunged at her assailant and wrapped her little hands around his neck. “Don’t be rude!” she shouted tightening her grip. Due to the size difference the boy was hardly affected by her grasp. “Get off of me!” he said bringing his arms up to push her off but he stopped a gasp leaving his mouth. Shigaraki arriving just in time, stood above him seeing cracks begin to form on the boys skin under Shi’s hands. “No! Say your sorry!” she yelled her arms trembling.

A sad smile formed on Shigaraki’s face and he scooped his daughter easily up, cautious of her hands. Quickly he walked to the door and exited the building before the boys parents could find them. “Daddy he needs to say sorry. He needs to!” Shi cried wiping tears off of her face. He looked curiously at her from the corner of his eye, she seemed pretty oblivious to the whole situation. ‘Does she even realize she developed her quirk?’ he thought ducking back behind one of the buildings and setting her down on the sidewalk. “Will you shut up for a minute.” he hissed casually checking to see if anyone had followed. His crimson eyes scanned the street. Out of the arcade came the boy who was crying and holding his neck. His mother was dragging him with a panicked look on her face. Shigaraki smirked before turning his attention back to Shi who was silently crying, heeding to his request.

“Hows your head” he mumbled feeling his gut twist at her sad face. Shi nodded slowly. “It’s okay”

He sighed and looked down at her. “You can’t kill people in public like that idiot.” he said patting her head. A shy smile crept onto her face and she looked up at him. “Thanks for saving me daddy” She said. He grunted shoving his hands in the pocket of his sweater and toying with father who rested inside. “I didn’t save you” he said stubbornly looking away from her gaze.

“Yeah you did”

“No”

“Yeah! I can’t wait to tell mommy!” She exclaimed jumping and grabbing onto his leg. He pulled way from her quickly seeing all five of her fingers grab onto the fabric of his jeans. “Watch your hands! You can’t act stupid anymore now that your quirk has developed.” Shocked she pulled away and looked down. “My quirk?” she said seeming to think on the subject.

The topic of Shi developing her quirk came up once between you and him. He secretly hoped that she would develop your quirk and not his.

It was pretty inconvenient.

Plus he is already worried about accidentally about touching you wrong and now he has to worry about Shi, a clueless child, doing it.

“Now I’m like you!” she said as if it was the greatest thing in the world. His chest began to swell. “Yeah. Whatever.” he said grabbing lightly onto her wrist and walking her back behind the building towards the street. “It’s game over let’s go. We can play something at base”

Shi squealed “Really?? Thank you daddy!”

He smiled secretly to himself.

Today wasn’t so bad after all.

...

When the two of them got home you were passed out on his bed a wet cloth resting over your forehead. Shi walked quietly into the room and climbed up on the bed being overly careful with her hands. “Mommy” she whispered in your ear nudging your shoulder with her fist. Shigaraki stood out in the hallway secretly listening in on your interaction.

You opened your eyes and smiled tiredly at her. “Hey sweetheart” you said your voice rough. “How was it?” Shi gently pushed a few strands of hair out of your face and smiled. “it was fun! Daddy sa-” she paused, looked around the room to see if the coast was clear and began to talk again only this time must quieter. “Daddy saved me from a boy in an arcade but don’t tell him I said that okay? Also I went on rides and oh! I got a quirk like daddies!”

You closed your eyes feeling a migraine form. ‘This is going to be a disaster’ you thought imagining the difficult months ahead of you. “That’s great sweetie. I’m glad you had fun.”

Shigaraki came in the room from out in the hallway hearing the stress in your voice. “It’s your fault you have weak genes.” he spit standing at the end of the bed staring at you. “My genes?” you said slightly sitting up. Shi twisted her head in confusion. “Jeans?” she lifted up the blanket and looked at you legs. “Daddy mommy is in pajamas.” she stated plainly. You both looked at her dumbfounded until a laugh escaped your lips. “No Shi we can talk about it later. Go play with Kurogiri while me and daddy talk okay?”

Shi looked between the both of you hesitantly before nodding her head and slipping off of the bed and out of the room.

“What happened?” you asked readjusting the cloth on your head. Shigaraki stared at you for a moment before turning his back to you and sitting on the edge of the bed. “Some brat pushed her and she tried to kill him basically.” He lifted up his leg and began to slip off his shoes. There had been a ache in his legs and feet he hadn’t noticed before sitting down.

You nodded pursing your lips. ‘Well that’s one way to spend your birthday’ you thought picturing what happened. “Did she?” you asked looking him over. He looked tired, all of his extremities sagged a bit more then usual and his hair was disheveled. “No” he grunted slipping off his other shoe. Careful not to rock the bed to much he crawled next to you and slipped underneath the blankets and rested his head on your shoulder, wrapping his arms around you. “-that would have been funny though” he said.

You rolled your eyes and opened your mouth to say something snarky but was distracted. “Daddy?” Shi said shyly, standing in the doorway. “Hm” he huffed.

“Can we play a game now?” she asked. A deep sigh left his mouth and you watched him as he got sluggishly up from his side of the bed. “I guess” he said walking towards his computer. “Come on”

Shi jumped happily and ran to his side, jumping on his lap once he sat down. “Just don’t ruin my mouse got it?”

“Got it!”

#tomura shigaraki x reader #tenko shimura x reader #shigaraki tomura #shimura tenko #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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thruheavenandhighwater · 6 years ago

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Halloween Series - Ashton

[[ Luke ]] [[ Calum ]] [[ Michael ]]

Pairing: Ashton Irwin/ Female Reader

Requested By: Anon

Word Count: 2,227

Summary: Matching costumes and halloween party fun with Ashton.

You and Ashton were sitting on your couch watching Halloweentown on a breezy October afternoon. You were sitting next to him, your legs thrown over his lap and your head leaned into his shoulder. One of his arms was wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on your outer thigh. You had a bowl of popcorn in your lap which you were both munching on occasionally as you watched Marnie and the other Cromwells get up to their shenanigans.

“What are you gonna be for Halloween?” You asked him, lifting your head from his shoulder to look at him.

“Dunno.” He answered as he put a few pieces of popcorn into his mouth. “Usually a few of us will get together and do a group costume, but nobody has said anything about it yet this year.” You nodded quietly, popping a handful of popcorn into your own mouth. “Why do you ask?” He questioned.

“No reason.” You answered with a shrug. “Just wondering.”

He tightened his arm around your waist. “What are you thinkin’, pretty girl?”

You shrugged again and suddenly became very focused on the popcorn in your lap. “I was just thinking…” You stopped short, trailing off at the end of your thought. You felt Ashton tighten his arm around you again, this time shaking you just a little with a small smile on his face. You giggled, looking up at him quickly. “I don't know. I just was wondering if you'd maybe want to do, like, matching costumes. Or something. I don't know, it's dumb...”

“Are you kidding? That sounds awesome.” He answered.

You grinned at him, “Really? If you want to do something with your friends…”

“Y/N, of course I want to dress up with you. A couples costume with my girl? Best Halloween ever.”

You leaned back into him, your head falling to his chest. “I love you.” You whispered to him.

He kissed the top of your head before resting his cheek there. “Love you too, baby.”

