#at first I thought the mustaches on this face is a crime against beauty

[kenobers]

Gangs of Coruscant | mobster!Obi-Wan Kenobi x fem!Reader

Chapter Two: The Godfather Espresso Blend

← Chapter One

After her run in with Coruscant's most notorious crime lords, reader finds herself working in one of his diners. Obi-Wan makes her feel anything but easy. However, sometimes he's a little less frightening when he's sweaty. tw: Mafia!AU, sweaty Obi-Wan a/n: I actually meant for this and the next part to be the same chapter, but this was so warm and gooey that I figured I'd separate it from when shit starts to get real. Disclaimer: Yes, this is a romanization of the concept of the mafia, but it is also a fictionalization based on the structure of the Jedi Order. No character in this story is based on any real life mobster and no plot point is based on an actual organized crime story. I am aware that most crime lords do not look like Obi-Wan Kenobi nor am I encouraging anyone to actually try and get with a made man (or woman). Please direct all complaints to Marty Scorsese. God Bless.

Obi-Wan paid well.

Technically it was the Jedi Order that paid well. Legally, it was Dex. But your checks always came hand delivered and signed by Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

It turned out you liked the waitressing job much more than you thought you would. If the diner was a front for mob activity, as you'd originally thought, that was none of your business.

Dex was a good boss. He was a big, burly man with a booming voice, and his bushy mustache covered much of his lower face, but you could always tell he was grinning. You were certain the man had lived every lifetime possible. He had a never ending slew of stories and postcards from every system lined the walls of the diner.

For the most part, the folks who frequented the diner seemed to be alright. The regulars had begun to learn your name - well, except for one elderly gentleman, who had thin hair tied in gold colored plates that reached his shoulders and had managed to call you by every variation and sound-a-like except for your actual name. You didn't hold it against the chap. You just appreciated the effort and the hefty tips. It was nice to have some semblance of community.

At first, being in the diner had felt suffocating. You would be lying if you said Obi-Wan didn’t make you nervous. The man had a kind smile and his eyes made you a little weak in the knees. He was beautiful, he was considerate and, once again, he paid well. 

Still, you couldn’t ignore the fact that he was keeping you here to surveil you. Or that he carried a gun with him. Or that he was an infamous crime lord. Maker knew you were paranoid about doing something to make him suspicious. You knew that’s why he dropped by so often; he was waiting for you to slip up. 

There were some days, however, where you could almost pretend this wasn’t the case. Like when he came in during lunch one afternoon. Instead of the usual tan and white suits, he wore a gray tank top with a Mandolorian band printed across it and a faded pair of green basketball shorts. His auburn hair still looked strategically placed, even when sweat had plastered it across his gleaming forehead. 

“Obi-Wan!” Dex greeted, shuffling out of the kitchen with a plate of food in each hand. “I take it you’re here for some protein?”

Obi-Wan laughed, “unfortunately not, although I wish I had the time. I’m just here to pick up coffee for Anakin and Ahsoka.” 

“Ah, (yn) will be right on that,” Dex nodded your way and realized you’d been starring. You dropped your head, then glanced up as if it was the first time you’d noticed him. However, you could tell from the amusement on his face that the silly little ruse hadn’t worked. 

Who could blame you for looking? It wasn't like a mobster in Adidas was an every day sight.

He slid down the counter to where you were stationed by the coffee pot and handed you a slip of paper with two orders on it. The first neatly written request for a white mocha with almond milk, complete with a smiley face and a thank you. The second was for a large coffee with a lethal amount of extra espresso shots and a particular amount of vanilla flavoring written in undeniably male handwriting. 

“I figured it might be easier just to have them write it down,” he said. Over the corner of the sticky note, you caught sight of his forearms, each adorned with a brown leather bracelet, and prayed that he couldn’t see your eyes popping out of your head. 

“Thank you,” you managed to whisper, getting to work on the order.

Your hands followed the instructions with ease, but the focus didn’t meet your eyes. They resisted the urge to turn back to the sweaty crime lord, acutely aware that he was studying you.

“I never asked what brought you to Coruscant.” 

You peered up at him like a deer in the headlights. As if you were unsure whether or not he was speaking to you, you glanced behind you - only to realize you were the only one behind the counter. 

“Well,” you started, pausing to add just the right amount of syrup to the first order. “I actually came here to work at the hospital.” 

There was an awkward moment of silence, before Obi-Wan sheepishly went, “Ah.” 

You gave him a small smile. It wasn’t his fault you’d lost the job you’d uprooted yourself for. Still, he looked a little guilty. 

“But,” you continued, moving to the second order. “It hasn’t been bad working here. A fresh start is a fresh start in any package.” 

He hummed thoughtfully and your heart stuttered a little at the musicality. 

“That’s an excellent philosophy. I don’t think I could’ve mustered up the same amount of patience when I was your age.”

Heat rose to your face. You managed to squeak out a little “thanks!” as you whirled around to grab the vanilla syrup, pretending to fumble for it before turning back to him. Maker knows why this conversation was giving you heart palpitations. 

Because his arms are, like, really strong, one voice in your head giggled. Another protested, or it’s just because he’s showing some interest in you. A third one shut them up, it’s because he’s hot, scary and he’s showing interest in you. 

“And what about sign language? How did you end up interpreting of all things?”

You looked up at him, a tad surprised. He wore a soft smile and seemed unnervingly laid back. There was a curious glint in his blue eyes, but it wasn’t prying, like it had been that night in the warehouse. He was genuinely conversing with you. 

“I was a bit of a hypochondriac and thought I was going deaf when I had an ear infection in high school, so I started learning some basic phrases. Then I just found a passion for it. It’s a fascinating language and culture, really.” 

You blinked, realizing you’d said all that while making direct eye contact with him - the longest you’d probably looked him in the eye since meeting him.

He chuckled, capping the lid on Anakin’s espresso death. 

“That’s admirable, my dear,” he said easily, placing both drinks in a carrier and tucking a generous tip into the metal jar. “And very cute.” 

You could’ve melted into a puddle of coffee right then and there.

However, it wasn’t enough to win you over. You couldn’t let your guard down around him.  

“He knows you aren’t trouble, doll,” Dex had assured you after Obi-Wan had dropped off your third paycheck a few days later. “He just has to be vigilant, he’ll do you no harm.” 

You hadn’t realized how tense you had become until Dex spoke. You sighed, “I know, he just….he makes me a little nervous.” 

Dex let out a hard laugh. “You wouldn’t be the first pretty girl to say that about him.” 

You rolled your eyes playfully as you opened the envelope. Two checks fluttered to the freshly cleaned counter. A yellow sticky note was attached to the bottom one. You frowned - what if this was a test. 

Your fingers shook slightly as you picked up the sticky note, turning it over in your hand to read it. 

Meant to drop this off last week, forgive me. 

You’re doing very well. :) 

O.K

You traced the smiley face, feeling heat rush to your own face. Then you picked up the second check. 

$1,000 made out to (yn) (ln)

For an excellent first month. 

     X    Obi-Wan Kenobi

Shock didn’t begin to cover how you were feeling. You pressed the sticky note to your racing heart. It was probably just to ensure your silence and cooperation. However, you knew he had no reason to do that. It was more likely...

Well, frankly, it was more likely that this was just an act of appreciation and kindness from a man who had the means to do so.

Those little voices in your head collectively sighed.

Maybe it's okay to fawn over a crime lord sometimes.

[xinambercladx]

"The Double Cross" A Star Wars Cad Bane Fanfic

Genre: Action Adventure Word Count: 2,700 Rating: General. (SFW) I dreamed of Cad Bane again. But this time, I was nowhere. This was his story, not mine. I floated about like a ghost with no form. I was an observer. It like the perspective of a camera from which an audience might watch a film.

The planet was a dry beach land. It reminded me of the Kanan comics where the rebel Jedi stashed his prized ship The Escape. Kanan kept the ship on the planet called Lahn for safe keeping. Seeing as I read that comic some time ago, and the two places seem so similar, for simplicity’s sake I will refer to this planet as Lahn. Lahn was a blue planet located in the Outer Rim Territories. It was known for its beautiful forests, beaches, and sparkling oceans. Cad Bane was far from the strangest alien to walk the sandy trails here. There were the Ithorians with the humped backs and swooping heads, stepping slowly on stumpy feet. They had two mouths on either side of their head, and spoke in harsh, reverberating mumbles. Gran ran the shops and most of the business properties on the cliff side offices. The docks below where waves crashed against the cream and gray colored masonry hosted the water loving aliens. Famous for their sailing, fishing, and swimming prowess, the Nautolans, Mon Calamari, and Quarren had varying aquatic traits like tentacles, large eyes for seeing in dark depths, or even claw like hands.

Then there was Cad Bane, a member of the Duros species. Compared to the other races, his deep blue skin sparkled like the sea that clashed against the stony or aglae colors of all the others. He would clash more if his leather clothing weren’t as brown. Only exposed the blue skin was the tips of his fingers peaking out from gloves and the front of his face peering out from the shade of a wide brimmed hat. From afar, he would appear as a tall human man. He was a bounty hunter, and was on the isle of Illmek. He left his ship behind him at the hilltop spaceport and made his way down to the sea port.

The sea spray was refreshing. It had been a while since he last spent time at a pleasant place like this. Sea birds flew lazily on the wind. Some slept on the wing. There was an occasional whiff of rotting seaweed, but otherwise the smell of salt and of the beer the sailors drank openly. It was a carefree place on the surface. Such places often hid the most unexpected crime underneath that surface. It was subtle, like that occasional whiff of rotting seaweed.

I thought I smelled somethin’, Cad Bane thought.

His client met him out in the open, bold as could be. Dark corners didn’t seem to exist in a beautiful place like this. To meet in a corner would signal something was up to a discerning lawman, but a casual meeting between two men? Now that wasn’t anything to note. The sailors and passers-by minded their own business of exchanging fish and drinking beer. The client was a shifty eyed Quarren with a sharp chin surrounded by a tentacled mustache. I shall give the name of Shift to this Quarren.

The job was easy enough. He was to embarrass and intimidate a well-to-do businessman at the top of the hill. Shift had bad blood and jealousy with the business man, who I will name Sebastian. Sebastian reminded me a bit of a certain crab character, but had a friendlier voice. Did I say easy? The task was easy, but the execution was more elaborate than I first recalled. After dwelling on this part of my dream I remember there were three steps to it. Several days were spent harassing Sebastian's workers, causing fear and spreading rumor to spread by word of mouth up the ranks until it reached Sebastian's ears. Once the business man heard that a bounty hunter was causing trouble Sebastian sent out guards to deal with him. The pitiful guards returned empty handed, and disarmed. Cad Bane had bested them all and sent another message. Sebastian began to really sweat (if a crustacean Mon Calamari could sweat that is). Things began to go missing from his business properties. Items were lost at sea. Then things went missing from his house. By the time a week had passed, Sebastian had enough. He was about to storm out and confront the bounty hunter himself, or so he claimed.

“This is an outrage! I should... I should see about this myself! How dare this bounty hunter pick a fight with me?” Sebastian asked the room, where a droid and his secretary stood sheepishly. With no answer, he went on. “Why would he do this? I don’t even know the man! I’ve had it. I’m going to demand he come here and explain himself!”

Before Sebastian walked two steps to the door, a resonant voice spoke from the window.

“Demand? I don’t take well to demands, unless yer a client.”

Sebastian turned to face the bounty hunter, who had somehow climbed in through the window and leaned against the sill as if he were perfectly comfortable with invading someone’s home. In fact, Cad Bane was perfectly comfortable invading someone’s home, especially when he was being paid to do it. Sebastian froze between reeling back from shock and urging forward with anger at the intruder. “You! You??” “Me,” Cad Bane said.

The description the guards had given him of the bounty hunter matched perfectly. Sebastian recalled, “A Duros with a big hat and a big mouth. You have some nerve! What do you want? Return my belongings, my property to me! What does a bounty hunter want with my livelihood? I have no quarrel with you.”

Cad Bane replied coolly. “Not the brightest bulb, are ye, bubble brain? I have no quarrel with you, but my employer does.” He was on the Mon Calamari in three long steps across the room. He snarled in Sebastian's fishy face, “He wanted to run you dry, fish man, to squeeze you ‘til ye shut down.”

It was true. The bounty hunter had cost him a fortune. It was a small fortune, in the grand scheme of the galaxy, but for the small island port town? It was too much.

“Shut down? I can’t do that. People depend on me, my business. They’d all starve…” Sebastian finally clicked on the fact Bane mentioned being employed by someone and wasn’t working alone. “But why? But who?”

“Feh,” Bane scoffed. “Everyone has enemies.” He leaned forward and rested a hand on his hip. There were two LL-30 blasters holstered there. The droid gave a robotic gasp. The secretary rushed to Sebastian’s side. He pushed her back behind him, even though she tried to shield him from Bane. Their little scuffle would have been cute if they both didn’t have terror in their saucer shaped eyes. Bane stepped suddenly even further into their space, causing both of them to freeze. “Shut down and I’ll leave ye be.”

The secretary urged, “Sebastian.”

“Alright… I’ll shut down.”

“Gooood,” Bane said. He turned to leave. “My employer will be pleased to hear it.” He strolled to the round metal door. It opened wider than Sebastian’s mouth. “My job’s over. Stay closed for business or my client will hire me again.” Bane was about to step outside when he heard the most peculiar thing. It was Sebastian asking a question that made him stop in his tracks.

“What if I hire you first?”

Bane gave Sebastian a second, more serious look. “Well, well, maybe yer not so dim after all,” Bane reassessed. He rejoined them in the room, but his countenance was with interest instead of intimidation. “Not often I’m hired by someone I’ve offended. Whad’ya need?”

“I want back all the items and cargo you stole.”

Bane groaned, “I was to bother and badger, not steal.”

“Then if it wasn’t you…” Sebastian took a moment to think. “I want you to find out who, arrest him, and return everything to me.”

Cad Bane grinned, and looked about the room. “Since you’ve nothing credits-wise to barter with, Sebastian, consider your lovely establishment as collateral.” The secretary gasped. “If that seems fair to you…?” Bane reached out a gloved hand to the clawed Mon Calamari. Sebastian shook his hand. The contract was signed, and Bane questioned Sebastian about his missing property, when and where each occurrence happened. He noticed a pattern. He had a feeling he knew just where to start looking.

Down at the docks, the most remote dock to be exact, Shift adjusted his brand new diving suit. It was the finest he had ever bought. It glistened in the summer sun, and his tentacled face wriggled with glee. His friends had taken notice of his change in attitude. The once salty man turned sickly sweet, and they soured in repulsion. Something had changed, but they had no idea why. So when they saw the bounty hunter that had been harassing the island walk up to the Quarren, they drew their own conclusions, and most of them were instantly suspicious of their… friend.

“Contracts done. I did what you wanted,” Cad Bane said, putting a toothpick in his mouth. Shift began to act shifty, realizing Bane approached him as boldly in the open as he had done when they first met and struck the deal. His friends would see and hear everything, even if they pretended to be fixing nets or fixing machinery. Shift asked, “He’s shutting down?”

Cad Bane nodded, “I’ll be taking my full payment now.” Shift scooted to the edge of the dock, and began pulling up a rope hanging overboard. The bounty hunter continued, “I couldn’t help but notice during my stay, folk ‘round here complainin’ about belongings going missing...” He eyed Shift as Shift eyed him right back, still pulling the rope in from the water. “Right about the same time as my antics.”

The Quarren finally pulled the remainder of the rope out of the water. On it end, a briefcase was attached. He detached and tossed the weighted rope. It splashed and sunk back down into the water, its upper portion slithering like a snake on the dock.

Shift said, “Seems like someone saw an opportunity.” Shift handed it woefully to the bounty hunter.

“Seems so,” Cad Bane said, removing his hat and propping it gently on cargo crate. He grabbed hold of Shift’s squid-like hand, gripping tightly. Shift grunted. The onlookers halted their work. The rope slithered, sinking further into the water. Cad Bane sneered, “I don’t like being used as a distraction without getting paid fer it. You altered the deal, so I have no qualms takin’ a job from Sebastian to get back at ya.”

Shift’s tiny eyes blazed, “You back-stabbing Nemoidian! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Bane showed fang and wrenched the Quarren’s wrist, “Ye don’t, do ye? Then why’s yer fancy new suit soaked when there was no diving scheduled today? Let’s have a look-see where that rope leads.” The rope snapped taut. The weight had reached the bottom.

“What? No!” was the two words Shift shouted in pain, shock, and anger before Bane launched them both into the water. Once splashed down, Bane fired his jet boots and followed the rope down into the depths. The dock was positioned over the reef’s drop-off. Down and down they went, and the water, as clear as it was, became darker. Shift struggled against Bane’s tight grip. He was a Quarren, so the water was his natural habitat, but he wasn’t used to being dragged.

“You fool! You’re a Duros! You can’t breathe underwater like I can.” Shift warned, “You’ll never reach the bottom before you need to breathe. I’ll help you back to the surface before you drown. We can call it even!” Bane laughed. Shift couldn’t believe it. The Duros had let go of his only breath of air. Shift yelled, “Do you have a death wish? There’s nothing down there worth dying for!”

Bane, even though he should have no more air, spoke and more bubbles escaped his mouth, muffling his mocking words. “That so?” With his free hand, Bane tapped the tubes protruding out of either cheek. The Quarren realized it was a breathing apparatus to the Duros’ nostrils. He had lost his only hope of leverage. Then they reached the bottom. Bane’s eyes gleamed at the sight.

Crates upon crates of valuable goods waited for extraction. Boxes marked everything from medical supplies to diving equipment. The chrome of brand new engines for small water craft shined. Leaning against the crates were propellers, oars, and unused lobster cages (that already seemed to have caught a few). These were all business supplies for every sailor on the planet. Everything they could possibly need, Sebastian provided. Sabastian’s personal items were the shiniest. Boxes filled with credits and gold, jewelry and brand new robes. These things sparkled the brightest, even as deep as they were and so far from the sun. Cad Bane grinned, thinking of the extra cut he’d be asking for from all the wealth displayed before them.

Shift had other ideas. He reached for the tubes at Bane’s cheeks. It was a last ditch effort to thwart the bounty hunter. He grabbed one and pulled, and Bane, not accustomed to the water, was slow. His head was yanked to the side. More bubbles escaped with a grunt. Shift didn’t know this, but the tubes required a twist before they could be removed. This was the only thing that saved Bane from drowning. Bane retaliated. Flames erupted from his gauntlet at the Quarren. It acted like a depth charge,. Both of them were shaken from the instantly exploding air and imploding water. The two were blown apart. They drifted for a moment, dazed. Bane gathered his senses first. He used his gauntlet again and a lasso lashed out and wrapped the criminal in a tight hold. Shift awoke and struggled uselessly. He had lost.

On the way back to the surface, Bane recovered his briefcase. There was something else he spotted on the way up, something he didn’t know was special. There was a creature, an alien he had never seen before. It was a native to the planet, a female looking thing with a fish tail instead of legs. It was a pale blue and bright yellow. Its torso was like that of a Nautolan, but had fewer tentacles on its head. She smiled approvingly. Bane figured she had seen the whole fight, and maybe knew about Shift’s poor behavior. Then she was gone with a flick of her strong tail.

I would like to note that this female alien was not me. Again, I was but an observer of this story. I also wondered who she was and why she appeared so briefly? When I was a child, I read some star wars books that chronicled the renewed Jedi Order, where Luke Skywalker taught the next generation. One of the books told a story about a Padawan needing to return to her home world, before puberty would turn her human legs into a fish tail. It was a reverse of a tadpole turning into a frog. She was a space-mermaid, going from land and returning to the water. I always liked that story. I wonder if my unconscious remembered it and made a reference to it?

This is where the dream ends. It was a happy ending, except for Shift anyway.

Bane dragged Shift onto the dock, where he was taken into custody by local law enforcement. His friends were no longer his friends, as Shift had betrayed them by ruining their jobs. However, everything lost was returned to Sebastian and his business. Sebastian and his workers were overjoyed, and overlooked the fact that Bane had been a part of Shift’s deeds. Sebastian was true to his word and paid Bane handsomely (with his items returned, Bane took credits instead of the house as collateral). Bane normally left a planet he had caused trouble on as soon as the job was done. This time though, he spent a day or two on its beautiful beaches. He fancied burying some of the credits like a pirate would on that beach, but resisted the urge. Bane learned from Shift’s mistake. Hordes of that kind were always found by those who looked for them. He breathed the salty air deeply. In a way, after two successful jobs, the opportunity to relax was a great reward too. --------------------------------- Read on AO3 &lt;- Read my other crazy Cad Bane dreams. <- Some of the hazier details of my dream were embellished, mostly dialogue. This may seem too perfect of a plotline for a dream to make up, but honestly it's pretty common in my dreams. I'm very bewildered every time. Wow, unconscious. Pretty good storytelling right there.

[katokrisovaka]

Not yet a hundred pages into Dickens' "Our mutual friend" and I am already in love with Mr Eugene Wrayburn:

-- 'his gloom deepens to that degree that he trifles quite ferociously with his dessert-knife.'

-- "I object on principle, as a biped, to being constantly referred to insects and four-footed creatures. I object to being required to model my proceedings according to the proceedings of the bee, or the dog, or the spider, or the camel."

-- 'Eugene is also in attendance, with a pervading air upon him of having presupposed the ceremony to be a funeral, and of being disappointed.'

However, the actual reason might be this:

[mamamomimomi]

ENDLESS PIT (Chapter 5 of 16)

Part 1, 2, 3, 4

Pairing: Touken/Kanetou

Ratings: Mature content/NSFW

Genre: Crime, Romance, Mystery

Synopsis: While attempting to apprehend Tokyo’s most dangerous criminal, FBI agent Kaneki Ken keeps running into a certain short-haired enticing woman in sites linked to the case. Human AU.

AO3 FF.net

_________________________________________

"Well, what do you think? Any thoughts?"

The man who was seated in front of her put his chin on top of his hands and began drumming his fingers lazily against the table. His arms were outstretched on the table to support his head as he marveled at the photo in front of him.

He responds mockingly, puckering his lips, "Ahhh, I informed you last time, we don't do that type of stuff here, missy."

She laughs cynically. "You think I'd believe you? I know what goes on behind closed doors, and I'm giving you an offer you can't turn down. I'm even willing to increase the offer from ten to fourteen," she smiles, placing another picture on the table with an additional four women on it.

The man snickers, "I find you hilarious. But with all due res-fucking-pect, you are a deluded woman. As opposed to what you appear to believe, this is a club, not a whorehouse."

She smiles at him before reaching into the folder she had set down on the table and pulling out a photo to lay on top of the others. "Fueguchi Ryouko, I heard that you guys lost her due to...tragic circumstances," she continues, emphasizing the latter words.

The man stares incredulously at the photo, his lips twitching before hurriedly masking his face with his eyes closed and lips extended in a cryptic smile. "In my entire life, I have never seen that woman."

"You sure about that, little boy?" She only smiles more and pulls out another photo from her folder, throwing it against the table. "This is her inside of this very club two days prior to her death, wearing the same uniform."

The man, Furuta, clasps his hands together on top of the table while keeping his weird smile plastered on his face.

She takes another photo and overlays it with the others. "And this is Fueguchi Hinami, her sole child, a few days after she made her escape."

His eyes bore into the picture before his left eye—the one with a beauty mark—twitches, and she cracks a pleasant smile. "I know exactly where she is, and I can get her to you before it's too late, but if you can't make up your mind this instant, then you can bid farewell to your little organization if she decides to go to the authorities,"

He pauses to reflect for a moment, tapping a finger against his chin before speaking up again, scornfully, "Give me a basis first to trust in your words."

She bends over the table, pushing her face closer to Furuta's, and disregarding his words, adds, "After losing two of your lovely ladies, you have a scarcity of young and submissive women. I have fourteen to offer you for the price of ten, ages thirteen to twenty-seven."

He presses his lips firmly together, running a finger over his fake mustache. "You're correct, I can't pass up that offer, but I would need to first meet them in person."

"That can be arranged."

"Would you like to be a part of the goods?" he jokes as his eyes wander over her body, and she has to stop herself from shuddering in distaste.

"Unfortunately not, Mister Clown," she drawls, smirking. "I'm merely their agent. Besides, I don't like being at the bottom. I'm not the kind of wimp and submissive woman who will lick your ass hole."

"With that body of yours, you'd still be a relatively new member of our small group," he grins, staring at her with half-lidded eyes.

"All I have to offer are those women. They are wonderful, gorgeous women who will make you a small fortune," she tells him, lips pursing into a thin line.

The man then shrugs, yawning in boredom. "Then it's settled," he states firmly, extending a hand towards her. "Send them two nights from now. We're holding a small sale with frequent customers and we'll see how they perform."

She takes his gloved hand in hers and shakes it. "That suits me just fine."

She begins gathering the pictures and placing them in her folder. She nods at him firmly and gets up from her seat to exit the suffocating room. The man was drilling a hole in her skull the entire time by gazing into the back of her head.

"Oh, and miss?"

The woman stops walking and turns around to look directly at the unsettling man, who was unnervingly seated in his seat, appearing to have a complete control over everything around him.

"Don't leave us hanging because doing so would end very badly for you," he drawls, picking his teeth with his pinky finger.

She takes note of his slasher smile, and returns it. "I would never consider it."

"You sure about that, little girl?" he chuckles, mocking her words from earlier while watching her as she leaves the room.

_________________________________________

"Oh, my goodness," the hazel-haired woman gasps out, gaping at the photo of the crime scene. "This is terrible and disturbing."

"So you were acquainted with that woman?" asks Hide.

"Yeah—I mean, no, not exactly," responds Yoriko, her eyes still glued to the pictures. " I only knew her daughter, who was formerly my best friend in high school. She'd told me her mother had died, but I never imagined she'd been killed."

Kaneki stands up immediately and sprints over to Yoriko, grabbing her by the shoulders and gazing into her eyes. "Yoriko-chan, please tell us more."

She gives him a startled look. "Why are you looking into her? She wasn't even living here when I met her. Rather, she had been away from Japan, for years."

"Was?"

Yoriko looks down at the photo of the woman on the document's first page. "Is or was, I honestly have no idea. She just vanished one day, and I haven't heard from her since. I'm not even sure if she's still alive or..."

"How did you meet her?" asks Hide.

"I was born here in Tokyo, but when I reached my teenage phase, my family sent me to live for a while in Barcelona so that I could study Spanish and other languages. I met her there when I participated in the exchange program in high school. At that time, Touka-chan was the only student in my class who spoke my language, so we really got along well," explains Yoriko, a sentimental smile on her face.

"For a rich heiress, I thought that she would reside with her father," comments Hide. "And, why Spain? She spoke French, which led me to believe she resided in France."

Yoriko stares at him in surprise. "What? Heiress? Touka-chan wasn't an heiress, not at all!"

The white-haired agent takes the file from her grasp and shows her the woman's name. "Look here, K. Hikari, Kirishima Arata's spouse, was her deceased mother. She also has a younger brother. The Kirishimas was once loaded. Didn't she tell you that?"

Yoriko furrows her eyebrows. "Her last name was Yomo, not Kirishima. And she used to live with her two guardians rather than her father."

The two agents stare at one other in astonishment under the woman's prying gaze.

She had either altered her last name for some reason or the Kirishimas weren't her biological parents. However, the second possibility had to be ruled out due to her eerie similarity to the murdered woman, and the fact that she shares the same hair color as the Kirishima father.

"Anything else you knew about her?" presses Kaneki.

"Well," starts Yoriko, "She and I had only been friends for three years. She told me she was originally from Tokyo, but she left and moved to Spain because she couldn't cope when her mother died. She also mentioned that she disliked talking about her other family and relatives, so I never inquired about them. But she once told me that she had a younger brother who lived in another country with several guardians."

"What happened the day she vanished? What happened that day?" insists the blond man.

Yoriko swallows as her shoulders abruptly slump and her eyes get sad. "Touka-chan... used to dream of being a biology teacher and having her own coffee shop. The best coffee I've ever tasted was even made by her," she laughs miserably. "Then, one time, she asked me to accompany her as she decided to apply at one of the local coffee shops close to our school. And well, she was eventually accepted...You guys are unaware of the fact that despite her gruff and tough demeanor, she is actually a shy, kind, and soft-hearted woman—just in a strange and frigid way. She works diligently by attending school in the morning and working from noon till midnight. And at that moment, I knew she would go far..."

Kaneki stares up at the hazel-haired girl with wonder, puzzled by her explanation. He has a hard time believing that his intriguing short-haired woman has a soft personality. As far as he could tell, she appeared to be more of a woman of action, but she appeared to have several layers that he had yet to peel off.

"When I once told Touka-chan that I could be her business partner, as I also intended to open my own bakery shop once we graduated from college, she was filled with genuine joy," continues Yoriko, staring at Hikari's file and fingering the picture of the smiling woman. "But one day, it was Saturday morning, and we didn't have classes, but she had a work. She was so busy, so we didn't get to spend any more time together, and I missed talking to her, so I texted her that I wanted to spend my rest day at the shop with her while working on our pending homework. She agreed and told me to just wait at the train station so that we could go together. I waited, but she never responded to my text and never showed up. I waited another hour before deciding to go to the shop alone, believing she was there and had simply forgotten to inform me, but I was mistaken. The manager was likewise perplexed as to why she wasn't at work, given she was unlikely to be late."

The woman's eyes have become sad and upset as she shuts the file and places it in one of the boxes before taking a long breath.

"I sat down and waited at the shop in the hopes that she would show up soon, but she didn't return any of my texts or calls. I headed out to find her and rushed all the way to her house to find out what was happening. I reasoned that she might have been late because she may have been having a serious talk with her guardians, but..." she trails off, and starts fidgeting with her fingers.

The two men did nothing but stare at her. They didn't know how to approach or console her, so all they could do was listen. She must have suffered a great deal from the memories, and she must have valued and treasured her friendship with Touka that much.

"The front door was left unlocked and nobody came to answer when I knocked on it. Everything was the same when I went in; nothing had changed other than the fact that she and her guardians had vanished. It seemed as though they simply departed the house without a second thought."

"And that was the last time you'd ever seen her?" asks Kaneki in a quiet voice.

"Yes," Yoriko nods slowly, running her hand through her hair. "I haven't seen her since... Are you going to tell me why you're hunting for her?"

The two men exchange glances before the blond nods to his companion, and Kaneki sighs heavily before turning to face the woman. "We believe that Kaiko is somehow connected to her mother's murder, her father's suicide, as well as her and the guardians' disappearance."

Yoriko raises an eyebrow. "How?"

"Hikari and Kaiko's victims died-well, killed in the same method, then it is possible," answers Hide.

"I don't understand how you came to that conclusion," adds Yoriko, picking up Hikari's document. "In this passage, it is stated that the crime scene had nothing connected to Kaiko, and her husband's death was determined to be a suicide. Secondly, this all happened years ago; why would you dig this out now?"

The white-haired male swallows the lump in his throat as he muses on how he would tell the woman that her friend was still alive and on the run.

"Yoriko-chan..." hesitates Kaneki. "I'm not sure how to tell you this, but your friend, Touka-chan, is still alive. She has been sighted by us within this city."

Yoriko takes a sharp gasp. "You mean... that she left Spain to come back to live here? But then, how do you know that the woman you are referring to and Touka-chan are the same person?"

"We don't know anything about that," adds Hide, "But all I know about her is that she has short and dark hair. I've only ever seen her once, and Kaneki has seen her a few times in locations where we were looking into Kaiko. We suspect it might have anything to do with her mother's murder because she seems to be monitoring him for some reason."

They could both see the anguish Kosaka was experiencing in her eyes and in the way she was tightening her hands. Her brows were creased, and her jaw was fixed firmly in place. She felt betrayed by her friend since she had believed that they would always be friends and that their commitments to stay close had been broken. Even though she was in the same city, she never went to speak to her or even let her know that she was at least still alive.

"If-if it has something to do with the case," starts Yoriko, her voice quavering, "then I should tell you a little bit about her."

That appears to have piqued their interest, as they sit still and stare at her with threatening intensity.

"After over a year of not hearing from her, I went home one day after school and found something in the mail. You remember how I said she was a shy girl who also detested pictures of her?"

The two nods, and Kosaka takes a deep breath before continuing, "Well, at that point, I knew she was still alive because I received a small package containing a single photo of her and me smiling together taken from her phone. There was a short message written by her at the back of the picture, saying she was very sorry, that she missed me every single day, and that she hoped we'd meet again one day to fulfill our dreams together."

"So, if she had the time to send you a picture, it means that she hadn't been taken by anyone that day," comments Hide. "If you ask me, I believe she was on the run from someone when she abruptly decided to abandon everything behind."

"Despite her frigid demeanor, Touka-chan was the kindest girl I'd ever met," mutters Yoriko more to herself. "I find it hard to believe that she was associated with some criminals, let alone sought out the most dangerous one we know about."

"She's not all that she seems to be," replies Kaneki. "She's certainly not the same girl you knew back then."

He hears Hide's taunting chuckle and gives him a blank stare, resulting in his best friend smirking smugly at him.

"Obviously, very different," drawls Hide, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back on his chair.

Yoriko seems to be saddened by the words, as she bites her bottom lip and looks away. She seemed to care profoundly for her best friend, despite the fact that she hadn't seen her since she was seventeen, and Kaneki thinks that the mysterious woman, Touka, certainly left a long-lasting influence on everyone she met in her life.

"Hey, Yoriko-chan," the white-haired agent calls out, suddenly remembering something. "What about the people she lived with? You mentioned that she had two guardians. Can you tell us anything about them? Maybe it'll help us."

"Sure," she bobs her head. "I didn't see them very often when I visited their house, but she said that they were also working on a coffee shop—a different one than Touka-chan had worked on, and I remember the older woman being quiet and reserved yet friendly, and the older man being courteous and fun. And Touka-chan adored both of them."

"What was their names?" inquires Hide.

"Irimi and Koma...was it? I don't really remember their full names," mutters Yoriko more to herself than to them. "They were close family friends, she told me."

Kaneki furrows his eyebrows; a lot of things are starting to make sense. If the two guardians were family friends, they were undoubtedly notified soon after Hikari died unexpectedly, and they responded quickly to take her children out of Tokyo. On the flip side, the father's willingness to spend such a long time apart from his kids would indicate that the two siblings were in grave danger. It didn't, however, explain why he would take his own life.

"Yoriko-chan, you really are a blessing," Kaneki tells her with a big smile. "You've brought us great enlightenment."

She sighs, obviously exhausted from their conversation. "I only hope you people are right and that the person you saw was her. The Touka-chan I know is not a horrible person. Whatever she is doing right now, there must be a valid justification for that."

Kaneki honestly believed that something was devouring the dark-haired woman's mind and sanity after he felt her cry on his shoulder the other night.  That woman had motives close to her heart, and if she was willing to put her life on the line to go after someone as dangerous as Kaiko, that meant that she probably had nothing to lose at this point.

"We'll try our best," replies Kaneki somberly, a determined look on his face.

She smiles widely at him. "Thank-"

"Kosaka, you've been here for ages," interjects Kuroiwa's voice, who was suddenly entering the office. "So, what's the deal with -"

When Takeomi notices Yoriko's teary eyes and her unsteady frame, his eyes widen and he interrupts himself. Under the shocked looks of Kaneki and Hide, he moves in front of her in just two steps, grasping her shoulders and gazing into her eyes.

"Are you okay, Yoriko? What happened?" he asks, slightly panicky, before looking at the other occupants of the room. "What happened?"

Before the two perplexed agents had a chance to respond, Yoriko shakes her head and murmurs, "It was nothing... We were just talking about something that brought back old memories, it's nothing bad."

She smiles up at him reassuringly, and his gaze instantly softens, as they stare into each other's eyes. It was a few seconds before a cough brings them out of their daze, as they had completely forgotten that an uncomfortable Kaneki and a smug Hide were also in the room with them.

"Saiko-chan would have had a field day if she had seen the little exchange we just witnessed," comments the blond man. "If that wasn't unbearably mushy, I don't know what it was."

Kuroiwa was just staring at him with a blank face while the woman blushed to the roots of her hair.

The expressionless man clears his throat and straightens up, letting go of the hazel-haired woman. "You all better go back to work, before Akira-san catches you slacking off." And with that, he walks out.

"You shouldn't tease him so much," reprimands Yoriko. "Leave the poor man alone."

"Come on," whines Hide. "It's all in good fun."

She simply shakes her head, a slight smile on her lips, and the two agents are relieved to see her back to herself. "Good luck with the investigation, and feel free to contact me at any time if you need further information regarding Touka-chan."

"We'll do," replies Hide, smiling at her with gratitude before she makes her way out of the office.

"Oh, and Yoriko-chan?" Kaneki calls back, and she comes to a halt, turning her head around and raising an eyebrow at him. "Do you think I could borrow that picture to verify that it's really her?"

Yoriko nods before her eyes turn serious. "I'll give it to you, but I expect you to take care of it. It's the only memento I have of her."

The white-haired agent gives a sincere smile. "Will do."

She smiles and departs the room, and Kaneki returns to his screen, deep in contemplation. When he thought he had unraveled the mystery of that heiress, Yoriko dropped a series of bombs on them, further complicating matters.

He had managed to figure out that she was running away from something, and that something was probably related to Kaiko. So why would she return to her hometown, where he had a base of operations and where it would be tenfold easier for whoever she appeared to be escaping from to find her? And why exactly, as well as by whom, had her mother been murdered? And that wasn't even taking into account the fact that her father committed suicide as soon as his wife was snatched away from them and his businesses began losing money rather than making a profit.

The whole thing was giving the white-haired agent a headache, but he was determined to learn the crucial information if it would enable him to put the dangerous man in jail, and he was confident that she would somehow aid them in doing that.

"You know," starts the man next to him, "when you finally succeeded in getting involved with a woman, it had to be someone more complex than the cases we handle."