The next day you and Ashton went to the Halloween store to find your costumes. You were walking through the aisles, hand in hand, laughing together at some of the ridiculous couples costume options they had.

Ashton picked up a headband with a pair of grey mouse ears. “Okay, so I'll be a sexy mouse, and you can be a mouse trap.”

“A sexy mouse trap?”

“Is there such thing as a sexy mouse trap?” He asked as he adjusted his ears in a mirror.

“Is there such thing as a sexy mouse?”

He turned around to face you, a dumbfounded look on his face. “Y/N. Really? If Mean Girls taught us anything, it's that there is definitely such thing as a sexy mouse.”

You laughed, nodding your head. “You are absolutely right. Let's add sexy mouse to the maybe pile, then?”

“I don't know how we're going to beat this amazing costume, but I suppose we can try.” He sighed as he removed the ears and added them to the basket you were carrying. You kissed his cheek and linked your hand with his again as you continued down the aisle.

“Ketchup and mustard.” He suggested.

You scrunched your nose. “Too overdone.”

“Oh! Cinderella and Prince Charming!” You said excitedly when you spotted the costumes.

“Definitely not. He's the worst dressed of the princes.”

There was a whole display set up full of Nightmare Before Christmas decorations toward the middle of the store. “Jack and Sally?” Ashton asked. “It's classic, and I know you love the movie.”

You leaned into his side just slightly, resting your head on his shoulder. “You're right, it's one of my favorite movies ever. But all that greasy costume makeup would make both of us break out until Christmas.”

“Good point. You're so smart.” He said before kissing your temple gently.

A few minutes later, you rounded the corner into yet another aisle when two costumes immediately jumped out at you. “What about these?” You asked him, holding up a Little Red Riding Hood costume and a Big Bad Wolf costume.

“Love the dress.” He answered with a wink. “But I can't wear that wolf costume in public, babe.”

You looked at the costume again, and had to admit that it was definitely kind of awful. More like a weird grey onesie with a rubber mask than an actual wolf. You sighed and hung the costumes back up.

“Hey, woah,” He said quickly as he reached around you and picked up the Little Red Riding Hood costume. He held it in his hands, eyeing it intensely. You could practically see the gears moving in his head. “Do you still have that red skirt? The one you wore to Calums birthday?”

You nodded, trying to figure out what he was thinking. “Okay… We'll get this.” He said, dropping the costume into your basket. He took off suddenly, walking away from you towards a display of costume jewelry. He picked out a necklace, a gaudy thing with a giant red, plastic gem in a teardrop shape and earrings to match it.

“You like these?” He asked, showing them to you. Once again, you just nodded, still not sure where he was going with this. He smiled as he added his selections to your growing basket of items. He quickly turned again and started to walk away. You grabbed his arm before he could take a step and pulled him back to you.

“Ya wanna fill me in here, babe?” You asked with a smile.

“Sorry, got a head of myself,” He laughed. “I was thinking we can do Little Red and The Wolf, but like, modern day. If that makes sense. So like, you can wear that red skirt and the cape from this costume with your black boots. And I'll just wear jeans and my leather jacket and you can draw, like, sideburns and hair and stuff on my face.”

You were surprised he was able to come up with this idea so quickly. You shouldn't have been by now. Nearly a year into your relationship you should have been used to how quickly his mind worked.

“That is a great idea, Ash.” You told him. “I never would have thought of that.”

He grinned at you, his dimples coming to his cheeks. “You think so?”

“Definitely. What else do we need?”

“Fangs.” He answered. He cocked an eyebrow and silently growled at you, making you laugh a little louder than you'd meant to.

“Okay, calm down, wolfy.” You giggled as you took his hand once more and started your search for fangs.

The following weekend was the Halloween party where you and Ashton would be debuting your costumes. A friend of Ashton's was hosting the party at their house just outside of LA. You were helping Ashton with his costume, drawing on the final touches of his “fur” on his cheeks. He was sat on the bathroom counter as you stood between his thighs, one hand at the back of his neck to hold him still.

“Did you know that you stick your tongue out when you concentrate?” He asked you, his breath fanning across your face.

“Not a good idea to make fun of the woman doing your makeup, Irwin.”

He smiled at you, wrapping his arms around your waist. “I'm not making fun, baby. I was going to say that it's really fuckin’ adorable.”

You returned his smile before placing a quick kiss to his lips. “You're done, by the way.” You told him after you pulled away, taking a step back.

He hopped off the counter and turned to look at his reflection in the mirror. “Oh, shit…” He started as he brought a hand to his face.

“Hands off.” You told him, grabbing his hand before it could make contact with his cheek. “This was the cheapest eyeliner at Target and I don't know how well it will stay if you start smudging it.”

He smiled and looked at you in the mirror. “This looks great, baby. You did so good.”

You wrapped your arms around his chest and leaned your cheek into his back. He placed one hand over yours and squeezed it lightly. “Thank you, darling. Now, get your hair done while I get dressed?”

“Can't I just watch you get dressed instead?” he asked you with a wiggle of his brows.

You laughed as you removed your arms from his chest. “You can do your hair so we can get to your friend’s party, wolf boy.” You told him over your shoulder as you exited the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later you were both dressed and ready to leave. Ashton looked like a bad boy from a classic movie. His fitted dark wash blue jeans, paired with a simple black t shirt and his black leather jacket were enough to have you fawning over him as you walked into the living room to show off your own costume, which he had designed.

“You look incredible.” He sighed as you tied your red cape around your neck. It fell just above your knees, almost the exact same length as the red pencil skirt Ashton had chosen for you. You double checked your jewelry in the mirror next to the front door before taking Ashton's hand and allowing yourself to be lead to his car.

As you walked into the party with Ashton, you stopped to in the kitchen to talk to Luke and Sierra, who were dressed as Cinderella and Prince Charming.

“Now, aren't you glad I vetoed that?” Ashton said smugly after giving Sierra a quick hug. You rolled your eyes as you took your turn hugging the couple.

“Yeah, yeah. I like what you came up with better anyway.”

“I want to be mad at that,” Sierra said as she picked up her drink from the counter. “But I have to admit that you guys look great.”

“Oh, you abandoned me and still have the balls to show up?” You heard Calums voice from a few feet behind you. Both you and Ashton turned when you heard him. Ashton grinned and pulled the taller boy into a hug.

“The day you look better than her in a dress is the day I'll apologize for abandoning you.” He told him with a laugh. Calum returned his laugh as he quickly pulled you into his chest, squeezing your shoulders lightly.

“What do ya say, Y/N? Costume swap?”

You gave him a once over, taking in his Han Solo costume. “I don't know,” You started. “Maybe if you had a Chewy.”

Calum dramatically turned to look at Ashton. “Well if somebody had asked me before running off and getting a couples costume with his girlfriend, I would have a Chewy.”

Ashton laughed again, throwing his head back. “You're ridiculous, mate.”

“How about next year we all three do a group costume?” You asked Calum, rubbing his arm gently.

He dropped his chin to his chest and pouted his lips. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Calums face lit up in a wide grin. He put an arm over your shoulders and pulled you into his side. “I like her.” He told Ashton. “She's nice to me.”

“Only cause she don't know ya.” Luke laughed as he put his drink to his lips. Sierra smacked him lightly on the ribs, making him laugh even more.