"Trust me, it's a lot for me to process as well," mutters Kaneki. "These files probably won't reveal any additional information, so we should gather everything and take it back to the archive room," he adds.

"Ugh," moans the other man, putting his forehead on his desk. "Can't we just leave them be for the time being? We can pick them up tomorrow since the day is nearly over."

Kaneki pats him on the back before getting up from his seat. "Do you really want Akira-san to find out that we didn't file our reports?"

That seems to persuade his partner, who jumps to life and rushes up from his chair, quickly picking up the few folders around him. "Absolutely not, let's get back to work."

Kaneki chuckles, shaking his head before organizing the files back into their respective boxes.

"We still need to discuss our findings with our squad leader," adds Hide. "We can't just go after that woman without first informing Akira-san; she is, after all, our superior."

"How about we tell her if we see Touka-chan again?" suggests Kaneki. "It's not worth worrying Akira-san about if she drops her involvement in this case."

"Good point," replies the other man. "Now let's finish this before she comes back."

At the end of the day, after the two had only just finished their reports and had landed on her desk, Mado still reprimanded them and delivered her infamous punch.

_________________________________________

A certain woman approaches the shady club with her heels clicking on the pavement, shivering from the cold touching her bare legs. Her uncovered eye gleams slyly, and a broad smile spans her face.

She comes to a halt, leaning against a tree to grab her hair and put it into a lower bun, her bangs still falling on her left eye. She checks her gun at her side to ensure she has enough bullets in case she needs them. She adjusts the realistic silicone skin around her hands and arms so that no evidence is left behind, as she sighs to herself and casts her eyes heavenward. The sun was setting, and darkness would soon descend on Tokyo's streets. That's when the V would start to fill up.

When she heard about the prostitution going on at the nightclub, she became interested. Finding a battered and crying Hinami had been entirely by chance, and seeing the sadness in her eyes had only convinced her to put an end to it once and for all. The brown-haired girl gave her all the information she needed about the prostitution ring and the V nightclub being one of the bases used for the sex-trade where her late mother, Ryouko, used to work behind closed doors.

As the sun is setting and more and more people enter the club, she sits down under the shade of the tree, hidden from anyone who might pass through. She huffs in disgust as she sees numerous people in high positions passing through the entrance. Money could buy you anything, including young, attractive women. The majority of these men were married, older, and bald. They were probably bored and seeking some sort of adventure, even if it meant destroying the lives of numerous defenseless young women.

Or even break their sons' and daughters' trust and hearts.

Her lips extend into a full smirk when she notices that there are more guards outside than usual, evidence of the activities that will take place that night. It was the ideal opportunity to look for what she was looking for.

She eventually grabs a cigarette from a pack she always carried with her, lights it, and puts it between her lips for a long drag out of boredom. She isn't a chain smoker; in fact, she hates the cancer stick, but occasionally it makes her feel less anxious.

When her wrist watch finally strikes eleven o'clock, she pulls out the burner phone from her pocket and quickly dials the number that will assist her in her exploration. She only needs to hold the phone to her ear for a few seconds before someone picks it up.

"Hello, good evening. This is Tokyo's Federal Bureau of Investigation, how can I help you?"

"Hello," she replies in a low and husky tone to cover her natural voice. "I've got an intriguing lead for you regarding Kaiko..."

[qqueenofhades]

Are you still taking prompts? We are thirsty and were hoping for “bite me” in a fivan vampire au. Pretty please? What’s that you say? That’s not on the list you shared? Um, oops? I said we are thirsty! 🤤

Ahaha, okay, I think this is going to do it for the prompts for now. I want to get back to working on PEL, and I have (mostly) given the people what they want. But before you hasten to my inbox to request more of this (which I know the Very Hungry Lot of you will do, and I love you so much for it): do know that this is indeed related to a larger project and this is just the first bit of it.

What is that project? Shh. I am not telling you just yet. It's a secret.

Belgrade, Kingdom of Serbia

June 1896

The summer evening is warm and purple, lit atmospherically by both the older gaslamps and the newfangled electric lights (there is a Serb in New York, a man by the name of Tesla, whose great scientific inventions and experiments with alternating current may soon illuminate the entire world), and the well-dressed crowd flows toward the café in a tide of rustling satin, silk, and velvet, ladies in evening dress and men in top hats and monocles. The establishment is the Golden Cross, in Terazije, a bustling neighborhood just south of Stari Grad, and the attraction is an exhibition of the marvelous moving pictures of the Lumière brothers – the first such show in the Balkans, and indeed outside of Paris, after they were first premiered in great triumph six months ago. Or at least, so it is for most of the attendees tonight. Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky has a different task.

He stands apart from the milling throngs, well dressed in a high-collared coat and silken cravat, dark hair parted ruler-straight and face freshly shaven, a old golden watch tucked in his breast pocket and his shoes polished to a perfect sheen. While the people hurry past almost close enough to jostle him, they have a peculiar difficulty in registering that he is there. They sense something, yes – a cold breath on the back of the neck, a prey animal’s inborn reflex to warily search the shadows – but it never quite clicks. They continue on their way without being troubled in their own sense of reality, or ever realizing who – what – is standing there with them. It is just one of the odd, disjointed experiences that Fedyor has had to come to terms with, in the twenty-two years since he became a vampire.

By habit, he checks the horizon. These summer days are late and long, and Fedyor is still young enough that he can’t tolerate more than a few minutes of sunlight. It has taken years to be able to go out by day at all, half-thinking he had dreamed the waking world, become wholly one with the shadows and the night. When he emerged in the last gasps of afternoon, when he felt the golden warmth on his face for the first time in almost two decades, he wept. It still causes him vestigial pain, but not as much. Not so much that it cannot be borne.

He pulls the slip of paper out of his pocket and checks the name again. Then he puts it back and slips smoothly into the crowd. At the threshold, he feels that faint, telltale twinge, the knowledge of entering another creature’s territory without being explicitly bidden to do so. The Golden Cross belongs to the vampire king of Belgrade, who is rumored to be five hundred years old and a veteran of the Battle of Kosovo in 1389 (which, so far as Fedyor can tell, the Serbs have never gotten over losing to the Turks) and Fedyor is not interested in pissing him off. But therefore it is, by Conclave law, a place where all vampires in the city can freely congregate, so long as they haven’t committed some terrible crime. It also means that Fedyor may find the man he is looking for in here, and not have to cross into enemy turf.

A rich reek of wine and brandy, of hand-cranked ice cream in cut-glass bowls, of ladies’ perfume and men’s cologne, of sweat and starch and thrumming hot blood, rises into Fedyor’s nose as he inhales, as his senses have been honed a hundred times more acutely than what he was previously used to. He searches the crowded room, on high alert for another supernatural. Nothing, at least not thus far. But it is a delicate and fiddly bit of bloodsucker diplomacy for which he is here tonight, having to do with the rumor that a local group of creatures have formed a shadowy secret society called Црна рука, the Black Hand, with the aim of expressly interfering in human politics. This, of course, is strictly against the rules, and they need to be reminded of that fact. Fedyor would very much prefer not to fight an anarchist rebel vampire in the middle of a café crowded with oblivious humans, but the thought crosses his mind that this is an excellent soft target. The eyes of the entire city, the Balkans, the international art community, are fixed on this place tonight. If something went wrong – if the Golden Cross and all the souls within it were blown to smithereens –

Fedyor orders a drink at the bar – he has been promised that one day he will again also be able to eat human food if he craves the taste, but it will not nourish him – and sits down near the back, keeping a sharp eye out. Andre Carr, the Frenchman who has traveled from Lyon as the Lumière brothers’ representative, is setting up the unwieldy projector and barking at his assistants to be careful with the fragile, bulky spools of film, his mustache bristling in agitation. Fedyor gauges the mood of the crowd, the din of their heartbeats, their eager interest, their whispered gossip. Still no other supernaturals that he can sense, but that doesn’t mean that they’re not here. The vampire king and his underlings will have plenty of ways to conceal themselves from a relative child like Fedyor. As will the Black Hand.

He leans back in his chair and samples the whisky. Not bad, he thinks, though it’s been a long time since he drank human libations. It’s nice to be out among regular people, but he always has to keep strict watch on the part of himself that yearns to feed, that wants them to run, to fear, to fall. Fedyor has been a vampire long enough to control the hunger, to drink mostly from animals and space out his feeds on humans, to ask them for their consent or pay them for their trouble, but it’s still a struggle. He understands the urge that drives vampires to sequester themselves, to only live among their own kind, to keep drones and other willing human servants to feed from, so that you are not put to the trouble of chasing down a stranger and politely asking to bite them in the neck every fortnight or so, don’t get mixed up as to whether the mortals are your dinner company or just your dinner. It is a deuced bloody bother of a business. Fedyor always feels like an idiot whenever he tries.

Carr and his minions sort out their difficulties, and eventually the lights go down, provoking another eager murmur. Fedyor is not immune to the lure of whatever they are about to see, and he could have done much worse for a new home. He arrived here six years ago from his hometown in Russia, once his lack of aging became too difficult to conceal from his friends and family. Belle epoque Belgrade is a cosmopolitan, cultured world of stately opera houses and marble palaces, grand balls and gaslights, synagogues and streetcars, mosques and museums, bohemians and bordellos and broad balconies, telegraph wires and trolley cars and twisting lanes, churches and coffee shops in the Viennese style, with white-aproned waiters and colored mosaics and demitasse cups of Italian espresso. It is an ancient city, placed in a lethally strategic location at the confluence of two rivers, fought over in almost a hundred wars and razed almost forty times (and doubtless there are still more unmakings yet to come). Fedyor has found a place among the vampire community here, enough that he is trusted to deal with the Black Hand, despite his immortal youth. As to how that will go, well…

He watches the film with half an eye, impressed by the moving pictures just like his human counterparts, and then he feels it. The coldness on the back of his neck, the chirp of a sixth sense, the unshakeable awareness that he is being observed by a fellow bloodsucker. Though that term is considered somewhat dated and passé these days, mildly offensive. Vampires are eager as humans to participate in the scientific and industrial revolution, to concoct more enlightened regulations for themselves, to create an academic literature for their origins. There is talk among the sophisticated supernatural set of organizing an Academy for Preternatural Science, to hire vampire scholars, to establish a university. It’s a nice thought, if somewhat too ambitious (or so Fedyor thinks) for a race of beings that has only just decided that solving every problem with blood feuds to the death might not be the best idea. He wonders if one of those unreconstructed barbarians is behind him now.

Slowly, smoothly, so as to demonstrate that he is perfectly aware of being hunted, Fedyor turns around, and catches sight of the newcomer across the way. He is handsome – but then again, most vampires are, as it’s one of the benefits of the transformation. This one, however, is possessed of a roguish, rough-hewn attractiveness that seems genuine, still close to the face he wore as a mortal man, and not the eerie, glossy, imperturbable beauty that Fedyor sometimes finds so off-putting about his compatriots. This vampire is also wearing good clothes, and his overcoat is dark red, embroidered with curling black patterns. He looks at Fedyor, their eyes meet, and he nods once, half an inch. Game on.

Fedyor does his best to sit still until the lights come up, and the crowd claps rapturously and disperses to fetch more drinks and gush about the performance. Then he gets up and drifts toward a velvet curtain, slipping unobtrusively behind it. Back here, it is dark, dusty, and smells of candlewax and grease paint, the remnants of another performance, a conjurer’s closet. He steadies himself, turns around, and –

“Good evening,” the voice says, cold and curt. “I believe you were waiting to speak to me.”

“Yes.” Fedyor does his best to smile and appear charming and in command of the situation. “My name is Fedyor Kaminsky, and I am a representative of the Conclave. They have sent me here tonight in hopes of locating Ivan Sakharov, of the Black Hand. Is that you?”

The other vampire regards him flatly. His eyes are brown, as is his hair, which is cropped military-short and kept as sharp as his face. When he folds his arms, his muscles bulge, even through the sleeves of the well-tailored coat. “And if I was?”

“Then,” Fedyor says, “I am authorized by that same Conclave to deliver a warning to you and your associates that your current activities fall outside the bounds of the common supernatural law, and if you persist in pursuing them, there will be consequences.”

The other – well, he hasn’t denied it, so this must indeed be Ivan Sakharov – looks back at him with an utterly unimpressed expression. “Oh, so the Conclave found a new stooge to do their bidding? You’re a bit younger and fresher than the usual corpses those desiccated old tightwads usually send out after us, I’ll give you that. How long have you been in Belgrade?”

“How long have you?” Fedyor is almost sure he recognizes Ivan’s accent; they’re speaking Serbo-Croatian, but in both cases with a familiar cadence. “You’re Russian, aren’t you?”

That catches the other vampire by surprise. He hisses, baring a pair of white and very sharp fangs, and his eyes go briefly black. “You think so?”

“Yes,” Fedyor says. “But older than me, I think. Possibly quite a bit, though by how much, I can’t be sure. If we were to – ” he switches languages smoothly, in midsentence – “continue this conversation in Russian, would that be more to your liking?”

Ivan Sakharov eyes him icily. He must know that if he speaks their native tongue, he risks giving away his age by the style of his grammar, or perhaps his place of birth, and that is dangerous information for an unknown quantity to hold over you. There is a whiff of the emperor’s court around him, or perhaps the empress – does he hail from Catherine the Great’s day, Fedyor wonders, or earlier? There’s a long, crackling pause. Then Ivan says in brittle, too-correct English, “Or perhaps we should converse like this?”

Fedyor inclines his head, accepting that he has – for now – been outmaneuvered. They still haven’t taken their eyes off each other, standing close together in the dim velvet-draped shadows, near enough that if they were human, they would feel the other’s heat. There’s nothing but the faint wintry chill of unliving flesh, though a certain hunger rises unbidden in Fedyor’s stomach nonetheless. Then he says, “This does not have to be difficult. Cease your lawlessness and tell your friends to do the same.”

Ivan takes another step, close enough that their noses almost brush. “The Conclave has no power over me, Fedyor Kaminsky.”

“Do you want to test that?” Fedyor breathes, struggling to keep his focus at the other vampire’s threatening-but-thrilling nearness, the way his blood is singing under his skin in an entirely different way than he expected or frankly, that he wants. Just because Ivan Sakharov is annoyingly attractive (and also Russian) does not mean that he is not a dangerous, war-mongering, secret-cabal-plotting megalomaniac, and Fedyor does not need that sort of nonsense in his life. “If you did, I would, of course, be authorized to place you under arrest.”

Ivan looks at him goadingly. “I would like to see you try.”

Oh, so he is indeed one of those immortals (read: the kind who really need to experience mortality just to be kicked very hard in the balls). Fedyor struggles to contain his irritation. If he shows that this handsome bastard has gotten to him, this will only get worse. “If you promise to desist,” he says, “the Conclave will drop this matter and consider it closed. You and the rest of the Black Hand will not be subject to further investigation. That, or – ”

“How do I know that you are even from the Conclave? That you are who you say?”

“Why would I lie about it?”

Ivan shrugs. “I want proof.”

Fedyor grits his fangs. “What do you expect? A badge?”

“No. But I will accept your blood.”

That catches Fedyor off guard. Not that it should, necessarily. Since vampires can sense the thoughts and feelings of the creature that they’re feeding on, it’s a quick and time-tested way to prove that there is no funny business going on (or at least, no business that is funny beyond the usual). The obvious difficulty, however, is that it requires a possibly unfriendly rival to bite your neck or at the very least, your wrist, and one can understand why there would be a natural hesitation to yield one’s neck (Fedyor happens to be rather fond of his) to the clutches of the likes of Ivan Sakharov. But if he says no, he looks like he is weak or that he has something to hide, that he doesn’t trust Ivan or regard him as an equal, and the already-febrile situation with the Black Hand will only get worse. As bluffs go, Fedyor could call this one. But it would be very risky, and if it blows up in his face…

“Very well,” Fedyor says, chillingly correct. He pulls aside the collar of his evening coat and tilts his head, exposing the side of his throat. “Test me all you like.”

Ivan looks at him with something that makes that thing in Fedyor’s stomach rise up again, hot as an ember left burning in a brazier even when all the other lights go out. He hasn’t been warmed like this, not even by the sun, ever since he was turned in 1874 by a vampire named Dmitri Karamazov. He does his utmost to force it down. If Ivan bites him and senses that –

There’s a final pause, soft as tissue paper, fine as crystal. Then Ivan steps forward, looking almost impressed, as if he expected Fedyor to find some reason to back out. He flexes his jaw, bringing out those two impressively white and sharp fangs again, and reaches out, gripping Fedyor’s waist with his big hands and drawing him somewhat closer than is strictly necessary. Then he whispers, “As you wish, Conclave whore,” and bites.

He’s not entirely gentle about it, not that vampires usually are and not that Fedyor wasn’t expecting it. But all at once, as Ivan sucks at him, his mouth pressed hungrily to Fedyor’s neck, wet and raw and savage, Fedyor goes weak in the knees. He’s been fed on before, tested before, and this is different from any of those. He utters a mewling noise of need that he is shocked and deeply outraged to hear from himself, pressing still closer, knocking Ivan a few steps backward into the wall. His hands come up, seeking purchase on the other’s broad shoulders, a smoky curl of desire rising through him like rich incense. “Mmm,” he mutters. “Mmmgh. Yes. Like that. Yes.”

Ivan doesn’t answer for obvious reasons, since his mouth is otherwise occupied, but Fedyor can feel the little frisson of pleasure that travels through him at those words. That takes him aback. Not that he should rush to generalize, since most vampires are fairly flexible in their intimate preferences (you don’t live that long without wanting to sample everything that is on offer, carnally speaking) but for some reason, he just assumed that this tough, frightening, hard-as-nails secret anarchist supernatural idiot wouldn’t be inclined to gentlemen. Not that Fedyor is necessarily objecting. This feels far better than it has any right to do, considering that it started out as a naked challenge to his veracity. Agh, fuck, he should not think about naked. That makes the arousal burn even more hungrily, as he arches his back and presses himself wantonly against Ivan and knows that he’s hard as a rock and that this utter menace can definitely feel it. Ivan is in no hurry to pull away. He drinks for a few more seconds, past when there can be any reasonable doubt that Fedyor is telling the truth, and then slowly, deliberately breaks contact, fangs still half in Fedyor’s throat, as he withdraws with luxurious leisure. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and growls, “Ah.”

“Yes, ah,” Fedyor says, trying not to stammer, as pulses of hot and cold rush through him from head to toe. “Are you satisfied?”

Ivan gives him a wicked smile, drops of Fedyor’s blood still glistening heart-scarlet on his lips. “Maybe.”

God almighty, kill me now. Difficult, of course, when one is – strictly speaking – already deceased. (And now deceased in a different way, which makes it two kinds of dead at once, which makes Fedyor a prodigy.) He wants to ask if Ivan will perform the customary service of licking the bite wounds closed, but he’s also afraid that he may physically incinerate if Ivan does so, and since fire is rather famously one of the only things that can harm vampires, it is better not to take the risk. Instead, Fedyor pulls out his handkerchief and dabs at his throat, with as much casualness as he can muster. “Well,” he says. “You’ve had my word, Ivan Sakharov. Will you give me yours that you will bring your illegal organization to an end and return to the rule of Conclave law?”