Ashton grabbed your hand and pulled you away from Calum. He intertwined your fingers as he addressed the group. “We're gonna go dance. Catch up with you all later on?” Everyone raised their glasses and waved you off as Ashton pulled you into the living room.

Music was playing through the surround sound and the room was filled with people you didn't know, most with drinks in hand as they danced. You and Ashton stayed on edge of the crowd, near a wall as you danced together. He would occasionally make a face at you and they were only made funnier by the drawn on fur and fake fangs he was wearing.

A few hours later, Ashton was pulling outside to the back patio. There was a few people outside, most of them smoking cigarettes in small groups. But it was getting chilly and the soft breeze that blew around you had forced most people indoors for the evening. He directed you to a small bench off to the side where you sat beside him, snuggling into his side in an effort to preserve as much of your body heat as possible.

“Here, doll.” He said as he leaned forward, taking his jacket off and draping it over your shoulders, his arm landing on top of it.

“You're amazing, you know that?” You said with a sigh as you tugged the jacket tighter around yourself.

He tightened his arm around you. “You having fun?”

“Yeah, of course. Is it bad that it's not even 11 pm and I'm already getting tired, though?” You asked with a laugh.

“I hope not, because I am too. Wanna head home?”

“If you don't mind, these are your friends after all.” You answered him.