Ivan looks him up and down, eyes lingering on the too-tight fit of Fedyor’s pinstriped trousers. Then he leans in, so close that Fedyor truly does think they’re about to kiss and momentarily blacks out, and whispers against the shell of his ear, “Absolutely not.”

And with that, and no more than a rush of air, he is gone.

[murphslass]

You’re The One That I Want

Chapter 1

Summary: after leaving Y/N that one night in tears, Eddie thinks maybe a more subtle approach would help.

Warnings: flirting, swearing, smoking, alcohol, kissing, romance, slow burn, eventual smut

It had been a week since the incident happened between Y/N and Eddie. What the fuck was wrong with him? He knew fully that he was a monster, but damn. His heart must be stone cold doing that to her. Eddie kept thinking about what he had done to his neighbor. This was difficult because he had some feelings in his body and thinking maybe he was going soft. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. All he has to do is swallow his pride and apologize while trying to exchange nice words was the hard part. Eddie was rude and selfish but he knew deep down this is what needed to be done. He took a deep breath and entered the apartment building. He made a fast B-Line to Y/N’s apartment. With a soft knock of his strong hand, he waited for Y/N to answer.

“Hello? Oh Eddie, is there something wrong?”

He eyed her as she answered the door. She wore casual clothes that hugged her curves and a dirty apron. She must be cooking.

“Could I come in?”

“Sure.”

She smiled as she opened the door wider for him. Eddie stepped in and could smell the food she was cooking in the air. She was beautiful, innocent, and could cook? She had to be his soon.

“I wanted to talk about what the fuck I did.”

“Oh...”

She looked down at her feet and blushed. That odd and yet weirdly exciting encounter. She intended to initiate the conversation but always failed because of her shy nature. Y/N could see Eddie struggling with his words. It was like it was first time apologizing.

“Fuck I just, look I’m not good at this apology bullshit.”

She looked up from the ground and slowly approached him.

“Hey, it’s okay. Even if you can’t say it, I know that you feel it and mean whatever it is you want to tell me.”

She approached him and went to hold his large hand in her own. She gave a grin up at him. Eddie felt nothing but confusion in his mind. Why the fuck was this girl so nice? Why wasn’t she afraid of him? And why does her touch make him feel so good? Giving his hand a squeeze before returning to the kitchen and cooking her food, Eddie stilled in his steps. As much as he would like to grab her and fuck her on the counter, he knew it was wrong. His fists clenched trying to control himself.

“I’m nearly done cooking, do you want to stay and eat?”

“Uh yeah. You need help with anything?”

“Oh no, it’s okay. You’re my guest so please just sit at the table.”

Eddie was still severely confused on how she was so nice to him. It was starting to make him angry. But he took a deep breath before he lost his cool and saw Y/N walking over to him with a plate of hot food. He was going to say something but saw the delicious meal placed in front of him.

“Would you like anything to drink?”

“Sure, ya got any beer?”

She nodded and brought over silverware and a cold bottle of beer.

“Enjoy!”

She said with the same genuine smile before eating. Eddie didn’t really care since given a free meal. And it was absolutely tasty, she knew how to make a good plate of spaghetti. He was hooked for sure. Eddie quickly finished his food and saw Y/N laughing.

“What’s so fucking funny?”

“Sorry, it’s just you’ve got sauce all over your mouth and mustache.”

She giggled and offered a napkin. Eddie took it with a frown and wiped his face. Wait a minute. Was Eddie really sitting here having dinner with an angel and enjoying being civil? He’s never done this with anyone, now his anger was getting to him. Eddie stood up and towered over her.

“Okay. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Why aren’t you fucking scared of me?”

She sat confused and slowly stood from her seat and stared him in his eyes.

“Because I feel a connection with us. I don’t know what it is. But I feel like we need to be close.”

She said while letting out a sigh. Eddie stayed quiet and opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. His body was tense as Y/N reached to touch his arm. His jaw clenched as he felt anger through his body. The first time a girl was actually nice and he was getting mad?

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Fuck no, that’s just all me. I gotta go before I do something bad.”

Before Y/N could say goodbye, Eddie rushed to exit again. His anger issues we’re probably going to kill him. He had steam to blow off. His costume was fit around his body as he scanned the streets for criminals. He’d rather be with Y/N but his emotions were out of control. A night of beating up random men doing shitty crimes and muggings, he had gotten stabbed. Great. His muscles all sore, bloody, and bruised. All Eddie wanted was to be home. Walking in the cold of the night hours and approaching his building felt like sweet relief. He sighed and reached for his key. Oh shit. It’s gone, he might of forgotten or just dropped it. He growled and punched the nearest wall.

“Fuck me.”

He sighed and began to buzz random people to let him enter but no one answered. This was just fantastic. Eddie almost gave up until he heard footsteps on the sidewalk.

“Oh my goodness! Eddie! Are you okay?”

His savior had arrived to his rescue. Y/N rushed to check over his various scars.

“Eddie this looks bad. Quick let’s go to my place, I need to clean you up.”

She said as she entered the building and led Eddie by his hand. At that moment he felt no pain or soreness, all he was worried about was Y/N. However she moved fast and ran hot water in her tub. Eddie stood confused on what she was even doing. Like why was she out so late?

“Okay Eddie, I ran you a hot bath to help soothe the muscles now please take off your clothes.”

“And here I thought you were shy.”

Y/N blushed and realized what she said. Even if Eddie’s body was feeling all sore and shit, he couldn’t pass up a way to flirt.

“Not in that way! I mean just get in the tub and I’ll help clean up your scars.”

He shook his and laughed as he stripped off his armor. Y/N left him to undress as she got fresh towels and her first aid kit. Eddie hesitated entering the tub as the water was warm but he desperately needed it since his body was covered in dirt and sweat. He sighed and dipped his body into the water. As soon as the water hit, he felt his muscles relax and a groan escaped his lips. His body felt so at ease and he felt relaxed. Eddie almost considered falling asleep but didn’t once Y/N came back into the room.

“You feeling any better?”

“Fuck yeah...”

He sighed as his arms rested to his sides and his eyes fell shut.

“Here, can I help you?”

She asked as she reached for soap and a wash cloth. He nodded and moaned as her hands clean his upper body. From his broad shoulders, to his chest, and even getting his back. Her hands worked magic as she cleaned him throughly. Then he bit his lip as her hands drifted to his stomach. His breath hitched as he cursed himself for getting hard. His lips releasing a light moan when her arm brushes over the tip. She looks and sees his very noticeable problem. Her cheeks flush red and her hand leaving the water.

“Uh it’s rather normal for that to happen. Most men who get cleaned tend to get excited.”

“It’s not that. A fucking sexy woman who I like is touching my body. That’s why I popped a fucking boner.”

He sighed as his hand ran over his face. He saw her frown and shook his head to his own outburst.

“I get it. It’s okay. Here just rinse off and put on a towel. We need to clean those wounds.”

She ran her fingers through his hair and left the bathroom. He quickly went to dry off and slipped a towel around his waist. Why was she so fucking nice? He saw her in the kitchen pouring water into a glass and approached her cautiously. Without much thought he hugged her body against his bare skin.

“Uh Eddie?”

“Please be mine.”

TAGLIST:

@ffakc

@negans-attagirl

@jonasdean02

@macsgurl

@littlebadgirly

[thepartingglassofthorin]

Of Prison

Bree's markets were always busy at Noon. The streets always full of merchants, merchandise, travelers, visitors and, worst of all, pick pockets. Flambard hated it, watching the children and young adults move through the crowd and silently pull coins, bracelets, and other baubles of value from unsuspecting victims. Flambard had been ordered not to intervene unless the traveler noticed.  Until then, he would watch and cringe as he saw the younglings move through the crowd. His thoughts wandered as he swung his sling around, but mostly focused around his own younglings. How grateful he was that the Guards had hired him. Hobbits here in Bree were often thought little of, if anyone noticed them.

As a fight broke out near a vendor, Flambard jumped down from his elevated view of the square and southern street, his leather squeaking against his arm guard, wet from the misting rain that had been moistening the area all week. "Outta thee way," he yelled, shoving through the big folk that had formed a circle around the fight. A few wouldn't move, so he grasped the pocket of his sling and brought the leather strings across their backsides. They moved then, normally with a yelp and a curse directed at him. "Outta thee way, Guard comen thru!" He shouted again, now swishing the leather straps of his sling back and forth, striking everyone in his way, as it sounded like the fight escalated. He could see it now, it seemed that a shorter person in a cloak and hood was either trying to get out of the crowd, or stir them up. The latter happened more often then not, Flambard growled his breath and plunged into the tussle, his sling flaying this way and that, his voice raised over the noise of the brawl, many moved away now that the officials had arrived. The shorter happened to be a dwarf, his cowl pulled low over his head, shadows covering his frightened face. Flambard stood at the edge of the fight, digging in his pouch for a stone to sling at the fighters. The other two were big folk, who didn't appear to know what they were doing; the dwarf sure did though! Flambard raised his sling and stone, whirling it over his head as he watched the three attack each other. He loosed it at the dwarf, who fell onto his back. The other two, however did not back down from fighting, they continued to barrage the dwarf. " 'AY," Flambard yelled at them, running around to face them. "I said stop," he added as he loosed another stone as he moved, this one found its way to the buttox of the man who was barraging the dwarf, he stopped with a sharp shriek and a quick movement to feel the damaged muscle. The other dropped the dwarf, he had been holding him in a way do he couldn't fight back. Not that he would, he was out cold. The one with the bruised backside sneered at the guard hobbit, still rubbing his bruise. "Oi, let us handle this monster, he's too big fer ye!" "By the authority of-" Flambard was stuck by the second man, who stood above him with a mocking sneer. Flambard landed on his elbows and knees, his head reeling from the strike. "I remember you," he growled. "You're the one who took my woman!" Flambard cringed. He remembered this bloke too. He had been apart of many thefts, armed robberies, and other crimes, while his partner was his wife. When the Guard had enough evidence to convict them both, the Magistrate gave the man a plea deal, which he gladly took over whatever sentence the Magistrate would have decreed. The woman however, wasn't as lucky. She was sentenced to ten years in prison, and two years of community service after that. The man gave Flambard a powerful kick to his ribs, knocking what little breath he had out of him. Flambard cringed, his stomach threatening to leave through his mouth as he rolled across the cobbled streets. When he stopped, Flambard reached into his pouch, grabbing his little whistle, putting it to his bloody lip and blowing a long and clear note, followed by two short. As he took a deep breath to repeat the call, the second man kicked the whistle away from him and smashed his hand against the street, giving a horrible crunch. Flambard yelled out in pain, pushing at the heavy foot covering that pinned him to the ground, tears filling his eyes from the pain. Beyond the shoe, The hobbit could see the others on the street glancing at him, then walking away. Even with the possibility of having a community mocking, they wouldn't help him. How little the big folk think of them, the hobbits! They must think of them as a nuisance, a pest even! Flambard brought his teeth down on the man's ankle, which was sharply yanked out of his grip as the human howled in angry pain, holding his bloody foot. Flambard shakily stood, his breath short and raspy. The one who had pinned him was still screaming about his foot, but the other was getting his rear end handed to him by the, still frightened, still tired, dwarf.  "OI, SCATTER!" Someone who had stuck around to watch yelled, pointing behind Flambard. The clipity clop of horse hooves emitted from the noise of the crowds behind him, along with the clanking of armor. "Master Flambard! Do you have any idea what you've done?!" The Captain paced behind his desk, a scowl wrinkling his already wrinkly face, his mustache was actually riding up his face however. Flambard wasn't sure if he was amused or enraged, it was quite hard to tell with him. The Hobbit's arm was in a cushioned sling, and he was leaned back in his chair, a cold steak on his face. How the Captain had convinced the Magistrate to give him a steak was beyond him! He could also only breath in short gasps, but otherwise he was alright.  His job, however, was on the brink of dying. "As punishment, you are restricted to jail duty until further notice," The Captain said, snarling at the hobbit. "And if any of the criminals act out, if you dare even attempt to calm them, you'll wish you were still a brewer..."  Flambard pulled his head off the back of the chair, his mouth open to give the captain a Tookish insult. Jailer's duty?! How wretchedly boring! And that was only if there were prisoners within the cells, otherwise it was making sure the armor was clean and polished, the barracks were also clean, and the fireplace was free of ash! But the fury hiding calmly behind his commander's eyes silently told him not to push further. With a tired salute, Flambard stood and shuffled to the jailer's desk, located just down the hall and a little to the left, directly opposite of the cells. They had only two prisoners today, thankfully. The woman from the crime couple had been there, but was sent to the northern jail, where she could be better taken care of as she served out her sentence.  The cell furthest away from the Jailer's desk held a small boy who had picked a wealthy dwarf with a very large red beard, Flambard remembered the beard reminded him of pig tusks. The dwarf had, at first, asked that the boy be punished harshly, he had after all, stolen a very large golden chain from him, the dwarf said it was from his father. As the child was dragged away, Flambard was asked to get the dwarf's full report, as usual. The dwarf watched as the child was taken away, a grim look on his bushy face. The first thing he said was a plea to reduce the child's punishment, he then dug io his pockets and fished out several gold coins to give to the boy once he was released. Flambard was then very glad he had been the one to get the dwarf's report, because he then gave Flambard several coins as well. The other prisoner was the dwarf that had started the fight, he was currently sleeping, stirring ever so slightly in his sleep.  The guard sitting at the table smiled at Flambard as he waked in to the room, his gaze still a little taller then the Hobbit's. "And the mighty warrior vanquishes the dragon again," he shouted, slapping his knee as he moved to stand, giving the seat and post to Flambard. "Aye, but I might have no hair left," Flambard said, gratefully taking the now empty seat. The guard laughed again, slapping Flambard's back. "But that ain't what matters Tookie, what matters is that you've-" "Shown I can handle my own, and that may get me promoted," Flambard finished with the guard, ending with a grumble. "How many times does that make it now, Stephen?! How much longer will I need to get the stuffing beat out of me?!" Before his friend could reply, the Captain walked past, casting a weary glance at the two as he passed, heading to the door at the end of the hallway that lead out to the street. As the door slammed shut, Stephen replied. "Maybe you're going about it the wrong way?"  Flambard gave him a tired glare, Stephen shrugged as he snatched his coat off the desk. "Well, I'm off to have dinner with her folks," he said, slinging his coat over his shoulder and staring dreamily into nothing. Flambard rolled his eyes, adjusting his piece of steak so it wouldn't fall off his face. "So you think she's the one," Flambard asked with a light chuckle. "Oh, absolutely," he said, emphasizing the last two syllables, pulling his open hand towards himself, closing it as it neared his chest. "She's got the most beautiful voice, I bet the Magistrate would pay her just to speak at him," here he lowered his voice, "That is, if he could hear!"  The two laughed, although Flambard was quite sure he said the same thing about the last girl. Stephen shrugged, a goofy grin on his face as he strode proudly towards the door. "Wish me luck," he called over his shoulder as he walked through the door. It shut with a loud thud as he kicked it, a habit Stephen had been warned about, but he never listened to the warnings. Flambard sighed as he leaned back in the old wooden chair, rotating his head as he settled into his chair.Three hours had gone by, he had eaten a meal with the prisoners, it happened to be the child's last one there before being released. He had stared at the golden coins as Flambard gave him instructions so he wouldn't end up back in the cells, or the stocks. The dwarf watched as the child ran out the door, he munched slowly on his gruel, and watched as Flambard shuffled back to the desk, hissing as he sat down. "Glad to see you can walk," he said, setting his half eaten bowl to the side. "What of you're hand?" Flambard looked at his bandaged hand, grimacing as he tried to move one of his fingers. "Well, Doc said it should be better, assuming he didn't completely shatter every bone, in a few months, but I can even move any fingers," He replied, pulling his mouth to one side as he lifted his hand up to show the dwarf. The dwarf's jaw rotated as he looked at the bandaged hand, the entire thing was covered and splinted, the only bit of skin on his arm between the end of the bandage and the cuff of his coat was a little green, but it otherwise looked like a hand. "My apologies," the dwarf said, standing and striding to the cell bars. "But I could have handled it."  Flambard snorted, "And I'm seven foot eight! What were you even thinking, picking a fight like that?!" The dwarf pursed his lips slightly as he thought, a dark, frightening look crossed his eyes for a moment, before turning sorrowful. "I accidentally ran into the woman behind me, her courtier over reacted." Flambard snorted again, this time a tight smile graced his round face. "Well, that sounds like a good man! Any idea who threw the first punch?" "Sir Hobbit, I know you are doing your job," the dwarf said, growing impatient, by the tone in his voice. "But I am going to be late for a very important meeting." "Don't think I don't know what you're doing," Flambard said, his voice strained. "You probably cost me my yearly bonus, any use from my hand for the next quarter, and I very well might be fired because of you-" "As I said before, you shouldn't have gotten involved-" "Don't interrupt! And don't think you are getting out of that cell! You're staying there until morning, at the very least!" Silence fell between the two, only the fireplace crackled as it slowly warmed the room. The dwarf stuck his chin out and went back to the mattress in the corner of his cell, probably contemplating his actions as he rubbed his beard. Flambard stuck his own chin out and grumbled a quiet curse, directed at him, setting the steak on the desk as he moved to place more wood onto the fire.  Most of the night passed without much more, the dwarf returned to sleeping, but he didn't get much. Every time he would find sleep, he would toss and turn, grumble, at one point he even woke up crying. Flambard kept his nose in his book, trying to ignore the dwarf's stifled sobs, but it was becoming increasingly harder to do as the night passed.

TAGS: @agirlunderarock @cassiabaggins @emrfangirl @tschrist1

[kingdomsaurushearts]

I once saw this video of a husky pup experiencing its first snowfall. Very quiet and serene and just blinking up at the sky as the snow fell around it. Now I can't help but think of Ven's first snowfall being something similar.

Winter came far quicker than the leaves could fall. But Aqua didn’t mind. It just meant that she had an excuse to break out the hot cocoa early. Ven would surely love it! Especially since she got Terra to get the marshmallows down from the top shelf.

As she waited for the kettle to boil, she looked outside and watched the fluffy flakes gracefully fall. The wind absent, letting them sway under their own weightlessness against the still air. The calm only interrupted by the bounding of an excited teens footsteps echoing down the corridor, announcing his arrival.

*read more below cut*

Ven burst through the arch of the kitchen, his cheeks pink with glee and lack of breath.

“AQUA! AQUA! Do you see outside?! It’s like a giant Blizzard spell was cast!” His grin reaching his ears, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he excitedly came next to her and looked out of the window in wonder.

“Your first snowfall Ven, what do you think?” She giggled at his childish antics, nose scrunched against the glass window.

“It’s so pretty! Like the ground looks like a giant white pillow!” He paused for a moment. Lip pursing in thought. “What about training? Our morning drills are usually outside.”