“Yeah, let's get going.” He said as he started to stand. “Besides, I've been waiting all night to get you out of that dress, Little Red.” He whispered with a wink as he put his hand out for you to take.

~~~

Part one of my halloween/ fall series! Hope you all enjoyed it! Also, I’m entirely too tired to come up with a title for this right now, so they’re all just gonna be called Halloween Series. Sorry I’m bad at life. If you have any requests, or would like to be tagged in future 5sos fics please let me know!

Tag List: @crownedbyluke @cashtonspicelatte @blue-skies-are-alright @lmao5sosimagines @therainydays4 @rosecth @thesoundsyoumake @kinglyhemmings @a-little-international @harryandthelesbians @lukescherrypie @ashotofblues @youngblood199456 @rexorangecouny @cashton-queen @tothemoonwithclifford @babylon-uncrowned @my-world97

#ashton irwin fanfiction #ashton irwin fluff #5 seconds of summer fanfiction #5 seconds of summer fluff #5sos fanfiction #5sos fluff #halloween fanfiction #5sos halloween #5 seconds of summer halloween #ashton irwin halloween #im bad at tags fuck #my words

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thejollyroger-writer · 6 years ago

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Captains & Corsets - A Cocktoberfest Fic

A/n: This story started out as something completely different, not even for this event, and then my muse told me that this was supposed to be my Cocktober story, and not the other one I had planned. It seemed to all work out in the end, though. Special thanks to the @cscocktoberfest mods of this event, and to my excellent beta, @littlescorpion -- your attention to detail inspires me, and this fic would not be the same without you!

Summary: Emma Swan is the manager of Belle's bookstore, helping at the last minute for a Halloween party where her only costume choices involved corsets. Captain Killian Jones has moved to America, having lost everything in England he cares about and has returned to the care of a good friend. Neither of them may be searching for a relationship, but that doesn't mean that they won't hit it off, in more ways than one.

Rated E - it’s cocktober, guys.

Read on AO3!

“You can’t be serious, Rubes,” Emma sighs, trying to pull Ruby’s tank-top up to cover at least a little of her chest. “I don’t know why I ever thought that any of your costumes would be… appropriate.” She lifts her eyes to meet her best friend’s through the mirror.

“Come on, Ems, you should know better than that.” Of all the times Emma has described her best friend’s smile as ‘wolfish,’ none of them described it just as well as right now, standing behind Emma in her little red riding hood costume. Or, what Ruby describes as a costume, but really turns out to be a bring red corset, black shorts, and a red velvet cape with a hood.

“You know this is a costume party at a bookstore and not a night at the world’s sluttiest club, right?”

“So what?”

Emma looks over herself in the mirror again, already embarrassed to be seen in Ruby’s rendition of “Robin Hood”: a green corset-slash-tank top with high-waisted khaki shorts, black knee-high boots, and a little green pointed hat, not to mention the hip quiver and longbow slung over her shoulder.

“I can’t go in this!” Emma finally tears her eyes away from her reflection and whips around to face her best friend, whose smile and eyes only widen seeing the front of her not through the mirror. “

Why not? You look excellent.”

“Ruby! I am the manager of the store, I can’t show up in a corset!” Ruby waves her hand between them, then rolls her eyes and turns back to her closet. “Fine, fine. I have…” She pages through the hangers, looking for something that might be more appropriate. Holding up a skirt that can’t be more than six inches long, Emma shakes her head again. “Since you’re the manager, why didn’t you find a costume before the night of this Halloween party ? ” Ruby pops her head out of the closet at the last bit of her question, accentuating her words with a raise of her eyebrows. Emma rolls her eyes before Ruby steps back into the closet.

“For your information, I was actually not supposed to even be at this party, so I didn’t think I was going to need a costume until this morning when Belle went into labor.”

“Fine, fine! But you can’t come to me for last-minute help and then berate me for my belongings.” Emma opens her mouth to speak, but before anything comes out, Ruby’s hand flies out of the closet, tossing something at her: a pair of pants. No, a pair of red leather pants , with laces in place of the regular zipper…

“Come on, ” Emma whines, but Ruby stops her again. “I feel like you’re trying to make sure I get laid tonight.”

“Listen, would getting some really be half bad? How long has it been since Neal left, anyway?”

Ruby gives Emma an opportunity to answer, but she stays silent. Too long .

When Emma’s eyes fall to the floor, Ruby leaves the subject untouched. “And I have closets full of shorts and skirts, and those are just about the only pants I own, unless you want the white pair?”

“No! No, these are… these are fine. But what costume are they a part of?” Pulling off her jeans, she begins the shimmy into the leather, and when Ruby pulls the rest of the costume out of the closet, Emma is surprised she missed it her first (and second) time through the closet: a black off-the-shoulder flowing shirt with a black and red corseted vest.

“I’ve had this pirate costume since college, and I don’t think I’ve worn it in just as long.” Emma pulls her t-shirt over her head, and Ruby hands her the black shirt, which falls perfectly off her shoulders (and reveals that damned swan tattoo on her shoulder, an alcohol-driven reclamation of the last name of her first foster family, but it’s the least of Emma’s worries for tonight), and as much as she hates to admit it, the corset cinched around her waist actually doesn’t look half-bad.

She’s almost looking forward to wearing it in public, getting laid or not. Especially once Ruby hands her the prop sword, though she thinks she might go without the hat.

She is most definitely not getting laid tonight, especially since she knows everyone in town. Tonight might not be nearly as bad as she originally expected it to be.

******************************************************************

“How in the seven hells did I let you talk me into this, Nolan?” Killian asks, eyeing his best friend out of the corner of his eye, finishing the bottle of beer in his hand.

Dave turns to face his old captain, a man he hadn't seen for almost ten years, the best friend from his younger years that showed up on his porch the day before, all of his belongings in a backpack slung over his shoulder and looking exactly as Dave had remembered, minus the twinge of reddish-grey in his dark hair and beard and the prosthetic left hand, the injury that sent him home the last time David saw him. “You're the one who showed up decked out in that pirate costume, when I was all ready to just come as myself.”

Killian turns to face him, one eyebrow raised high on his forehead. “We both know that your wife would not have allowed that, mate.” He follows Dave's eyes across the room, where he finds Dave's wife holding a tray of caramel apples — some of which Killian even helped her make the night before. Mary Margaret must feel their eyes on her, and she turns towards them with a wave and a warm smile.

“You're right, Jones,” Dave says, his eyes still set on his wife, even after she's turned away from them. “And that's why I'm here now, dressed in this Popeye costume, which I thought was outrageous until I saw yours.”

“Just admit it, Nolan. You're jealous of how dashingly handsome of a pirate I make.” As if to prove his point, he straightens the collar of his jacket, then runs his prosthetic hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead, a salacious grin spread across his face.

Of course, he's right. Dave is not an idiot and has never failed to recognize that his friend is beyond just handsome , but for some reason, the pirate costume accentuates all of his best features: the collar of his jacket parallels his sharp jawbone, and with the top few buttons of his shirt undone, lined up with the V of his vest, the sharp lines call the eyes down the muscles of his neck to where his dark chest hair just becomes visible. Not to mention his dark leather pants, which are tighter than Dave would ever feel comfortable wearing in public.

Seeing just how much lighter Killian's beard and hair has become, Dave thinks of a phrase Emma had brought up a few weeks ago and realizes that it describes his friend perfectly: a silver fox. Killian Jones has become a silver fox.

“Want another?” Dave asks, taking the empty bottle from Killian's good hand before he can answer.

“Please, mate,” Killian answers, pushing himself off the wall they were holding up. “But let me come with you.”

It’s only been two days since Killian packed everything he didn't sell into a backpack and hopped on a plane, finding himself at David Nolan's door just the morning before in Storybrooke, Maine, and in those two days, he's met a good handful of people; but that in no way means he feels comfortable enough to be left alone at a party.

He follows Dave across the small bookstore to where they have temporarily converted the coffee shop to a small bar. Ordering them two more beers and adding them to his tab for the evening, he notices the tall brunette bartender dressed as what Killian believes to be Little Red Riding Hood, though he's never seen a rendition of a children's story character that utilizes a corset, and she smiles across the counter at him.

“Who’s your friend, David?” she purrs, making sure her fingers brush Killian's as she hands him his bottle.

Dave can't help but roll his eyes at the tone of her voice, but he still answers her question, introducing her to Killian—and noticing that Ruby's hand stays in his longer than necessary as she introduces herself.

“Well, thanks, Rubes,” Dave says bluntly, turning away from the bar and hoping that Killian follows as he walks away. Searching the crowd for his wife, Dave heads in her direction, hearing the clicking of the heels on Killian's boots behind him.

Mary Margaret’s eyes light up as she watches her husband approach her, and Killian can't help the smile that flashes across his face when he sees this, the obvious love that the two of them share. Something that he thought he had, until she changed her mind.

But that’s part of what he came here to forget.

“Emma and Belle did such an excellent job putting this whole thing together, didn't they?” Her smile grows with her question, scrunching up the tip of her nose, and Dave leans down to press a kiss to the top of her head.

“Definitely,” Dave replies, but Killian's mind is elsewhere.

“When will I get to meet this sister of yours, Dave?”

Killian's been hearing about Emma for almost as long as he's known David, remembers when he had to leave the base right after their graduation because she showed up in Storybrooke again after running away from their foster home years before. He's seen pictures of her, the ones Dave brought with him on their tours together, and then the newer ones that he has around his house now. The pictures showed him the most beautiful blonde woman he has ever seen, though he's never had the opportunity to meet her in person.

Until today.

“Actually, she's right here!” Mary Margaret waves her hand to grab her attention from across the room, and Killian watches in awe as the crowd parts to reveal her to him. He knows it’s an absolutely cheesy cliche, but damn if she is a million times more beautiful than the pictures that truly do her no justice. She is a goddess on land, the most ethereal angel he has ever seen, dressed as, of all things, a goddamned pirate , in sinfully tight, bright red leather pants with a corseted vest over a black off-the-shoulder shirt, a costume comparable to his own.

As soon as she locks eyes with him, after smiling at her brother and his wife, neither of them break away from the stare. Her eyes widen at first, seeing him for the first time, then narrow as she takes him in approaching him. The moments it takes her to cross the room stretch into hours, watching her watch him, and the corner of his lips pulls up into a half-smile when she stops in front of them. David wraps his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer into the circle.

“Ems, this is Captain Killian Jones, a good friend of mine from the Navy.” She smiles at him, a wide smile that he can swear physically radiates light.

“Captain Jones, it’s a pleasure to meet you after all this time.”

A smile spreading across his face, Killian holds his hand out towards her. “Darling, please call me Killian. And I assure you, the pleasure truly is all mine.”

Taking his hand, she expects his to shake it, but instead, he pulls it to his lips, pressing them against her knuckles, a motion that causes her entire face to redden, a blush that brightens her jade eyes, and he is surprised to feel a warmth to stir in his chest.

Emma, on the other hand, has possibly never been more turned on in her life.

To say that she is attracted to Captain Jones is the understatement of the century, an understatement that grows larger when she notices the brightness of his eyes, a shade of cobalt blue that shouldn’t be possible on a living, breathing human. She’s never been one to have a thing for older men, but there’s something about the man standing before her, a mixture of the patches of silver in his hair and the bright red vest that reveals dark hair that she can only imagine trails down his entire body, that intrigues her in a way she has never been intrigued before, starts a fire in her chest that travels down her body and settles behind her stomach.

Fuck, she doesn’t want to admit that Ruby may have been right, but for what seems like the first time ever, she’s actually hoping that Ruby’s joke about getting laid from earlier becomes a reality.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watches her brother roll his eyes, a motion that reminds her that her brother is standing right next to her , makes his arm slung over her shoulder suddenly weigh her down.

Pull yourself together, damnit.

“You did an excellent job putting this whole thing together, Emma,” Mary Margaret says finally, breaking the moment of silence that took over the group, and Emma finally tears her eyes away from his, turning instead to her sister-in-law.

“Thank you, really, but most of it was Belle. She planned everything, bought all the decorations, everything. I wasn’t even going to be here until she went into labor this morning.”

“Well, then it really is my lucky day, isn’t it?” Killian’s not sure what brings him to say it, and until David turns towards him, he’s not entirely sure he’s said it out loud.

Emma blushes again, and it does incredible things to him, stirring heat in parts of him that he wasn’t sure still worked. Thankfully, before he can say anything else just as embarrassing, someone across the room calls Emma, taking her attention from them for just long enough for David to reach out and hit his shoulder with the back of his hand.

When Emma turns back towards them, she says, “Excuse me, I’m sorry,” before smiling at them weakly and turning away.

Once Dave hopes she is far enough out of earshot, he turns to his friend. “I understand you have an inherent need to flirt with everyone, Jones, but does that have to include my sister?”

Killian flashes the same smile at David that he usually saves for the best of his conquests, which only causes him to roll his eyes.

“Okay, fine,” David concedes before Killian even gets the chance to respond. “Just… try not to do it where I can see you, okay? That’s just—it’s just weird.”

******************************************************************

Killian watches the party from afar, switching at some point from beer to rum, and after spending some time browsing the bookshelves in the small store, he decides on a rather sizable thriller that he remembers someone recommending to him—a book that he fully intends on purchasing before he leaves, especially after the condensation from his glass drips down onto one of the pages. Not paying for it would, of course, be bad form.

Every once in a while, he turns his eyes back to the room around him, most of which he can see from the seat he has chosen, and he usually finds David or Mary Margaret looking towards him, sometimes with rather somber expressions, sometimes smiling when he meets their eyes, but always leaving him alone.

A good book is exactly what he needs right now, after the year he’s had. After Milah leaving him, deciding nine months ago to go back to her husband and “give him another try,” that bloody bastard. Where was her husband for the four years they were together?

And losing Milah hurt him, but not nearly as much as it hurt when he got the call from the police… damn, was it already a week ago? After his stint in the Royal Navy, shorter than Killian’s time in the American military, Liam turned to the police force, a decision that ended up being the one that took his life fifteen years later.

It was at Liam’s funeral two days later that Killian realized everything that he had returned to England for—namely his brother, but finding Milah along the way hadn’t hurt until the end—was gone. Liam was the only tie back to reality that Killian had.

So he sold everything he had, packed what was he needed into his backpack, and bought a ticket to America, thankful that he and David had kept correspondence since his injuries sent him home from deployment, including Christmas cards from Dave’s lovely wife that included his address.

Realizing that his eyes stopped taking the words in, Killian pulls his thoughts back to the pages in front of him, blinking the glaze away from his eyes. It works for another few pages, until he realizes that his thoughts have floated off the page and back to his brother once again.

Damn him.

Killian finishes the rest of the rum in his glass in a quick mouthful, then pushes himself away from the table, noting his page in the book before he closes it. Finding his way back to the bar, the one part of the room he cannot see from the table, the brunette bartender flashes him another smile when she passes the glass back to him over the bar.

“Thank you, love,” he drawls, smiling back at her before taking the first sip, and lets the liquid sit in his mouth for a moment before coating his throat with the sensation of it.

Turning his attention back to the party, he remembers David’s sister, though how she ever left his mind is beyond him.

But at the same time, he does have a lot on his mind, so he forgives himself for forgetting about the beautiful blonde for a little while. Though turning his attention towards her would definitely help him forget about Milah, which he realizes he desperately wants. He scans the room, trying to find her and those damn leather pants somewhere, but when he cannot, he drops his head, hitting his chest with his chin. Running his fingers through his hair then across his stubble, he sighs, then decides to return to his table, and to his book. Hopefully.

But as he turns the corner away from the bar and towards his table, he spots her, her back to the party, sitting at the very table he just left, her slender fingers carefully running over the book he left on the table.

For a moment, he wonders what it would be like for her to run those fingers over him, before he curses himself. He takes another careful sip of his rum as he fills the rest of the space between him and the table.

“I am planning on paying for it, just so you’re aware.”

He does not think he spoke loudly, but he still notices that he caused her to jump a little before she turns to him, watching him take a seat across the small wooden table.

“I never doubted that, actually.” Her smile is small, just the beginnings of the radiance she flashed him when they were introduced. He hopes he can get her back to that brilliance.

“Shouldn’t you be attending to your party?” He gestures around the room, but her eyes do not leave his face.

“You’re also at my party, aren’t you?” Her smile grows, but only a little. “It’s not like I’m being completely antisocial, sitting in the corner by myself.”

Her words tear a hole in his chest, but when her face reddens and she drops it to the table, hitting her forehead against her crossed forearms, he doesn’t think she meant it in the way he was taking it.

After a moment, she straightens back up, and she looks so absolutely devastated that he can’t help the laugh that rattles in his chest. “I promise I didn’t mean that like— as an insult, I just— ” Her eyes meet his, taking them off of the book sitting between them, and the softness of her features proves his thought is correct. “I’m sorry. You’re in a completely new town with people you’ve never met before. If I was in your place, I would be doing the same thing.”