The kettle whistled and Aqua walked over to turn off the heat, “The Master and Terra are setting up the gymnasium on the other side of the courtyard, we’ll be indoors until spring. We would have already set it up of the snow didn’t decide to come a few weeks early. We might have another warm day or two before winter officially starts on the calendar.”

“Ah. So that’s what that building is.” Ven mused, watching as Aqua poured little cups of brown powder into mugs before adding the water. “Whatcha makin’?”

“Hot cocoa, I doubt we’ll actually be doing any training today, the gym isn’t going to be ready in one go. Maybe tomorrow.” A gentle splash of cream, stir, and plops of three big marshmallows, she presented Ven with his green mug.

She already knew Ven loved the puffed treats from a camping trip earlier in the summer. She saved the mini marshmallows for her own mug.

Ven took a long steady sip, shoulders slouching in relaxation. A hum of delight. Smiling back up at Aqua, with a foamy mustache, “This is fantastic! I could have this every day!”

“I’m sure you could, you walking cavity.”

“Hey you’re one to talk, Miss Midnight Snack. Cake doesn’t eat itself.”

Aqua almost choked on a mini, a fit of giggles between them. “Hey, we were in on that together, don’t rat out your partner in crime!”

“Too late, now I know to lock up the pastry cabinet.” Master Eraqus appearing seemingly out of nowhere, plopping one of the minis in his mouth.

“Master, no! How will she ever get her sugar fix? You know how she gets.” Terra chimed in, ruffling Ven’s hair before grabbing his mug and filling it for tea.

“Ha. Ha. You’re so funny.”

A snicker from Ven, “I dunno Aqua, you were the scariest at Halloween.”

Their laughs filled the kitchen, a warmth seeped into his chest, bringing the cocoa back to his lips, sucking up a marshmallow.

“So, how’s it going over there? You two look like you had a dirt bath.” Aqua teased.

“Yes, our equipment is in a state less desirable. We will be finishing up setting them up today, but tomorrow, I would for you and Ventus to assist in cleaning them.”

“Wow Master, you and Terra already got most of them set up? That’s got to be a record.”

Terra gave her a look, “Hey, I’m stronger now, this is nothing.” As if to prove a point, he flexed his arm, while the other dipped his tea bag into the water.

“Mhmm. Well, Ven and I will be more than happy to. Since we’re decidedly not doing anything much to help today.”

“Hey! I’m doing something today!”

Eraqus looked at him with an amused twinkle in his eye, one he rarely got these days. “Really, Ventus? What shall you be doing today?”

“Building a snowman! I bet I can make the biggest one! Bigger than Terra!”

“I bet you will. Maybe I’ll finally have someone my size to fight.”

Aqua smacked him playfully, “Hey, I’m right here.”

After some snacks, and more lighthearted teasing, Terra and the Master returned to their chore for the day, while Aqua dressed Ven up as warmly as she could. He was small and the cold would surely get to him quickly.

With a final tuck of his hair under her spare beanie, she’ll have to knit one of his own. But for now, the midnight blue suited him well. The color of his eyes popping against the contrast of his hair.

She went to zip him up, but he was practically bouncing in place. “Ven, hold still so I can line up the teeth. ”

“Sorry Aqua, I’m just so excited! I can’t wait!”

“I’m sure you can wait one more minute, I want to get a shovel so I can get the walkway, it’s supposed to snow again tonight, and I really dont need another foot to shovel tomorrow.” With that, she got the tape to align, and got the tab to zip up all the way without any resistance. “I’ll be right back.”

Ven nodded enthusiastically, and paced a bit by the door. Wondering how cold it was going to be. He was already roasting under the layers, he almost wanted to take off his gloves.

Aqua returned not a minute later, shovel in hand, and thick gloves. “Alright, let’s go. Just don’t run, you might slip.” A smile on her face, watching Ven haphazardly try to grip the door handle and pulling it open.

The brisk air hit his face, a relief of the sweat building up on his beck and brow. He rushed out, but slowly when Aqua called him. He looked over the vast blanket of snow covering the grounds.

Even though though flakes had stopped, he was breathless.

Aqua outstretched her hand to him, “Help me down the stairs.”

They walked down the snow covered steps, Ven giggling at the crunch of snow, leaving prints in the otherwise perfect surface. Slipping a little once they reached the bottom. So that’s why, he thought, his heart beating rapidly at the thought of slipping face first.

Setting down the shovel against the barrier, she dragged Ven over to the now covered grassy area.

“First things first, the Snowball!”

There was a deep satisfaction in rolling and pressing snow into a sphere, and then throwing it against a tree, or a wall and watching it explode into powser. He was wondering what it would be like against someone else, but he got his answer as one burst against his back, some of the snow landing down the collar of his jacket, chilling his neck.

With a yelp, he turned to the perpetrator, who was snickering as she made ball upon ball of snow as arsenal. A war then.

They exhausted themselves into the ground. Aqua showed him how to make Snow Angels. Snow officially covering them head to toe.

Now very much grateful for his layers, the cold was more than anticipated. His nose turning red, and pinking his cheeks. His lips parted for his hot breath.

Aqua excused herself to do the task she set up before and began shoveling the courtyard, while Ven made 3 more angels.

5 Angels now lay in a circle. It looked like a flower in his mind.

He took off the beanie and shook his head to free him of the frost that clung to his hair. He sighed happily, looking around the mess of snow play, the perfect blanket now wrinkled and messy.

A snowflake floated in front of him, he glanced upwards. It had started snowing again.

It was beautiful. Staring straight up. He felt like he was falling backwards. They landed on his cheeks ever so gently, melting from his warmth.

If they weren’t made of ice, and it wasn’t so cold out, he would have compared them to dandelions in spring. The cotton flying in the wind freely, the seeds to planting somewhere new, away from where they came from, creating a new world of sun kissed flowers.

A heavy feeling dropped into his gut, like he just swallowed a bucket of water. It weighed him down like lead. His shoulder tensed, his brows furrowed, but confusion in his eyes.

He didn’t know why, but his heart suddenly lurched into his chest, a feeling he knew but couldn’t place. His head throbbed unpleasantly. A cold sapped his energy and grabbed his limbs.

Smile gone. He didn’t want to be outside anymore. He looked back down to the snow angels, silhouettes of himself, as he stood on Aqua’s.

The water on his face dripped down, but this time, it wasn’t melted snow.

Aqua called for him, wiping the moisture from his face, thankful that the cold can be cause for sniffles too, he rushed over to her, as they began walking back up the steps.

He chanced a glance back, the falling snow filling the imprints, he felt like he was leaving them behind. And the word ‘again’ flitted across his mind as a warm hand wrapped around his, and closed the door.

-

Sorry! I couldn’t help myself! I was gonna make it light and fluffy but… I couldn’t contain the angst!

[jamiebluewind]

Fantasy High Characters 2.12

I'll go back to ep 2.11 eventually, but I wanted to get this one out while it's still the newest. As always, let me know if I need to edit or add anything and tag/ask/PM me about art and stories so I can check them out!

Warnings: canon typical violence, gore, blood, gross mention, vomit, fantasy racism mention, disturbing imagery, panic attack mention, threats, murder, alcohol, injury

***

Ally (on the fig/ayda kiss): Two young Sheldon's makeing out XD

Lou (on the second fig/ayda kiss): Yes-ah! Yes-ah! Yes-ah! Yes-ah! I bless this union! Yes-ah!

Brennan (on forgetting to change the music for the arcane crime scene): -this is the wrong music for this moment

***

New Characters

Craf-me Rootdrinker

Gnome and druid

Gave his life 200 years ago to reclaim Arborly from the curse

Was very kind

Avoided "cleric nonsense"

Nuathura (New-ah-thoo-ra) the Fox

Older red fox who was awakened as a pup by Craf-me (was his familiar/companion)

Spry and slinky despite his age

Fluent in silvian, elvish, and gnomish

Runs the town (basically the mayor) and offers the adventurers every resource in their village at their disposal

Appreciates it when he is shown respect and is more open to outsiders and outsider tech than Mira, saying that the Nightmare King was once defeated by a strange band of Solesians and that they were delighted to have them

Likes shrimp and was given one by Fabian and four (one on each paw) by Kristen

Was told the crown of the Nightmare King was kept deep under a pit under a pyramid where it could never be found (and was understandably upset to discover that it was instead kept on a shelf in a dean's office and now in the hands of Adaine's mom who is trying to get into the forest)

Mira Silverbough/Silverbow

Wood elf and leader of the rangers who guard the town (of which there are 40 standing on bolders with arrows nocked when the teens wake up)

Intense angular face with steal gray eyes and long black hair on the top of her head (that might hang down in her face) with shaved sides that appear to be turning gray/salt and pepper

Dressed in dark forest green with leather archer's bracers and gloves with

"Ah. Not TRULY children. These are almost adults grown. Come here!" *gestures for the teens to come over*

Racist against those with infernal lineage, goblins, and orcs, but seems to be racist against all other races in general

Was put off by technology she doesn't understand

Referred to Fig as a troubadour (poet who writes verses to music or specificly a French medieval lyric poet) and the van as very small house of wheels

Furrowed her brow at Adaine being the Oracle

Second to Nuathura and very protective of him

Krumpkin Springbill

Head of the Tinkerer's Hall

Round as a pumpkin with a shiny bald head and a mustashe like a push broom

Dressed in soot covered goggles (which he pushed up) and a leather apron filled with tools

He and the other gnomes come up to Gorgug's mid thigh

Two unnamed gnomes

Person with a huge handlebar mustache and a top hat with gear in the side of it

Woman with folded canvas ornithopter wings

Unnamed Bartender

Works at The Owl And The Harp

Was told by Adaine that she was looking for her mom and was shocked by her crystal (used to show him a picture)

Said Elianwyn was staying on the top floor, but thought the kids couldn't afford the substantial outstanding debt she left behind (after leaving without checking out) of 10 gold

Was paid 12 gold by Adaine, then 5 gold by Riz, then another 5 gold by Riz (which was wet), and shown a very round frog by Adaine

Told them that they were acting very suspicious despite being warned about them by the rangers

Most likely has no idea the damage Elianwyn did to the suite she was renting

Vraz the Mean

Executive Potenti of the Dominion of Avernus (first/topmost layer of hell) and Arch Secretary to Blozo the Undimenished who is the regnant of Sloth

Came through a burning oval doorway opened by Fig's magic (which opens to red firy sky and blasted red plane)

Dressed in black steal plate armor and horned helmet, covering all but her face

Beautiful woman's face with porcelain skin, ruby red lips, and a seem at the edge of her helmet where the rest of her skin had been flayed off her body

Burnt scarred skeletal remains of wings

Carrying a burning scroll to serve to Fig

Killean

Wood elf, resident of Arborly, drunkard, and a cruel man

Worked for Elianwyn and was rude to the tinkerers while picking up wax, ink components, and fiddle faddle for her

Had short cropped brown hair, hazel eyes, and a small amount of facial hair

Seen in scry as a puppet with a slit throat. Not wearing a shirt or boots as he left bloody footprints. Blood dripped from his burning dull red glowing eyes into his beard. His sternum was broke open and a fire was roiling within the open exposed wound where a gem was glowing.

Shone a dull red glow 20 feet ahead of the group which causesd a path to open in the dark, twisted, and grarled forest like a subterranean tunnel

Established Characters

Elianwyn (Adaine's mom)

Stayed at The Owl And The Harp for several months

Kept to herself, save sending Killean  to get things for her at the Tinkerer's Hall (they had spell components that could be used by both them and wizards)

Vanished with Killean and Aelwyn the night Aelwyn arrived

Murdered Killean and did a spell that left him a puppet with Gorthalax's gem in his chest

Went into the forest, using puppet Killean to cause the briars to retract

Was wearing a deep elven traveling cloak and covered in nasty scars related to a curse (but might be due to a Fallinel curse and not the original crown curse)

Aelwyn

Arrived at Arborly a night before the bad kids (and 2 nights before the bad kids talked to the locals) and was still uncontrollably and explosively gassy (which reaked), worse for wear, and started crying

Changed into wood elven travel garb and traveled with Elianwyn into the forest

Dispelled Adaine's scry without seeing it

Calina

Told Kristen that if they make it through the wall, she would kill them all (starting with Tracker) and that the only reason they were alive was because they were a nuisance (not a full problem) and never got between her and what she wanted

"I want you to stay out of that fucking forest."

Riz didn't see Calina despite being right there and the grass wasn't bent or disturbed where she was supposed to have been standing

Pok's sleeve wasn't disturbed where she was supposed to be standing either and she couldn't drink (or possibly hold anything at all)

She gave Riz sleep paralysis, but never hurt him

Most likely doesn't exist anywhere physically

Is in their heads, but still had to ask questions, so she can project herself into their minds but not read their minds

Note: The unmade goddess turned her familiar (a black cat) into a plague

Kristen

Told Tracker she shouldn't be guilty about passing on any kind of sickness because she believed it had to do with both of them due to her secrets combined with Tracker being a carrier

Suggested doing spells through a dental dam as she had a bunch from Jawbone (who kept insisting that she use them)

Found a bag of loose crab meat and used it to make crab nachos (which she always makes when she has the choice as her parents always made it for parties and never let her have any)

Got drunk and tried to make Riz kiss a shrimp when he got upset, offered Fig a "shrimp secret", tried to throw Fig 2 beers (which Gorgug smashes and she thought was awesome), called Gorgug a scientist when he said he was a little crab, and called Riz "king crab king!" when he was down on himself.

Saw Calina when nobody else could and responded by screaming "Fuck you!" at her

Drank a cortada and stayed cool while Calina was there (talking shit about her as Calina threatened her and the group) but freaked out after she left, asking everyone to hold her and dogpile on her before she vomited coffee and shrimp

Was okay once she was pressed into the grass by all her friends

Tried to get Tracker to stay in town and not go into the forest, offering handcuffs and asking as officer Kristen (and even colonel Kristen using an order)

Tracker

Still rocked after the Galicia sister thing saying that the elven church and the priestesses she knows are nothing alike, but they both worship the same goddess and what the elves did was causing her to have a lot of questions for the first time

Took precautions during things like the life transference spell to avoid passing on lycanthropy, but had never thought to protect herself from something coming back the other way

Had a good talk with Sandra Lynn and gave her a solid shovel talk

Translated the gist of what the others were saying in elvish (to Nuathura and wood elves) for Gorgug and Ragh

Got drunk, balanced crab nachos on her head, and told the others to "Let [Fig] use the shrimp tub!" which resulted in a "shrimp tub" chant

Comforted a freaked out Kristen by rubbing circles in her back

Shivered when she entered the Shrine of Thorns, her eyes flashing yellow as she suddenly felt nauseous and generally not good as the shrine basically repelled her until she exited it

Adaine

Had a message chat that's mostly jokes and memes (that Fig wasn't in on due to losing her phone)

Wanted a fluffy robe

Her crystal has meditation and non-fiction (like a hystory on mage hand) instead of music

Found bellinis and caviar to eat (instead of crab nachos) and shared with Fabian

Drank half a beer, got a little drunk, wondered where Fig was (but was silenced by Kristen), wanted to go in the hot tub with Fig, and pretended to be a crab

On rather they should be honest with the wood elves "Maybe? It makes me nervous. Everything majes me nervous. Sure. Why not?"

Slipped behind Fig during the wood elf standoff and held up a fist while saying "yeah!" to support her, but jumped in with her status as the Oracle, saying it was a prophesy and going into the forest was "A thing we have to do." (which made the wood elves lower their bows and whisper to each other)

Admitted that her sister and mother were trying to get into the forest too, but that they were working against them

Started searching for Calina nearby after her sister booted her from scrying

Told the bartender at The Owl And The Harp that she was looking for her mom (with picture) and paid off her outstanding debt of 10 gold for the suite (with a 2 gold tip) before going upstairs to discover the crime scene her mother left behind

Ragh

Found a bunch of kippers for Fabian

Munched on an entire bone in ham

Got drunk, got shirtless and started screaming "More lobster! You're not lobster enough!" at Tracker

Pointed out the obvious (one guy in town has 4 refridgerators) when Fabian was worried about introducing tech too soon

Gorgug

Got drunk, did a "crab stand", made his arms look like a crab, chanted "crab king" at Ragh, became crab king, said the shrimp tub was not for peasants (when Fabian told Fig about it), smashed the two beers Kristen threw to Fig out of the air (followed by a celebratory yell and him pumping both arms in the air while the bloodrush boys chanted "hoot growl!"), said "I'm a little crab." to Kristen, and finally gave Riz the crab king crown and said Riz? *points at him* You're the crab king now.

Walked up to Nuathura to say hello in gnomish when he heard Nuathura mention tinkerers

Told the tinkerers that he repaired the Hangman, but failed to make a working mechanical butt for him

"Showed" the tinkerers his crystal and headphone as well (and by that I mean the were crawling all over him like excited 5 year olds)

Riz

Started setting up a tiny conspiracy board in Hollyhill minutes after getting there

When asked how he got a certain picture of Kristen, he said "You know... you take pictures; you hang um. That's what you do."

Said "I'm gonna snoop around. In a suspicious way, NOT in a party way." and finds Spyre tech and receipts showing that the guy is expensing stuff to his corporate card that have nothing to do with his work, resulting in him telling the others that it was a tax haven and illegal, so he felt less bad about having a party and more like Robin hood stealing his beer.

Got drunk, somehow stated acting/dancing like a shrimp, pointed out that Gorgug was a crab, started crying and got emotional because "Shrimp are so little and sometimes they get caught in the nets and stuff!" and told Kristen "I'm not gonna kiss the shrimp! It's dead Kristen. And we killed it.", cried again before Fabian comforted him, and became the crab king saying "Honestly, I just wanted to be the crab king. This whole time I've just been the shrimp and I feel like I've been the shrimp my whole life and I just wanna be the crab king. It means a lot that you guys made me the crab king."

Is super hung over the next day as well as super sweaty and nervous about being around a bunch of people, but still tells the elves that there is a demonic plot

Saw that something was off with Fig and thought for a moment that she might have kissed someone, but ends up going with "Did you have... good crab?"

Discovered what his fate would have been if the group hadn't rescued him when Adaine scrys Killean

Vomited over seeing Kristen vomit

Didn't see Calina despite looking exactly where Kristen was and checked the grass with his magnifying glass to find that the grass wasn't bent or disturbed where Calina was supposed to have been standing

Gets super sweaty and unhelpful when trying to talk to the bartender

Had no idea when to stop trying to bribe the bartender and said that the money was so wet because he ate a lot of shrimp

Fabian

Got in a small argument with Adaine on rather or not it was okay to touch your dad's butt (he said it's fine)

Still has the sheet with him as well as the sword Faun-drang-goorh

Got drunk, excitedly said Riz was a shrimp and that Gorgug was a crab, said "I'm a little shrimp!" over and over while dancing, tried to explain everything that had happened to Fig (including that the hot tub upstairs was filled with shrimp), tried to comfort a crying Riz by telling him "The Ball, it's going to be alright. The shrimp will be fine.", and wrapped Riz in his sheet, looked him dead in the eyes (with one hand on either side of Riz while gripping the sheet), and told him "I believe in you. *licks lip* Spring break.", before giving Riz his first ever bardic inspiration

The next day, gave Nuathura a shrimp from his pocket

Rebbed engine of Hangman as Kristen tried to give an inspiring speech

Fig

When opening Hollyhill, said "What did I say? Has your girl ever not delivered?" followed by a resounding "Yes!" from the group

Found a ghost white mushroom with a black skull imprint on the top of it while looking for psychedelics and wanted to eat it

Hears whispering coming from the briar wall

"Sometimes one of the fun things about friendship is just being a chorus on nonsense together and you don't have to hear each other; it just feels really good to talk really loud."