He smiles gently at her, reaching across the table and covering her hand with his. “Truly, love, it’s alright. Though I hope you never find yourself in my place.” He doesn't know what calls him to say it; the last thing he wants to do is spew his tragic backstory to the gorgeous blonde sitting across the table from him. But, taking another careful sip of his drink, he watches her eyes turn up to him in question.

But her response doesn't force anything from him: "Well, whatever brought you here, Killian, I for one am thankful for it."

She smiles at him again, closer to the divine radiance from their meeting, and after a moment, he returns the smile. "Thank you, love," he says finally. "I appreciate that. Truly."

A beat passes between them, softened by both of their smiles, and when she turns her eyes back down to the book still on the table between them , he notices the twinge of red that takes over her cheeks, darkening further as she changes the subject.

"You know, Dean Koontz was one of my favorite authors in college. I haven't read this one in particular, but all of the reviews I've read or gotten about it make it sound interesting."

Killian nods. "I heard a few great things about him before, but this one in particular was mentioned in an article I read on the plane here from England. I was just perusing, searching for an activity to pass the time when I came across it on your shelves and decided to give it a try."

"You're from England then?"

For some reason, it is not a question he was expecting from her, and part of him believes that she's simply making small talk to be civil. But the genuine interest he finds in her jade eyes is just the push he heeds to convince himself that, maybe, not everyone views him as a sob story. He truly hopes that Emma does not.

"Aye, from a small town in the north."

"But weren't you in the Navy with my brother?"

"I was. My mother was American, so when she left my father and returned to America, I joined her. I was twelve, and my brother was nineteen and joined the Royal Navy at the same time that we left."

She nods, obviously intrigued by his story, most likely trying to fill in the gaps from what David had told her. "But you went back to England after you were injured?"

He attempts to smile, but it doesn't come. "Aye, by that time, sickness had taken my mother and Liam had gotten a job in England, so I went home to be with him."

"You and your brother are close, then?" Her question is harmless—she is genuinely interested. Even still, unknown to her, the words hit him like a blade to the heart and he has to swallow the lump that forms in his throat before he can answer her.

"We were." As much as he was trying to avoid the 'retelling of the tragic backstory' part of the night, he finds that he actually wants to tell her. "He passed a week ago. Killed in the line of duty."

For the second time—because yes, she was counting—she reaches out and covers his hand with her own.

"I'm so sorry, Killian. Is that—is that what brought you here, then?" Her voice is soft, a sort of real niceness that reminds him of the time he had spent with Dave's wife, Mary Margaret. He's incredibly thankful for it. For her.

"Aye. There was nothing left for me in England, and Dave was really the only person from my time in the military that I've stayed in touch with so coming here was the only sensible idea in my mind."

Her eyes fall back to the table, to where her hand is still resting on top of his. Neither of them make a move to change that.

"Well, I hope you find Storybrooke as healing as I have."

"I have a feeling it might be exactly what I need." He's fairly sure he's not talking about the town and, finally, when she looks at him again, he sees that he has succeeded in bringing her smile back.

They sit in a comfortable silence for a few moments, Killian’s attention back to the book as much as it can be with the gorgeous woman sitting across from him, Emma pulling her phone out of the pocket of the vest and staring down at it for the moment of silence she has before someone approaches her, a dark-haired woman in a simple black dress and a witch hat, and Killian raises his eyes to her before Emma notices her presence behind her.

“Emma,” the woman says, "I need you to look at something for me, if you're not busy?"

Smiling gently up at her, Emma turns back to Killian. "Captain Jones, this is Mayor Mills. He was in the Navy with David."

"Pleasure," she says, though the look on her face paints the opposite picture, so Killian simply raises his glass to her before turning his attention back to the pages.

"Excuse me," Emma mumbles as she pushes herself away from the table.

******************************************************************

Slowly, the party begins to come to a close. People leave, one by one or in groups, each thanking Emma before finding their way out of the building. Killian watches it all from his corner of the room, watches her intently even though he pretends to read any time someone turns towards him. It is almost midnight once Emma actually takes a moment to look at her phone, the screen filled with notifications, people tagging her in their Instagram pictures and their Facebook posts, plus pictures from Belle of her new daughter.

Even so, with all the work and clean up she knows is ahead of her, she somehow finds herself back at the table in the corner, glass of whiskey in hand as she stares across at Killian who has turned his eyes up to hers in an incredible staring contest.

"Can I help you, love?" he mumbles in a voice that Emma might even define as a growl, a sound that strikes Emma right to the core. She can't quite understand it, but she is suddenly overcome with a need , an incredibly physical desire, an attraction unlike anything Emma has ever felt.

And Killian feels it too, staring across the table at her. He never thought he would feel this way towards a other woman, thought he had wasted what was left of himself on Milah. But sitting here, across from his best friend's sister with the bright green eyes filled with desire, he feels it again.

"God, I hope so," she whispers, so quiet that Killian is not even sure that she meant to say it out loud. But after the night they have had during the course of this party, staring at each other across the room as if their eyes were magnets, drawn only to the other, he by no means is against what her words insinuate. Emma may have only had a few glasses of whiskey over the hours of the party, but Killian has been at it regularly all night—and though he has never had a problem holding his own, it continues to strengthen his innuendoes shared only with her the few times she found enough time to join him again.

Leaning across the table on his elbows, he reaches out to press the tips of his fingers against her arm, needing to feel some part of her against him.

"Just give me the chance, darling, and I promise you won't be disappointed."

The bright red that quickly rises to tint her cheeks assures him that what he assumed earlier was correct, that she didn't think she actually spoke the words that crossed her mind.

Staring across the table for a moment longer, Emma covers his hand against her arm with her own. Then, as quickly as it started, the moment's over.

Emma clears her throat. "I need to clean up."

"Do you need assistance?"

"Please, Killian," she laughs, squeezing his hand below hers. "You're a guest here. The last thing you need to do is help clean up after people you don't even know."

He returns her smile with his own. "If you change your mind, love, you know where to find me."

"Of course. Thank you," she whispers before getting up from the table once more.

But keeping away from him, keeping her attention anywhere but him as she and the few partygoers left stuff trash bags and wipe down tables, proves to be a much harder task than she anticipates. Every time she turns her eyes back to him, sitting alone at the table with the book before him, she finds his eyes trained on her, no matter where she is in the room.

Ruby must pick up on this as she cleans up her own bar stock, making her own eyes at Emma when she meets them.

"Remember what I told you earlier,” she whispers, sliding past Emma with a box of bottles. "It wouldn't hurt to get a little action tonight."

Emma huffs, rolling her eyes at the words of her friend. But, at the same time, Emma realizes that Ruby may be right, thinking of Killian in ways she has tried her hardest the whole night to avoid: trembling above her, holding her in his arms as she feels every muscle of him against her.

Inside her.

It's been almost two years since she left Neal, learning that his trips to Boston for "work" were really for him to see his other woman. Two years since he had broken her heart, since she decided never to trust another man.

But letting Killian have his way with her, letting him roam her body with his hands, his tongue—that doesn't mean opening her heart up to him.

Not necessarily.

Suddenly, every moment begins to suffocate her. It is bubbling up inside her, threatening to take her over, this need for him. And so, she does what she can: she sends the remainder of the guests home, David and Mary Margaret and a small handful of others.

But not Killian.

Killian stays. Even when David tries to insist his friend leaves with him, then Killian joins the conversation.

"I've done nothing but sit on my hands all night, mate. The very least I can do is make sure she gets home safely."

"Fine, fine," Dave gives in, clapping his hand on his friends shoulder. The look they share in that moment recalls Dave's comment from earlier about flirting with everyone to his memory, but he hopes that Dave is not thinking of the same thing. "Just don't stay out too late," he adds with a smile, then wraps his arm around his wife, who looks like she could collapse from exhaustion at any moment and leads her out the door. He looks back at his sister one last time through the store window, and then they are gone.

Emma and Killian are alone. Before turning towards him—because when she does, she fears she may not be able to turn away—she locks the door behind her brother, then lowers the blinds over the windows.

Then, once she is sure that they are safe from any interruptions, she turns to face him, his bright eyes and sly smile peeking out from above the book in his hands.