Sees nonsense as a good way to escape when things get too heavy or dark

Talked down about her abilities, especially when compared to Ayda

The thorns don't try to attack her, so she used burning hands on the thorns and the vines sucked up the magic, moving it to the Shrine of Thorns and leaving behind a charred handprint

Didn't want Ayda to know she was a virgin

Cast greater invisibility on her and Ayda

Rolled bad on insight checks on Ayda (trackerbees take two! XD)

Is terrified of saying nice things to others and vomits a little in a bush before telling Ayda "I actually think you're perfect the way you are" before skateboarding away and down an 80 foot near vertical tree, coming out of invisibility so Ayda could see her trick.

Couldn't go anywhere on her skateboard in the ferns and dirt

Wrote up a "contract" after Ayda's confession that said if Ayda made fun of her for what she was about to say, she could give her a wet willy. Before Ayda could sign, she took Ayda by the chin, said "Just so you know, I've never done this as myself before', kissed her (as the fire on Ayda's head swelled out and she became uninvisible), and tried to skateboard away behind a tree, peaking out to see what Ayda thought of it.

Slinked out from behind the tree, apologizing and admitting all of it terrified her before Ayda asked for another kiss.

Admited she started the whole party so Ayda would stick around.

Made out with Ayda until a bit before dawn and tried very hard to get Ayda to stay

Gave Ayda the ear cuff from her left ear which has blood on it (Ayda replied that she will treasure it and can use it)

Went back to Hollyhill to find her drunk friends before locking herself in the room with the hot tub and was still kinda pruney the next day

Name drops Grover to the wood elves, explaining that he offered to let them stay there (to try and deescalate things with the rangers)

Shook hands with Nuathura the Fox

Was honest to the wood elves (that the group were going into the Nightmare Forest), resulting in the rangers pulling back their bowstrings (and her backtracking)

Random note: Try to contact your warlock patron Fig!!!

Burned 1 or 2 luck points to keep a perceptive Riz from finding out that she made out with Ayda

Found a charred handprint in the shrine of thorns and recognized it as the same one her magic left at the top of briars and that the vines took somewhere

Lied to Tracker and Kristen, saying she was up by the briars working on song

Used burning hands again, causing the fire to spread into a stretching oval shaped burning doorway

Was served a burning scroll by Vraz the Mean on behalf of the regnant of Sloth

Ayda

Was invited to the party (which the group decided to have immediately, starting at 1 or 2 in the morning)

Stood in a corner looking around awkwardly before/during the party before following Fig out

Thought nonsense was bad, but Fig showed her that it could also be good and made her willing to try it

To Fig about disguising herself "Uh... yeah. That's interesting. I... can't understand that because if I was you, I wouldn't want to be anyone else because you're... very exceptional."

On Fig saying that she was different than Ayda thought she was "Being mistaken about the nature of something and discovering its true nature is my favorite thing in the world to do."

Turned herself and Fig invisible (look like a translucent version of themselves, like a pale outline to each other) and flew to the briar wall to give Fig a closer look.

Lit with Fig in the low looped saddle of two treetrunks that were fused together right next to the briar wall

Ayda's flaming hair and wings still cast a dull glow on her surroundings, even while invisible

Complemented Fig on her magic

Analyzed the wall and saw it was a very powerful and old abjuration (keeping them out but also keeping other things in) keyed to powerful devils (arcons, princes, and monarchs) where even dimension door would cause all roads and pathways to lead them back out.

Thorns tried to attack her

Thinks that everything Fig has done has been cool

"We all have a nasty legacy, in one way or another."

Laughed with a squawk

Spent a lot of lifetimes building Compass Points Library

Is part phoenix, so when she dies, she comes back but with no memory from her previous incarcerations. She left extensive notes and instructions for herself. This incarnation is 17 years old, but an Ayda has been on Leviathan for a little over 150 years

On why she never just reinvents herself when she reincarnates "Every time I come back, I don't know anything and I guess I trust the versions of me that knew more? I don't have a lot of self confidence and I don't... want... to make mistakes."

Said she could die when she goes back to Leviathan attempting to shut down the library as it's a dangerous city.

"The future's never guaranteed. We don't have anything but today and even that might get cut short."

Said she had information for Fig, but would only share it if Fig signed a contract (on ancient wizard scroll held in a binder that turns into bright fire and whips up into her palm when signed) that stated that Fig wont make any inference based on the information or think anything judgemental or critical of her. The information is "At any waking moment outside of combat that you and I have been together, if you had tried to kiss me on the mouth, it would have been received favorably."

Said Fig's contract was less of a contract and more of a threat

After Fig ran to hide behind a tree, she asked if it's normal for people to run away after that (kissing)

Shed firy tears over Fig starting a party so she would stay, admitting parties frighten and terrify her, but she stuck around because Fig was there

"In this version of my life, this is the greatest moment of it."

Enthusiasticly initiated their 3rd kiss

Said the library meant a lot to many past hers (her current incarnation and 3 others)

Offered to research plane shift for Fig at no charge and said that people ask things of her, but even if she cared about them, they never cared about her (save Fig who does care which makes it different and that's exciting)

Pulled out a firy feather with a squawk and handed it to Fig (if Fig holds if aloft and says her name, she will know)

Said if anything happened to Fig in the nightmare forest, she would "... start over" because she would never be able to forgive herself

Said she would go back to Leviathan to research Plane Shift and would return after that, intending to shrink the library later

"Goodbye for now. By the nine winds and the seven stars and all the secret names of the earth and beyond, I shall see you again. This is my vow." (resulting in Fig replying "Fuck yeah [is/that's] my vow." and Ayda saying "God you're great and cool. Goodbye!")

Sandra Lynn

Was more affectionate with Gilear than she had been the rest of the trip

Left Hangman in charge while she slept in the van

Spoke to the wood elves and Nuathura on behalf of the teens (while they slept til 1pm)

Gilear

Was trying to move the van to get ready for the teleport to Leviathan early that morning. Had the van in neutral with the door open when he tried to let his feet skim over the morning dew on the grass. He had put his apple in his mouth to shift when his trousers caught in the axle of the wheel, tearing them and sucking him under the left wheel well (WHY DIDN'T VAN SAY ANYTHING to anyone!???)

Really had to pee even before he got stuck and only made it 10 minutes before he gave up

The apple was jammed into his mouth (and later covered in ants). He couldn't bite through it because it was pressed against the carriage of the van and he couldn't scream to loud because ants would get in his mouth

Overheard the dance and spent most of his day sweating and crying

Was found later that night, still caught in the front left wheel well, covered in rubber residue and oil, with a browing ant covered apple in his mouth

Didn't need medical attention, but admitted that he did piss himself while under there

Got a hug from Kristen, Gorgug took his apple and tossed it, and Fabian tried to be nice to him about Hallariel not noticing him missing until Gilear asked for an honest response, which he answered with "Of course not Gilear, don't be dumb!" to which Riz said "Guys, he's not dumb; he's just pathetic." (Also found out Hallariel ate all his yogurt)

Adaine mended one of the tears in his pants, but then said "I'm not gonna mend your piss pants, here's another pair." and gave him new ones from her jacket followed by a boot cut pair of pants, Chelsea boots, denim vest, chambray embroidered shirt, and a beret. The kids (including Fabian) approved of his new look. His favorite part of the outfit was the beret.

Said he preferred pants with very narrow ankles and a wide front and back carriage to the seat

Fig told him that she loved him and apologized for not realizing where he was

The teens gave him one hot tub to himself

Was given a massage by Sandra Lynn while laying on one of the day beds in one of the public rooms (when she told him that he needed to make it a part of his routine, he responded that he was extremely broke)

Slept in the van that night

Spoke to the wood elves and Nuathura on behalf of the teens (while they slept til 1pm)

Decided to make sandwiches for everyone for their trip and looked a little different than normal, stood up straighter, and was wearing his new outfit

Baxter

Sat on a branch on top of Hollyhill and slept outside

Grabbed Kristen and Tracker in his claws while Fig and Sandra Lynn road on his back to Shrine of Thorns

Van

Left inside fenced in area at Hollyhill (can't cast fly on him)

Hallow extends out 60 feet from him, so the kids camped outside on matresses from the house

Hangman

Was left in charge during the party, but told the kids "No rules."

In the middle of a dramatic speech defending Gorgug, the tinkerers jumped on him (to examine him with their artificers glasses), resulting in him very much wanting to run them over

***

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More 2.12

[janiedean]

hello dearest (not) anon, excuse me if I don’t reply to you directly but as I want to block each single one of you I’ll keep the original so I can lovingly delete it after I’m finished. :)

now, I was this tempted to just delete or troll you, but as y’all have honestly seemed to not realize that you’ve gone overboard and that I didn’t want to get further involved with this dumb shipwar but you’re basically making me go like

so fine, whatever, I’ll address this one because it has all the single dumbest arguments we could have and I kind of want it for safekeeping, so.

point one: starting an ask with you freaks and then complain we don’t complain about jaime calling brienne ugly makes me wonder if you actually re-read your asks before you send them or if you even bother to make sure they’re internally coherent, because sorry but you’re basically saying this entire fandom is made of **freaks** which last I know was not a compliment to anyone’s aesthetic, so you already don’t have ground to stand on;

point two: stupid is actually a universally degrading word when referred to a specific person and used to undermine their intelligence, especially if continuously repeated. now, in *itself* it’s not damning - an argument can be stupid, a discussion can be stupid (I mean I’ve seen people savagely arguing over who had to wash the dishes, that’s a stupid reason to argue with anyone), a law can be stupid (all of italian bureaucracy is definitely a challenge for anyone for one), of course it’s all about how it’s used. for one, if used ironically and not meaning it, as in ‘my stupid son charging against dragons’, it’s not damning either, because wow, wait a moment, every single person who says that also knows that jaime is doing that out of ptsd fight instinct and that there’s nothing funny about it, but as we are people outside the narrative who love the character, we don’t mean it in a demeaning way. obviously charging at a dragon is suicidal, and it’s exactly what he’d have done (probably also in book canon I’ll give them that), but we all know why he did it, and btw dork is nowhere near on the same level as the stupidest lannister, it can be meant positively as well and tbh it’s used way more positively than that - I mean, there’s dorks in love and idiots in love as ao3 tags, no one uses them to insult the people in the ship they’re writing about now, do they? however, the whole thing about ‘the stupidest lannister’ is completely different because it implies cersei, someone jaime trusts implicitly and who’s his sister and, to him, also his lover and his other half - going by your own/their own definition - continuously demeaning his intelligence. now, I don’t think you quite realize how emotional abuse works or how that works, but let me tell you: if people you are that close with or have a fundamental impact in your upbringing (your parents, your siblings, your first teachers etc.) tell you that all the time, you end up believing that. and what comes with it? if you think you’re more stupid then them, then it means that their decisions will be better than yours because you’re too dumb to take them properly and they’re not, and you won’t even start to wonder that maybe they’re wrong and you’re right, and it’s an exceedingly common thing that happens between abusers and their victims, ie convincing them that they’re not smart enough to know what’s good for themselves, and so coming from cersei who also doesn’t want jaime to put two and two together and realize he’s a different person from her and actually, worse, doesn’t even consider the possibility that he might actually not be a different person from her, it’s straight up emotional abuse of the ugliest kind and it has nothing to do with *fans of the character* calling him a dork over his utter lack of smoothness when hitting on people, because we know why he doesn’t know how to hit on people. other than that, in the show they made jaime canonically dyslexic. now, if you even don’t get that calling someone stupid for thirty years will do a great fucking lot of damage to them (I mean, I’ve been told I was snobbish for three years by a teacher I didn’t even particularly admire in my formative years and I still have to finish unpacking the consequence of that shit, I can’t imagine being constantly demeaned by your relatives or people you trust implicitly) I doubt you’ll realize the fucking wrongness depths of the implication that the only lannister with a canon in-show learning disability is *the stupidest lannister* especially when there’s still the stigma about dyslexic people being dumb because *they can’t read* when that’s not true at all and they just need different ways of approaching a text and then they’re good to go and it has nothing to do with how smart or no they aren’t, but I’m going to tell you: it’s ableist as hell, falls under harmful stereotypes about dyslexic people that tv shows should go against, not reinforce and it has really disgusting connotations, so excuse me if I am pressed about it and other people are pressed about it and your opinion belongs in the trash and I really hope you’re not a teacher not are planning to become one;

point three: now we go at how you don’t get at all how those two work and how brienne’s character is structured, but here, let me explain you: a) jaime calls her ugly when they meet and after he loses the hand he only calls her ugly in his head and/or to her face when he’s irritated or she has misunderstood his intentions or he feels hurt by the fact that she misunderstood his intentions (when he gives her oathkeeper in the books), and in the show he stopped mid S3. on the other side, she calls him an oathbreaker and all the worst things she can call him - if you missed it, they insult each other and they start their relationship thinking the worst of the other person, and even with that he spends the entire first chapter of his in asos checking her out but you didn’t notice that I suppose; b) jaime does not call her ugly at all after he punches ronnet connington and in the show again he hasn’t since mid s3, and given that they were supposed to start as enemies and she insulted him right back, I won’t be here being pressed about them trading insults when the entire point of the story is that they stop insulting each other after they get to know each other and get closer to each other, or have you missed that too? c) the fact that he calls her ugly is actually narratively important because let me explain you something that you don’t know because you obv. haven’t read brienne’s chapters: most of the time she remembers being hurt by other men when it comes to her feelings, it’s when she found out they lied to her about her looks. she got her first trauma related to her looks when her septa told her that people who called her pretty were lying, and she got hurt during the bet with hyle and so on because those people were courting her and telling her nice things and then they were all planning on screwing her literally and metaphorically, so if someone went to brienne and told her ‘oh hey you look hot as hell let’s bang!!’, she wouldn’t believe them. let me guarantee you, she wouldn’t. the fact that jaime did not compliment her at all if not going all the way around to do it about her fighting prowess and maskerading it as insults means that he never lied to her about her looks or about anything, and the fact that then he changes and genuinely respects her and trusts in her and gives her THE THING SHE’S WANTED MOST IN HER LIFE ie a sword and a knightly quest and someone actually believing she could be a knight and carry out her vows instead of thinking she was a joke weights a lot more than any insult he might have thrown at her in the past and actually, she can trust him to not make fun of her/she can know for sure he’s not joking exactly because he never had a problem with calling her ugly (which she knows she is according to westeros beauty standards in the beginning) nor to tell her mean things when he thought them, and so since he never lied to her before and she can see that he changed, she has no reason to think he could or would lie to her after, and considering that most of her trauma is tied to having been lied to in that sense... sorry but no, it doesn’t bother me at all because if it’s an enemies to lovers kind of trope I really don’t think I’d expect him to gift her flowers at their first meeting. I mean, *enemies* to *lovers* implies that at the beginning they don’t like each other, or did you forget that words have meanings? also, hairy is not an insult. I suppose that for people who insult other people about the peach fuzz mustache most women have it would be an insult, but let me tell you: it’s not. and given that I’ve seen posts over posts about how it’s an expression of feminism to not shave I really think you haven’t even checked that discourse lately - personally I don’t care for it but like, having body hair is not automatically a crime nor a reason why you’re unattractive. get lost. and like, excuse me if insults traded by people who didn’t know each other and that they both outgrew when they did know each other are nowhere near on the same level of making someone think they’re too fucking stupid to take their own decisions and always have to follow someone else’s lead, and excuse me if I’m way more than mildly worried that anyone in this fandom would look at that stupidest lannister bullshit and actually don’t feel horrified at it.

now, honestly, can y’all just stop with this grasping at straws which happens to also be ableist as hell while pretending to give a fuck about brienne as a character - because you don’t, it’s obvious from how you don’t understand her issues at all - and keep to your own lane or what? because honestly, it’s obvious no one has ever called you ugly in your life and that you never had to deal with anyone demeaning your intelligence because you were most likely too busy demeaning other people’s, but you’ve been at this bullshit since 2013.

didn’t you get bored?\

[lisinfleur]

The Right Choice

Author’s Notes | This one was kinda hard to elaborate, but I hope the final piece is good for you, sweet @chinduda! Thanks for the request! Universe | Vikings Pairing | Hvitserk x Reader Info | Halfdansðóttir! Reader, No War AU, requested by @chinduda for 5CW5 Words | 1794 ⁑ Warnings: None

The first time you saw each other you had fourteen years old and was following your mother to say goodbye to your father at the docks. He was leaving to The Mediterranean Sea, following the great Björn Ironside, accompanied by your uncle Harald and Björn's younger brother.

Hvitserk.

You remember you thought he couldn't be so older than you, cause from the top of his twenty years old, there wasn't a single strand of beard in his face. And yet, you thought he was gorgeous...

He complimented your mother and smiled at you gently, but everything you could do was a respectful reverence, trying to face the ground so, in your mind, he wouldn't see how burning red your cheeks were in front of him. You remember he giggled, probably thinking you were a beautiful child.

Because of course, for him, you were nothing but a child.

The same couldn't be said now...

Five years later, you felt more confident to look at his face when he came to visit, once again, following his brother Björn and accompanied by your uncle Harald. The fourth of them - adding up your father - were planning to return to the lands they discovered in their maps, now updated by their last visits to those unknown places; for more treasures and gold, maybe more slaves.

He was different. There was a light beard around his jawline and a mustache, giving him an older look, more imposing. His face was also marked with one or two new scars, marks of the many battles you heard he and his brothers had fought together. He surely would have more stories of his adventures to tell...

You couldn't avoid noticing how he gasped at your sight. It brought a smile to the corner of your mouth. You weren't a child anymore, not in his eyes; and it was clear.

"Is this your daughter?" Hvitserk asked, looking at you and your father readily noticed his interest, raising one eyebrow.

"Yes, this is Y/N, Hvitserk," Halfdan answered not too pleased of the way Hvitserk was looking at you, causing your uncle Harald to chuckle in one of those characteristic laughs of his.

"Let the young speak, Halfdan," your uncle said, patting your father's shoulder. "She's 19 now, sooner or later you would have to deal with it, brother." Harald joked, earning a displeased smile from his brother and a laugh from Björn, while Hvitserk just curved his lips.

"It's not my fault you made a beautiful daughter," Hvitserk said, causing your cheeks to become lightly redder and your lips to curve in a smile. "You can't blame me for looking at her..."