For what feels like eternity, neither of them move as if the world has pressed the pause button, her hands set on her hips, and one of his eyebrows locked high on his forehead.

And then, finally, it gets to him, and he gets up from the table and fills the space between them, taking her face in his hand and resting his prosthetic against her hip.

"I was hoping you felt as I did," he says softly, but keeps the rest of the space between them for her to choose to fill herself. “Just two ships passing in the night,” he whispers, overwhelmed by the need to make some kind of joke about their costumes.

She takes a moment to stare up at him, to take in the details of his face that she had failed to see throughout the night: the small scar on his cheek, that she runs her thumb over; the flecks of light that twinge his dark beard, not just silver-grey but red; and, perhaps most prominently the streaks of white in his hair, hair that calls to her to run her fingers through. So she does.

It is much softer than she expected it to be, light as a feather and softer than she's known anyone's hair to be.

“Passing closely, I hope.”

Smiling up at him, she wraps her hand around the back of his neck and pulls his lips to hers. He lets her guide the kiss for a moment, not forcing her into anything she does not want— though, by the way she presses her body against him, he erases any doubt that they are not already on the same page; but when he feels the warm flick of her tongue against his bottom lip, he grants her entry, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her flush to him, to make sure that she feels every inch of him against her.

“Killian,” she whispers, her lips still pressed against his, and he hums in response. “We can’t do this here.”

“Aye, love. I was thinking that, but Lord knows I wasn’t going to stop you.”

She laughs against him, running her hand against the stubble that covers his cheek, which earlier that day he cursed himself for not getting rid of, but feeling her fingers against it makes him glad that his laziness got the best of him. “My office is in the back” she says, pulling away from him just enough to look into his eyes.

“Lead the way,” he mumbles back, but not before he can grind against her, the leather of his pants failing to hide anything from her, showing him half-hard and growing beneath the fabric, a sign that he wants this just as much as she does.

Pulling away before she loses the ability to, she takes his hand in hers and pulls him through the store. But when she leans against the door into the back, pulling at the handle to push it open, she finds it locked— of course it’s locked, because why would it have been open?

She turns back towards the store, trying to figure out where her damn keys are, but Killian misinterprets the movements and presses his body against hers, needing to feel her again, trapping her between him and the door. His lips find hers again, hot and dominating in a way that she didn’t know she needed until he was on her, could feel the hardness of him against her own leather pants.

“Killian, wait ,” she pleads again, his lips on her neck, and when she begins to laugh, he stops his movements and stares up at her, his head still ducked below hers, blue eyes blown wide with both his desire and his confusion. “I need to find my keys. The door is locked.”

“And this is funny to you somehow?”

“The last thing I want you to do is stop, but I can’t find my damn keys to get into my own office. That’s what’s funny.”

A smile grows across his face, all the way from his dimples to the lines that form around his eyes. “Aye, that makes more sense. Have you any idea where they might be?”

Pinching her lips together, she raises her eyes to the ceiling, trying to remember what she did with them when she arrived here hours ago, after putting them in the pocket of her jacket like she always does. When her mind fails her, coming up blank, she tosses her head back even further, hitting the top of it against the door behind her.

“I’ll help you search for them, love,” Killian comments, his voice deep and hoarse, and she suddenly becomes immensely aware of all the places he is touching her: his left hand on her hip, the fingers of his right blushing softly against the back of her neck, partially tangled in her hair—not to mention the heat of his hips pressing her into the door, the hardness of him apparent even through both of their pants, fueling the fire that he has already started in her core.

God damn this fucking door.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, letting her head fall until her forehead is pressed against his, and the thumb of his right hand comes up to run gently across her cheek.

“I can assure you, Swan, there is nothing for you to apologize for. Nothing says foreplay like a scavenger hunt.” He is completely serious for a moment, and Emma is terrified that somehow, he’s not joking—until his facade breaks, and a smile grows across his face. “They have to be here somewhere.”

He pushes away from her, leaving her leaning back against the door, and her body is suddenly overcome with a chill, missing the heat that he was passing to her.

“They’re in my jacket— did I say that already? It’s leather. And, uh, red.” Her face begins to turn the same color, somehow realizing for the first time that her beloved jacket is the same color and material as these damned pants that have started to become too tight in the past few minutes.

“Bloody hell,” Killian mumbles, hopefully not loud enough for Emma to hear, but the blush that is already running across her face makes him believe she hasn’t.

After taking a moment to gather herself, she pushes herself off the door to her office, needing to find something to do to make up for the fact that she’s not doing Killian.

Damn, that’s cheesy.

But when he calls to her from the corner of the store, behind the checkout counter that Mary Margaret had turned into a candy bar, she suddenly doesn’t care how cheesy it was, because it’s true.

“Did you find it?”

“Unless someone else also has a red leather jacket that they left here with their keys in the pocket, then I’m fairly sure I found it, love.”

His smile does absolutely terrifying things to her insides, warming them up in a way that can’t be safe, and when he presses his lips to the back of her neck as she finally unlocks the door, she feels like she might just catch fire.

He closes the door with her body, pressing her against it faster than she can close it behind him, covering her with his own body as his lips find hers again. They pick up where they left off before, but it quickly becomes more, Emma's hands finding the buckle of his belt as his snake further up her thighs, landing finally on her leather-clad ass. She unsnaps the button on his pants, the zipper practically undoing itself, and he stops to pull his head away from her, just far enough to look her in the eye. His cheeks are flushed, his lips swollen from hers, but his eyes are so sincere, searching for any part of her that doesn't want this as much as he does.

She does, of course, and this is the answer that he finds behind the walls of the emeralds in her irises when she nods to him, and he smiles softly at her for just a moment before covering her mouth with his again. Wrapping his arms around her once more, she pulls her away from the door and leads her to the small couch against the windows, setting her down on it before reaching down to slide out of his boots, and she does the same.

As he stands back up, she tries to pull him back to her, but instead, he drops to his knees before her. Her eyes sparkle in the light of the office, never leaving his face, and when his hands slide up the inside of her thighs the palm of his hand pressing lightly on her core as he begins to untie them, she can’t stop the moan that escapes her lips. His fingers snake into the top of the material, slowly sliding it down her legs, followed closely by his lips. He struggles a little to remove them completely, the material tight against her skin, but when she is finally free of them, he tosses them aside, kneeling between her legs once more.

She sighs when his lips find the soft skin inside her knee. His lips trace up the inside of her thigh, and the moan that escapes her lips when he flicks his finger under the hem of her lace panties and across her folds is enough for him to feel his erection jerk in his jeans, and he wishes he would have let her finish removing them.

“Tell me what you want from me, love,” he growls, running his lips back up the inside of her thigh, the coarse hair on his chin tickling her just as she imagined it would.

“I --” she starts, but when he slides his finger between her folds, whatever she was trying to say is replaced by a sharp intake of breath, followed by a thick, mumbled, “Oh, fuck me.”

“Patience, darling,” he says, his lips pressed against the top of her thigh, then flicks his tongue out right above where his fingers have entered her. She moans again, this time softer, and he feels her stomach clench when he slides his fingers further into her as he presses his tongue against her clit. “Now, I'm going to ask you again, love: tell me what you want.”

It takes all the strength she has not to finish for him right then and there, with his fingers inside her and his lips against her, his mumbled words reverberating against her core.

In place of an answer, she lets out a groan. “Oh, Killian,” she breathes, and when he feels the way she is responding to him, he stops, sliding his fingers out of her almost all of the way, the tips remaining as a teasing whisper. “No, please,” she whispers, moving her hips towards him, trying to get him back, and when she opens her eyes, he is staring at her from between her legs, a sly smile spread across his face.

“All you have to do is tell me, love. Say to me what I want to hear, and I'll give it to you.” His voice is still just a growl, but hearing him turns her on more , which she wouldn't have thought possible if she hadn't felt the clenching of her thighs, felt the heat that came with it.

“Make me come, finish me with your fingers and your mouth before you let me ride your cock.” Her breathy words tumble out of her, but they are the most she can manage at the moment.

For just a second, he does not acknowledge them, and she is afraid that, somehow, that wasn't what he wanted to her.