"She's kissed by Freya indeed," your mother said, touching your shoulders and getting a smile of yours that faded into a redder face when she continued. "And she's single..."

"Wife!" Halfdan warned at the same time your voice sounded, embarrassed.

"Mother!"

Björn was already taking a seat, probably weakened of laughing that much.

"My brother is also single, by the way," he tried to keep the pace of the idea, causing your mother to smile.

"Husband, your daughter won't be forever the little girl you see. At her age, I already had your son and she was being born, remember?" she called your father's attention, but your eyes were locked on Hvitserk's greens, looking straight at you.

He was so beautiful... As beautiful as you could remember. Or maybe more.

Hvitserk grew up to be a gorgeous man, after all. And somehow, that blue cloak combined with the white fur over his shoulders was only making him look even more attractive. His hair was braided different as well: the four locks you could remember were now attached to each other in the back of his neck forming a single braid, giving him a more mature look.

You were so absorbed in your contemplation that you sighed surprised when Hvitserk's index and thumb touched your chin, lifting your face softly up to look at his eyes. He was smiling again.

"It wouldn't be a bad idea," he said, causing your cheeks to finally go out of your control and burn red again, just like that day at the docks. "She's beautiful, she's your daughter, and I'm past the time to find a good wife and make some children. It would be a good way to approach our families, Halfdan."

"And you won't find another like him, so stop frowning this forehead, husband!" your mother said, causing even Hvitserk to giggle this time. "What? He's a son of Ragnar Lothbrok! A prince and a good warrior! You were speaking good about him not so far from his arrival! Don't deny it!"

"I was, I was," your father admitted, still upset. "But I was talking about how he's a good warrior, not a good husband! I wouldn't marry my daughter to a Lothbrok. They have the bad fame of collecting wives!"

Björn coughed, shrugging towards Hvitserk when the greens of the younger one glared at him sharply. The bad fame of his older brother was disturbing his brand-new plans.

"Björn is already in his fourth!" your father exclaimed, evoking Björn's reputation one more time against your suitor. "Ubbe is not different! Why would you be? First Margrethe, now Torvi. I wouldn't be surprised by a dispute in between you all to know how many wives a Ragnarsson can have!" he insisted, annoyed. "You guys are like your father. Ragnar also didn't sit his butt with a single wife!"

"Well, I'm not my brothers, Halfdan," Hvitserk said, wisely. "Nor my father. I can't earn their glories, dress their cloaks, or pay for their crimes. I had to sink my hands on the battlefield's mud to unbury my own treasures and their gold won't be around me in Valhalla. Nor will be their children or their wives. You said well: My father had more than a wife. My brothers are doing the same. But I had enough women in my youth to be fully satisfied with my adventures, my friend. What I seek now, is a woman to bear my children and stand by me."

You felt your cheeks burning again when his eyes turned towards you. A loving smile in his face as his thumb was still caressing your chin you softly leaned into his caress.

"I'm not a boy anymore, you shall know that already, my friend. We fought together times enough for you to know I'm not the same. I have enough to provide your daughter with a good life, proper to the queen she will become one day, as soon as I settle myself as king of some land I end up conquering." Hvitserk began to speak about himself, clearly proposing your father an arrangement in words that caused his older brother to straighten himself at the chair and your uncle to do the same.

The things weren't a joke anymore and all of them noticed that in the way Hvitserk was showing his feathers like a peacock to your father's eyes.

"I already have lands that are mine, where she will be properly settled in a good house, hers, despite my place in Kattegat's hall is still open. It would be a good chance to merge the halls of Kattegat and Vestfold in a solid alliance we never really established in between our kingdoms. I'm sure my brother and king Björn won't disagree with my words, such as King Harald would also be able to foresee these benefits I speak of. Am I wrong?" he turned his words to the kings at the table and Björn twitched his lips, looking at Halfdan.

"I'm not speaking in my brother's favor, but I have to agree with his words... We always fought together and dedicated allegiance to one another, but the kingdoms of Vestfold and Kattegat had never really bonded to each other."

"It would be a good chance indeed," your uncle said, interested, looking at Björn for an instant. "Not speaking in your brother's favor? Why not?"

"Exactly. Why not?" Halfdan asked readily, seeing in this little observation a small chance to get himself out of that unexpected situation.

But Björn's smile caused your father to feel hopeless of getting rid of that proposal.

"I don't need to. My brother's achievements speak for themselves. None of my brothers need my word to show themselves proper suitors for a woman of our kind. I have to say you're on your own, my friend," Björn patted your father's shoulder and you saw Halfdan sitting at his chair with a long sigh.

"It wasn't what I was expecting when I invited the two of you!" he mourned, causing everyone to laugh again and Hvitserk's charming giggle to reach your heart like a precise arrow. He was so gorgeous when smiling! So natural and sweet...

"I'll bring more mead! Y/N, come on! Go prepare that herb bread you do for our guests!" your mother said, causing your father to sigh once again.

"Wife, Hvitserk eats like a damn goat! She's already catching his attention! If she cooks for filling his stomach then I won't be able to take him out of my heels with this mad idea of marriage!"

Björn laughed harder, looking at you.

"Marry your herb bread with some sour cream and you'll have my brother on his knees for your father to give him your hand, girl," he said, receiving your father's elbow in his ribs, just laughing a little more of Halfdan's annoyed expression.

"Oh, you stop teaching them the ways to each other!"

"She makes the best sour cream you ever tasted!" your mother spat to Hvitserk, causing your father to almost explode a vein in his forehead.

"WIFE!"

"What? Halfdan, accept it! Instead of being so mad you should be establishing a good mundr for the groom!" she said, and you couldn't avoid giggling this time.

For Hvitserk's pleasure since he was hearing your laugh for the first time. His hand softly slid to the side of your face and his thumb caressed your cheek, in a comfortable and warm touch you could really get used to feeling.

"For these sweet laughs? I'll gladly pay whatever you want from me, my friend," Hvitserk got you blushed again with his sweet words your father didn't take long to ruin.

"Oh, you prepare yourself to be poor, prince! I'm losing my daughter here! I'll fucking clean your pockets!"

The men laughed again and Hvitserk smiled at you, caressing your face one more time before taking his place at your father's table.

Your heart was beating like a drum. You never thought the gods would bless you like that. But it seems the sweetest of the Ragnarssons would be your husband after all...

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[madamslayyy]

Log Cabin and A Brewing Fire Part II (Trevante Rhodes x Reader)

Pairing: Nebraska Williams ( Trevante Rhodes) x Reader

Warnings: none for this chapter

A/N: here’s part two. This will be a series and it is SLOWBURN. If you haven’t please read PART ONE HERE just so it’ll all make sense. Thank you guys so much for tuning in!!!

~*~

Knock, Knock

You were currently in your favorite snow boots, bubble rain/snow resistant jacket, and a pair of black jeans knocking on Nebraska’s door. He never kept it locked but you were trying to enforce some boundaries on yourself. Even if he was a guest, you couldn’t just barge into his room whenever you felt the slightest inclination.

He’d been here a total of three days already and if you were being honest, you could hardly feel any change since he’d arrived. His presence was so small and mute, most times you forgot he was even there. You figured whatever it was that was plaguing him mentally, it couldn’t help that he was by himself so much here.

So you were actively going to try and work with him. Get him out and talking, maybe even about why he feels the way he feels. Which is what brought you outside of his door now. You woke up with the brilliant idea for the two of you to take a walk in the snow, hoping it would give you both a chance to at least get to know each other.

Knock, knock, knock, kno-

Nebraska opened the door midknock and you wanted to sink into the ground at the sight of him. He was shirtless, chest and abs glistening with water droplets, his face, neck, beard, etc, were also soaking wet and there was a towel hanging loosely around his hips. It was obvious he’d just stepped out of the shower.

“Yes ma’am?” He said lowly, snapping you out of your shocked state.

“Oh you don’t have to call me ma’am! You really don’t even have to be formal at all! Unless that’s what you’re comfortable with. Then by all means do whatever you like but calling me ma’am isn’t... like.... necessary or uh any..... thing....” you trailed off. He said nothing, silently waiting for you to continue with whatever brought you to his door.

“Well anyway, I was wondering if you’d like to join me for a hike this morning. The weather is beautiful at the moment and I thought it’d be nice for you to see the area. New England has some of the most beautiful woodland areas around.” You smiled, forcing yourself to look at his nose and not search for a print below.

“Alright,” he said.

“Great! Amazing! Um, I’ll just meet you downstairs then whenever you’re ready!” You chirped and walked away leaving him to get dressed.

You went and sat on the sofa of your living room, watching the snow gently drift down through the huge window looking outside. You couldn’t have been sitting there for even ten minutes when you heard his heavy boots trudge downstairs, fully dressed in jeans, combat boots, a long sleeve shirt, snowcap and a thick winter jacket. He dressed in all black, as did you and it almost looked like the two of you were matching.

“Ready?” You quipped and he nodded. So the two of you set off.

The walk began quietly as the two of you headed out the back door, through your yard and out to one of your favorite trails. The sun was shining bright, providing a little warmth to the two of you as you trudge through the snow.

“So tell me about yourself Nebraska,” you started, shoving your gloved hands in your coat pockets to keep warm.

“Not much to tell,” he said solemnly. You’d anticipated such an answer and thought ahead.

“Well then let’s start in the beginning, where are you from?”

“Born in Louisiana, moved to Nebraska when I was 7.”

“Oh so that’s where you get your nickname from huh? Pretty cool,” you smiled. He said nothing.

“So what made you join the army?”

“It fit. I was strong, followed directions well, thought I was making a difference.”

“Well my Uncle thinks the world of you, raves about you all the time.” You saw the corners of his mouth turn up in a small smile.

“He’s always looked out for me..... probably even when he shouldn’t have,” his tone dropped and you could hear a hint of sadness in his voice. Well more sadness than usual.

“Hey, it’ll be alright,” you said and you decided to take a big risk and pat him on the back. You might as well have been patting a wall with how hard it was.

The two of you walked a bit more in silence before a loud ringtone broke the quiet around you. Nebraska reached into his back pocket and pulled out his cell phone, answering it immediately.

“Aye. Yeah? Yeah. Yeah. Yeah..... yeah. Mmhm. Okay. See you then.” He hung up the phone and you looked at him curiously, the unspoken question hanging in the air.

“Mind if we cut this hike short?” He didn’t really seemed to be asking but looked at you expectantly anyway.

“Yeah sure, that’s fine,” and with that the two of you began to walk back. You were quiet but you couldn’t help your mind from wandering. Your curiosity was literally burning in the back of your brain and you were dying to know who it was he was meeting.

But if he’d wanted you to know he’d have told you. So you kept the inquiries to yourself.

The two of you made it back to you house and in your driveway was a gigantic red flatbed truck with a tarp in the back. A white man with blonde hair and an equally blonde blonde mustache hopped out of the vehicle. The first thing you noticed was how tall he was. He was clearly one of Nebraska’s army buddies.

“McKenna,” Nebraska grinned and this had to be the first time you’d seen a genuine smile on his face since he got here. It was absolutely breathtaking, he had slight dimples that flared and his teeth were perfectly white and supremely straight. His eyes crinkled in the smile and you could see he was genuinely happy to see him.

“You’re hard to track down. General (Y/L/N) really put you in the middle of no where huh? This his niece?” McKenna said turning to you.

“Yeah. Y/N this is Captain Quinn McKenna.” The Captain extended his hand to you and you took it lightly.

“Pleasure to meet you ma’am. Not staying long, just stopped by to drop off this old hunk of metal,” he laughed, winking at Nebraska.

“Hunk of metal?” You questioned. McKenna pulled back the tarp on the back of his truck to reveal the sleekest motorcycle you’d ever seen. You didn’t know much about motorcycles but this was was big, black and shiny so you had to assume it was well taken care of.

“Couldn’t let this baby rot away on the base, now could I.” McKenna quipped then he and Nebraska lowered it down on the ground together.

“Thanks Cap,” Nebraska grinned.

“Don’t mention it, Williams. To anybody. Ever. Especially the General, he’d have my head if he knew I handed you your mobility.” McKenna said tossing Nebraska a helmet.

“Be careful on that thing. And hurry up and get your ass back to base, we need you.” McKenna slapped Nebraska’s back and then headed back to get in his truck, pausing before he got in.

“Y/N,” he nodded throwing you a curtesy wave before taking off. That left you and Nebraska alone again and the silence fell over you two once more.

“Well that was awfully nice of him,” you smiled. Nebraska nodded once but said nothing, turning his attention to his bike.

“Well I’m gonna go start breakfast. Would you like anything?” He shook his head no and you continued on the the kitchen.

You made yourself a bowl of sweetened granola and oats then sat on your windowsill languidly picking at the meal, only really stomaching a few bites before tossing the rest out. You had work in a couple of hours and decided to go ahead and start getting ready for that.

~*~

You got home from work much later than you usually do, sinking into a chair in the living room as soon as you stepped through the door. You were exhausted and it seemed the museum was always more popular this time of year increasing your work load. That and the fact that you had three new exhibits coming in and two old exhibits moving on had you more stressed than usual.

You were too tired to eat dinner and decided to just head to bed. You were almost to your door when you heard the undeniable sound of someone grunting. Specifically a male grunt. There was also a lot of heavy breathing and the headboard squeaking as it tapped against the wall. You felt your veins ice over thinking the worst.

Of course you’d never outwardly told Nebraska he wasn’t allowed to have female.....’company’ but with him only being here a total of four days even you could admit that was moving pretty fast.

You couldn’t control your feet as they slowly made their way to his door. It was cracked and you gently pushed it open a smidge, hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl he was with. This New England town was only so big and you pretty much knew almost everyone here, so whoever his partner in crime was, you were bound to at least know who she was.

You peaked through the crack, your moral conscious screaming at you otherwise. What you found before you couldn’t have shocked you more.

He was doing crunches on the side of his bed. His force and bulk making the bed squeak as he did one after another. He was shirtless yet again and his body was glistening with sweat.

You couldn’t help the sigh of relief from washing over you and he heard it, causing him to pause. You pushed the door all the way open and began walking in before he had he chance to turn around so it wouldn’t look like you were spying (even if you obviously were).

“Heyyyy..... what are you still doing up?” You asked nonchalantly as you leaned against his open door.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He said out of breath.

“Really? Because you actually look pretty sleepy,” you noted, finally getting a good look at his eyes with him on the ground. Upon further inspection, he almost looked like he hadnt slept in days.

“I, uh, I don’t sleep at night.” He said, standing up.

“Why’s that?”

“Can’t seem to catch it.” He shrugged, grabbing a towel off his nightstand. It looked like he was about to take a shower.

“You know I used to be the same way then I- HEY! I’ve got an idea! Why don’t you sleep in my room. There’s fairy lights, an oil defuser, rain sounds, who knows maybe that’ll help you get to sleep. That’s what I do instead of counting sheep.” Maybe swapping rooms would help him feel a little more at ease, plus you didn’t mind sleeping in his room if that meant he’d get some proper rest. You always enjoyed the window view from his room better anyway.

“Umm... I don’t know..... Let me think on it,” he said hesitantly and you know he wasn’t really going for it but at least you tried.

“Okay well let me if you change your mind. Good Night,” you said turning towards the door.

“Night.”

~*~

A nice long hot shower later and you were in bed in your t-shirt and underwear on, languidly reading your latest novel when you began to drift in and out of sleep, finally sub-coming to your own slumber.

You could vaguely register Nebraska’s massive frame entering the room and laying down next to you.

“You changed your mind?” You asked groggily.

“Yeah,” was all you could remember he said and then you fell back asleep, too tired to make the trip over to his room. Even though the bed had plenty of room, Nebraska was all the way at the opposite edge, once again trying to make his presence barely know, as if he were trying to disappear.

~*~

A/N: Hey y’all, thanks for reading!! Let me know what y’all think so far!!! As always I’m tagging my Trevante Gang!!! Let me know if you’d like to be tagged as well!!

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[feelingfredly]

Tea for Two

Summary:            

The joys of loving a mad scientist.

Or as Socrates said...  I drank what?

Notes:    

I wandered into the UraIchi Discord server and stumbled over a discussion of the absolute *crime* that there was no tag for "Consensual Tea Drugging."  The rest, as they say, is...  somebody else's fault. LOL

                “What does this one do?”

Kisuke peered around the corner of the cabinet and tutted.  “Telling you would skew the results of the experiment.”

Ichigo looked into the muddy depths of his teacup and muttered, “Like you’re not already skewed.” He sighed, “So, I just trust you and drink it?”

Kisuke paused for a moment.  Put like that he could understand Ichigo’s concern. “I suppose I could…”

A second later Ichigo was behind him, his front pressed against the planes of Kisuke’s back, and handed him the empty cup. “You should’ve just said. I’m going to go settle down on the futon with a book in case I get dizzy. You want to come take notes?”

Kisuke looked at the empty cup and then watched Ichigo as he wandered back towards their bedroom.

 Notes.  Right.

***

“Wheeeeen the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amor-aaay.”

Ichigo’s singing voice was quite nice, although his choice of song was suspect. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to lie down, Ichigo-kun?” Kisuke asked. He was fairly certain that not-tea-drugged Ichigo would prefer to keep his vocal abilities to himself, even if they were terribly entertaining.

Ichigo spun on the ball of his foot—the tea clearly didn’t affect him physically as much as mentally—and shook his head. “No way!  I feel great!  I feel so great that you should send a message to Grimmjow and tell him that I want to pound his ass.”

Kisuke’s lip quirked a fraction and Ichigo paused, rethinking what he’d said.

“Not like that,” Ichigo let out an undignified snort, “although have you seen his ass?  I mean, I know you’ve seen his ass, but have you seen it?” He sighed a little dreamily and Kisuke wondered just how much of Grimmjow’s ass Ichigo had seen. “I meant that I wanted to pound his ass into the ground, not the futon.”

Ichigo paused again and Kisuke could almost hear the wheels turning in his head as a sly smirk spread across his face.

“Now your ass is another thing entirely.”

Kisuke made a note in his journal.

***

The water pelted over them, Kisuke’s wet samue clinging to him as he washed the traces of sickness away from Ichigo’s pale face.

“This wasn’t what I signed on for with the whole ‘consensual tea drugging’ experiment.” Ichigo’s voice was rough, his throat raw from hours of expelling what seemed like everything he’d ever consumed in his life.   “Although the shower part is nice.”

Kisuke ran his hand down Ichigo’s flank, long soothing strokes, and hmmm’d. “I didn’t expect this reaction, either.  The tea was supposed to make you sleepy.  Possibly knock you out.  I bought a Sharpie to draw a mustache on you and everything.”

Ichigo let out a watery laugh.  “Only you would tell me that to try to make me happier with you.”

Kisuke wrapped his arms around the smaller man and held him, the memory of his recent misery an uncomfortable lump in his stomach.

“I am sorry, for what it’s worth.” The words were soft against Ichigo’s bare shoulder.

A quiet rumble answered him.  “It’s worth a lot.”

***

“I am absolutely positive.”

Ichigo stared into the teacup doubtfully.  “Is this like ‘normal people absolutely positive’ or ‘mad scientist absolutely positive’?”