And then he smiles at her, darting his tongue out to wet his bottom lip. “Aye, love, I think I could make that happen,” he whispers, then watches her intently as he fills her with his fingers again, focusing on just the right spot with his tongue to make her come apart for him after just a few more thrusts. When he feels her contract against his fingers, he moans, by far the sexiest sound she has ever heard, and when she finally opens her eyes to meet his again, he is smiling. “Attagirl, Emma. Give me all you got.” He doesn't stop, holding her in her high until she can't handle it anymore, finding his hand with hers.

“Killian,” she says, her voice no more than the breath she lets out, and he pulls away from her, though only for long enough to rid himself of his pants.

She wants to be surprised, learning that he had gone commando beneath the sinful leather, but she’s not . As much as she wants to pull him down to her, wants to taste his lips on hers again, there is something else that she suddenly wants more. Standing before him, she pushes his jacket off his shoulders, hearing it land with a thump against the floor, then undoes the buttons of his vest one by one, following her hands with her lips, soft against the dark hair on his chest, hair that leads all the way down to beneath his legs, and then further still.

When she is finished with the vest, he pulls it the rest of the way off, depositing it somewhere in the room, and her lips continue to trail downwards, stopping at the darkest patch of hair that his erection is jutting from as she wraps her hand around him, running her tongue over the tip of it to catch the fluid dripping from it.

“Emma, darling, you don't—” he starts when he realizes what she is beginning to do, but when she does take him in her mouth, one hand wrapped around the end of his shaft and the other gently cupping his balls, any words he was attempting to say are replaced with a deep groan, followed by a whispered, “ Bloody hell, you siren.”

She laughs around him, starting to pump him with both her hand and her mouth, and his hand tangles itself in her hair, needing an anchor to something before he loses control completely. When she feels him begin moving with her, rocking his hips in time with her hand, she stops, sliding her mouth off of him with a pop, and her sarcastic comment is on the tip of her tongue when he kneels down beside her, his fingers still in her hair as he guides her to the soft carpet of the floor and finds her mouth with his.

Their kiss is rough, all fire and passion and fury, tasting themselves on the other, and by the time he pulls himself away from her, anything she was planning on saying to him is gone.

Slowly, he begins to unlace the back of her vest, his fingers hot against her when she does feel them, and she snakes her arms free of it before he runs his hands across her stomach to her hips, finding their way beneath the black shirt, lowering himself so he can kiss his way up her stomach as he removes it, pushing it over the swell of her breasts to find nothing beneath the shirt but the perfect ivory of her skin, the peaks of her perfect pink nipples slowly hardening under his gaze, even as he pulls the shirt over her head and deposits it with the rest of their clothing.

He says nothing, his eyes locked with hers, and a soft smile spreads across his lips, one that she can't help but return. “What?” she whispers.

“You're just so bloody beautiful,” he whispers, and though from anyone else in his situation, the words would have scared her— feelings where there should only be action —she somehow does not feel the same hearing them from him. “Do you still want what you told me before?”

The question is endearing, assuring that she has not changed her mind, even as they both lay completely naked on the floor of her goddamned office.

“Yes.”

He smiles at her again. “Good.” He kisses her forehead, then her lips, then pulls his head back just far enough to watch her as he finally, slowly, slides his cock inside her.

“Oh, Killian,” she moans, meeting his hips with hers in hopes of filling her up more.

They find a rhythm that works, his mouth venturing between her nipples and her lips, her nails raking into his back, until she stops suddenly, her hands planted on his hips and her eyes finding his face, waiting for his to meet hers.

“What is it, love?” he asks, his face painted with concern, but she just smiles at him, wrapping her legs around his ass and pulling him to her.

“If I remember correctly, I already asked to be on top.”

He returns her smile, and she presses her palm against his cheek, raising her eyebrows in warning before they both try—and fail—to roll over. She begins to laugh first, and he joins in automatically as she finds her place above him, her knees straddling his hips. Taking his hand in hers, her other against his shoulder and his left on her hip, she rocks her hips against his erection, pressing her folds into him for a teasing moment before she positions him under her, lowering herself around him. At this angle, she finds he fills her better, more fully, and when he shakes his hand free of hers to tangle itself in her hair, he grabs as much of it as he can in a fist, trying (and succeeding) to find something that would bring her closer to a second orgasm. Her free hand finds her own breast, pinching the nipple between her thumb and forefinger.

“You're fucking perfect,” he growls from below her, releasing her hair from his fist only to use it to grab her hip, his fingers hard against her skin to leave marks, but she doesn't care, especially once he stretches his thumb out to find her clit, rubbing it in slow circles to match the pace she is setting with her hips. “Come again for me,” he demands, and it is only moments before she does, coming undone for him for the second time that night.

She is still riding her high on him when he mumbles, “I'm close, love, where do you want me to come?” and she rocks her hips hard against him as he thrusts, allowing him to be as deep inside her as he can, even if just for a moment.

“Right there, yes, fuck,” she says, rocking against him again, a movement doing wonders for her own orgasm.

“Are you sure, Emma?” he asks softly, slowing for just a moment, and she swears that she has never met anyone with enough simultaneous self-control and respect for her to make sure of that in the last moment, not allowing themselves their own release just to make sure she has taken care of everything.

“Killian, yes , I'm fine. Now, please,” she pleads, her hand against his cheek as she tries to help him return to the pace they were at before. “Give me what I want,” she whispers, and his fingers dig into her hip again.

“Okay, darling. Okay.” And he does just that, pumping himself into her until they are both, finally, spent.

Holding him inside her, she falls onto his chest, pressing a kiss into his forehead and his cheek before her lips find his neck, a movement that pulls a soft chuckle out of him before he asks, “Do you, uh, need to clean up, or something? I've never not used protection before, though I imagine it still has to go somewhere, right?”

She leans up again, her elbow on his chest to rest her chin on her hand as she raises her eyebrow at him. “You've really never not used a condom?”

“Aye, love, what's so hard to believe about that?”

Shrugging, she pulls a few tissues out of the box on the corner of her desk, thankfully within her reach, pressing them between her legs as she slides away from him, then searches for her underwear.

“I guess it's just been a while since I've used any that I forget it's some people's main source of protection.” She turns away from him, collecting as much of their fluid as she can before she finds her underwear, still tucked into those damned leather pants. She pulls them on, opting to allow her body to cool back down to a normal temperature before attempting to squeeze back into them. In place of the rest of the costume, she digs through the bottom drawer of her desk until she finds the plain black t-shirt that she’s stored there, though it never had a purpose before tonight.

Pulling it over her head, and though it covers her skin, it fails to provide the protection that the padding in the off-the-shoulder shirt had across her chest, as she notices when she turns back towards Killian.

When he realizes she is facing him once more, his hand slides up his neck to grasp the hair behind his ear, having managed to don his own pants again, but the dark hair that still covers his chest is still on full display.

“As much as I enjoyed that activity, Swan, I was really hoping to ask you to dinner sometime.”

Emma feels her eyes grow wide, astounded both at the question itself and at just how much of a gentleman Captain Jones had proven himself to be throughout the whole of the evening. This was not supposed to happen.

None of this was supposed to happen.

The worst part, though, is not the feelings attached to asking her out, but the fact that she completely, utterly, overwhelmingly wants to say yes. To her brother’s best friend.

To her brother’s best friend.

“What will David think?”

It is, without a doubt, the last thing he expected to hear from her as a response, and he raises his eyebrows at her—though when he realizes his own answer, he can’t stop the smile that flashes across his face.

“I would assume that he would much rather I court you than learn that I’ve fucked you senseless in your office just hours after I met you for the first time.”

God, he’s good.

“Is that what you think you’ve done?” Now it’s her turn to smile at him, cocking her head with her question.

“Perhaps not senseless, though I would at least like the opportunity to try again.”

******************************************************************

That opportunity presented itself after their second date, exactly a week from the Halloween party. For the first time ever, and thankfully at the talented hands of Captain Killian Jones, Emma learned what it meant to be ‘fucked senseless’ after he had pleasured her with his fingers, then his mouth, and finally, his cock, laying beside him too drained to move, to think, to feel.

It’s definitely a feeling that she wouldn’t mind experiencing again.

#captain swan ff #captain swan #cs ff #cs smut #cs cocktoberfest #cs cocktober #my writing #silver fox killian jones

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