Kisuke tilted his head to one side. “You do realize that as a mad scientist I can’t actually answer that question any way but the latter, don’t you?”

The redhead rolled his eyes. “You do realize that that kind of logic only applies when you’re avoiding the subject, Kisuke.”

That was true enough.  Kisuke shrugged.

“Let’s go with mathematical rather than interpretational, then. I am 95% certain that this tea will not allow me to analyze the contents of your stomach first-hand.  The +/- 5% takes into account any previously undiscovered intolerances, allergies, or hollow/reiatsu reactions.  Fair enough?”

Ichigo had swallowed the contents of the cup before he’d finished his explanation.

“Why quibble if you were just going to drink it anyway?”

Ichigo smirked. “Keeps you on your toes. Anyway, tastes better than the last kind.  Either going down or coming back up.”

Kisuke nodded. “I added a few things for flavor.”

Brown eyes met his. “I recognized the cinnamon and I thank you.  You know I like the taste of that.”

“Yes,” Kisuke said, gently guiding Ichigo out of the kitchen and down the hall. “I used cinnamon, star anise, and cardamom…  to hide the curare.”

Ichigo stopped stock still in the middle of the doorway. “Curare!?!”

Kisuke smiled and bussed him on the cheek.  “I love how smart you are.  You know curare? It’s surprisingly bitter and taken orally you must use a lot to get any effect.  It was quite the puzzle.”

He pushed Ichigo into the bedroom and down onto the futon that he’d rolled out earlier, just for this.

Ichigo looked around a little wildly at the made-up bed. “What’s all this?”

Kisuke watched him try to raise his hands. It wasn’t working very well, which meant the tea was.

“This,” he said, pulling Ichigo’s hands up and crossing them over his navel, “is a way for me to see how long the tea’s effects last.”

The redhead gave him a look, and Kisuke was pleased to see that neither his breathing nor his pupils had been affected.  Good.

“Lying here paralyzed is going to get pretty boring.  For both of us.  I hope you brought a book.  I’ll probably just sleep.” His words were a little slurred, but he was clearly coherent. Kisuke stood and started removing his clothes, pleased to see Ichigo’s pupils reacting to that at least.

“Oh, I had a better idea than a book.  You see, something that has always puzzled me is how intention changes the effect of certain drugs.   Someone with enough motivation can push through a lot of things, and it’s important to test these things under suitable duress.”

Naked now, he stood just in Ichigo’s line of sight. He trailed a hand languidly along the centerline of his abdomen, a track that the other man loved to trace with his tongue, and finally down to his slightly stiffening cock and then further to cup his tightening balls.

In the time they’d been together there had been many discoveries, but almost none had pleased Kisuke more than the fact that Ichigo loved, absolutely loved, to watch him touch himself.  His eyes would widen, and his breath would shorten, his lips would shine bitten and red as he forced himself to wait, wait, wait…  until he couldn’t wait anymore and would launch himself like a starving man at Kisuke, his hands everywhere, mouth hot and demanding, and then, only then, would Kisuke allow himself to come, preferably buried deeply in Ichigo’s beautiful body.

This time, though, Ichigo couldn’t pounce.  The tea would keep him still longer than his willpower ever could, and Kisuke couldn’t wait to see what happened.

He pulled a cushion over beside the futon and relaxed cross-legged, his cock now at half-mast, barely an arm’s length away from Ichigo’s face.

“Fuck, Kisuke.”

Ichigo’s eyes were all pupil, blown wide with desire as he forced the words through slack lips.  That gave him so many ideas. He gripped himself a little harder and played with the fold of foreskin that protected the sensitive glans.

“That will have to wait, Ichigo-kun,” he said with a soft laugh, “the tea, you know.”

Even drugged Ichigo managed a scowl. “You’re enjoying this.”

Kisuke looked down into the wide brown eyes and let his desire show. “Oh yes.  Yes I am.”

His fingers were cool against the heat of his cock, and the friction was enough to slow his stroke.

“You know,” he said, eyes drifting shut as he teased them both, “there’s a healing kidō that the Fourth uses.  It stops muscles from reflexively tightening and I’ve always wondered if there weren’t other applications for it.”

Kisuke reached across with his unoccupied hand and stroked along the length of Ichigo’s throat.

“Can’t you just imagine? I could totally remove your gag reflex. There’d be nothing to stop me from just fucking your mouth, and you’d be unable to move, unable to do anything but feel me.”

The groan that hung in the air could have come from either of them.

“You’re a bastard, Kisuke,” Ichigo said and Kisuke laughed, his hand stopping mid-stroke.

“That is not a surprise to either of us.”

He leaned forward and reached into the drawer of the bedside table, the ubiquitous hiding place for lubricant throughout three worlds, and pulled out the little stoppered jar that lived there.  He smiled softly at the gasp he heard as Ichigo sucked in a breath, watching as his cock bobbed mere inches from his face.

Kisuke warmed the handful of oil and gripped himself again with a sigh of satisfaction.  “Is this more what you had in mind when you agreed to my drugged tea experiments?”

He knew he was poking a dragon, but he couldn’t help himself.  He loved to hear it roar.

“More, yes,” Ichigo answered, frustration and hunger clear in his voice, and then a blaze of his reiatsu flooded the room, burning away the effects of the tea. He lurched upright on the futon, his hand snapping out to imprison Kisuke’s wrist, holding his fingers where they circled the base of his throbbing cock, a manacle of flesh and bone. “But not nearly enough.”

Kisuke smirked and allowed himself to be pulled forward and rolled under Ichigo’s hot body.

 Tea effects cut by 85% under duress.

***

Kisuke ran through the house, dodging occasionally thrown items, grinning like an idiot.

“Spots, Kisuke!” Ichigo yelled. “How did you ever think tea that caused someone to be covered in spots was a good idea?”

The blond stopped and turned. “I thought it would be useful if I could create a kind of biological camouflage.  Honestly…”

Ichigo cut him off with a growl, “They’re pink!  How the fuck would that be camouflage?”

Kisuke shunpo’d off again, grin firmly back in place.  Who cared if he got caught?  The pink was totally worth it.

***

“I think half the experiment is just to see how many times you can drug me.”

Kisuke paused in pouring the tea. “You mean like a trust experiment?” he asked.

“Maybe trust,” Ichigo shrugged, taking his cup.  “Maybe stupidity. I mean, how many times can you hand me something, tell me “this is going to do something to you, but I’m not telling you what” and expect me to do it? At some point you have to figure that I’ll say no.”

Kisuke looked at him thoughtfully. “That isn’t…”

Ichigo raised his cup and drank. “Don’t worry about it, Kisuke.  I mean…  I know you’d never agree to something like this, but it’s okay.  I don’t mind.”

The blond stepped forward and rested his hand on Ichigo’s wrist.  “You’re wrong.”

Ichigo shivered and looked down at the hand touching him as if he’d never felt anything like it before.  Apparently, the tea was working faster than his calculations indicated.

“Wrong?” The question came out strangled, like Ichigo was struggling to focus on the words.

“Yes,” Kisuke pulled his hand back leaving only one finger resting against the pulse stampeding through Ichigo’s wrist. “I’d drink anything you gave me.  No questions asked.”

Ichigo was staring at the spot where their skin was touching, fascinated.

“What does this one do?” he stuttered the words out.

Kisuke leaned forward, mere inches from Ichigo’s ear, to answer. “Hypersensitization.”

The keening sound that escaped Ichigo’s mouth was breathtaking.

***

Shunsui-san had a lot to answer for, calling him in for an emergency that basically entailed him saying, “No, I don’t want a Captaincy” fourteen different ways.  That might be an emergency for him, but it was decidedly less important to Kisuke.

“Long day?” Ichigo was standing in the kitchen as he made his way up from the basement. At least the Captain Commander wasn’t putting up a fuss about his senkaimon. Not that he could really do anything about it.

“After dealing with Kyōraku all day, I almost feel sorry for the people who have to deal with me.  All that duplicitous smiling.  It’s exhausting.” He leaned in and kissed Ichigo swiftly. The small affections were something that he still hesitated over, but Ichigo appreciated them, and that made them worth the effort.

“Tea?” Ichigo raised the pot and Kisuke nodded.

“Please.  And use the good white.  I need something subtle after a day of being beaten over the head constantly.”

Ichigo hummed his agreement and they pottered quietly around the kitchen while the tea steeped.

“So, are you going to take him up on his offer?”

Kisuke slanted a look across the kitchen.  Of course, Ichigo would know what Kyōraku was up to.  They were surprisingly close for men born a thousand years apart, and he’d seen the older man’s eyes resting on the redhead more than once.  It might be concerning if he didn’t know that Ichigo was as loyal as the day was long, but until the young man woke up and realized he’d hitched his wagon to the wrong horse, Kisuke wasn’t going anywhere.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said finally, reaching out for the beaker of pale gold liquid with a smile of thanks.  “I find that I like my current arrangements too much to go messing about with something like a new Captaincy.”

He sipped his cooling brew and caught Ichigo staring.

“You disapprove?” He took another sip, and yes…  there was something there. Something under the soft notes of the white tea.  Why that little sneaky…

“No,” Ichigo said, with a shake of spiky orange hair.  “I find that I, too, like your current arrangements.”

Kisuke raised an eyebrow and tilted his cup, and Ichigo’s lip quirked a fraction in its own question.  A challenge then.  So be it.  He raised the cup, and never dropping his gaze from Ichigo’s, drained it dry.

“How long do I have?” he asked, and Ichigo laughed.

“Long enough, although you might want to take your good robe off.  Wouldn’t do for it to get messy.”

Kisuke’s mind traveled through all the ways that messy could happen like a bullet ricocheting inside his skull.

“Messy, hmm?”

Ichigo chivvied him down the hall as he shrugged out of his sleeves.  “Yes, massage oil tends to get that way.”

Mmmmm, massage.  That sounded nice.

“You knew what Shunsui was going to ask.” It wasn’t a question, but Ichigo murmured an assent.

“He asked me what you’d say.  I told him to ask you.”

Kisuke thought about that for a minute.  “Thank you.  For not answering for me.”

Ichigo pushed him face down on the futon—all made up already, look at that—and reached for the bottle of massage oil. “Not my place.”

Something warm curled in Kisuke’s belly.  It must be the tea.

“Still,” he said into the pillow that had somehow found its way under his head, “it’s nice to not be managed.”

Warm hands slid up his back and he could feel a chuckle through them.

“You’re much happier being the manager, aren’t you?”

Usually that was true.  Right now, though, he was fine with letting Ichigo be in charge.

“That’s good to know.” The chuckle got louder.  He must’ve said that out loud.

“You said that out loud, too.” Ichigo dug one of his thumbs into a tightly corded muscle.  He really should tune up this gigai.  With Ichigo around he was putting a lot more strain on it than in the past hundred years or so.

Ichigo laughed out loud, his scowl completely gone for once. “That tea was much more effective than I expected.  Maybe I should use less Diazepam next time.”

Kisuke considered the light and floaty feeling he was experiencing. “This isn’t so bad.  For being drugged.  With tea.  Really.”

Ichigo flipped him over and straddled him, rubbing the massage oil into the muscles just under his collar bones. “At least you aren’t covered in spots.”

“No,” Kisuke nodded, “no spots.  Just a little fuzzy around the edges.”  It was nice. He was safe. Warm.  This was much nicer than some of the tea he’d fed Ichigo. Although the hypersensitization one looked fun, even if Ichigo swore he’d never let him touch his cock again after that.  Kisuke knew he didn’t really mean it.

“That’s what human drugs will do to you.” Ichigo leaned forward and kissed him gently.  “I wanted you to be able to relax for a while.  I know the business with Seireitei is stressful.”

Kisuke groaned when Ichigo hit another cluster of tight muscles.  It felt so good for something that hurt so much.

“You’re too good to me.”

“You say that now,” Ichigo said with a laugh, hands still busily digging into muscle, “I doubt you’re going to be saying that later.”

“Why not?” Kisuke’s floaty feeling was beginning to tingle. Hmm.

Ichigo leaned down to whisper in his ear, his hands sliding suggestively lower.  “Because Xanax wasn’t the only thing I put in your tea.”

Kisuke shivered and made a note to himself.  This is what you get when you poke a dragon.

 Isn’t it wonderful?

[fanfictionandmore]

808 Broadway | Laszlo Kreizler [Chapter One]

Chapter One | Interview

Aurora's POV:

Nervousness filled my insides as my cab started slowing down. That meant that I had reached my destination; I wasn't completely prepared for what I was about to step into in all honesty. "283 East Seventeen Street, Miss." My cab driver said as soon as the carriage had reached a stand still. "Thanks." I replied as I got out and handed the man what I owed him for the ride. He took off down the street, leaving me on the sidewalk. The bright August sun was blaring down on me from the clear blue sky as I took in my surroundings.

It was far from the neighborhood I'm currently living in, that's fore sure. Three days ago I sent a letter inquiring about the housekeeper position at this very house. Luckily the job was still up for grabs, especially since I was looking for work and the pay was generous. I took a deep breath and let it out before walking up the steps of 283, hoping that this interview would go well. Once I reached the door I rang the doorbell, which I was able to hear on the doorstep.

A few moments passed before I heard any movement within. When the door opened I was greeted by a very tall man with dark skin. "Good morning, Miss. How may I help you?" He asked with a slightly puzzled look in his eyes. His voice sounded deep, yet it wasn't intimidating of frightening. It was a bit soothing in an odd sort of way. "Good morning, Sr. I'm Aurora Perish, I believe I was requested to come in regards to an interview pertaining to the housekeeper position." I replied with a small smile.

"Oh, yes... of course. Right this way, Miss. The doctor will be waiting on you in the sitting room." He said as he opened the door wider for me to enter the home. The place looked beautiful compared to the apartment I currently live in. The place had dark wooden floors and lovely wallpaper. It was clear that some well off people live here; I honestly felt rather out of place. I followed the man through the foyer and down a hall before we reached a doorway.

"Miss Perish has arrived for the interview, doctor." The tall man said in his deep timber. "Please, show her in." A male voice replied. It wasn't as deep as the dark skinned fellow, but deep still compared most voices. "The doctor will see you now." He said as he stepped out of the way so I could enter the sitting room. Again, it was beautifully furnished and decorated. But it was obvious that there wasn't any females present in the home from the style of the place, but I didn't mind.

It looked rather... cozy. "Thank you, Cyrus." The male voice I heard before now had a face. He had dark hair and dark eyes. A beard and mustache accentuated his handsome features also. He was standing in the middle of the study with his hands in his trouser pockets. The clothes he was wearing were black, all apart from the white buttoned down shirt underneath his waistcoat. "Hello, I'm doctor Kreizler. It's a pleasure to meet you Miss. Perish. Your resume is quite sparse, however... I believe you might be exactly what we're looking for." He said with a small smile that was quite charming. 'Doctor Kreizler... I've heard that name before.' I thought inside of my head as he offered me a seat so we could proceed with the interview.

I sat there on on the chair he offered me to sit on and answered his many questions the best I could. Most of them were about my cooking abilities and or experience, but his questioning soon took a turn that I wasn't expecting. I felt like I was being examined in a way I was only familiar with at home. A particular type of questions that let know where I'd heard of doctor Kreizler and what his profession is. "You're an Alienist?" I said in a slight questioning tone just in case my train of thought was mistaken. "Yes, I didn't assume you knew who I was when I introduced myself." He said with slightly furrowed brows.

His dark eyes had an intrigued gleam to them, as if there was a low burning fire behind those orbs of darkness. "Your name sounded familiar, but I wasn't sure who you were until you started questioning me as an Alienist would. You see... my brother is going to university to become one himself." I replied. "And you've been asked questions of the like by him, I presume." He said as another small smile spread across his face. "Yes." I replied with a little smile of my own. A few moments of silence passed between the two of us, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. "Well, Miss. Perish... how soon can you start work?" He asked, and I was a little surprised. I wasn't even aware that the interview had ended. "As soon as you'd like me too, doctor Kreizler." I replied. "Tomorrow morning will suffice." He replied with another one of his smiles. I couldn't help. It notice that his smiles didn't last very long, but that didn't dampen the impact of them.

They made me feel comfortable, and perhaps that was his intention. I thanked him for his time as well as taking me on as an employee. He called on Cyrus to show me out afterwards and don't think I could have been any happier than I was at that moment. "Have a good day, Miss. Perish." Cyrus said as I stepped out of the front doors of 283 East Seventeenth Street. "You too, sir. I expect we'll be seeing a lot of each other in the coming days." I replied, and he just nodded once before he closed the doors behind me. After walking down the steps and onto the sidewalk, I whistled for a cab. A few seconds later one rolled up in front of me. I told the cab driver to take me to 380 Lafayette Street. The ride home seemed to take longer even though it was the exact same distance I traveled this morning.

When I got home I walked through the bakery my parents use to own before going up to the apartment above. Sadness filled my heart as I looked at the empty shop, so I quickly made my way upstairs. When I entered the little kitchen I found my brother Henry studying at the table with a cup of coffee next to him. "How did the interview go?" He asked without even looking up from his book. "It went well," I replied as I poured myself a cup if coffee and sat down across from him. "You'll never guess who I'm going to be housekeeping and cooking for." I said before sipping the strong black liquid that was in my mug.

"Who? The Vanderbilts?" He replied with an amused laugh. "No, doctor Laszlo Kreizler." I said, and he snapped his head up too look at me with wide eyes. "You aren't serious?" He asked. "I am. If you don't believe me then come to work with me tomorrow morning and see for yourself." I said with an amused smile on my face. He brought his hand up to his face and rubbed his upper lip with his forefinger. I knew he was considering the idea I had spoken of, but he soon made a decision on the matter. 

He decided not to go along with me to see if I was in fact, telling the truth. "I believe you, Aurora. But... if it's possible I'd very much like to meet him." He finally said as he moved his hand from his face and reached for his coffee mug. "I'll do my best. Now, if you'll excuse me... I'm going to get out of this silly dress." I said as I stood up and walked out of the kitchen. I figured Henry needed some time alone to focus on his studies, and talking about doctorKreizler wasn't going to help him. I changed into a pair of brown trousers and a white buttoned down shirt. Dresses have always been something I absolutely hate, but my mother always made me wear one when I was little. Sometimes I wonder when it will ever be socially acceptable for a woman to dress in men's clothing. Perhaps I'm ahead of my time, like father often told me whenever I did something that was against the social standards.

At that thought a smile spread across my face. Once I was dressed I grabbed the current book I was reading and walked into the small sitting room. Eventually Henry left for university, which left me all alone. I didn't mind being alone most of the time; however, there has been an alarming increase in crime as of recently. But I expect it to only get worse instead of better as time goes on. I pressed my thoughts to the back of my mind and focused on the words on the pages of the book I was holding. As the day went on, I hadn't realized I skipped lunch until my brother came through the door. I was just happy I had stopped reading in time to cook us something for dinner. "It smells amazing in here. What am I gonna do when you're at work?" He said with a small smile as he took his hat and coat off. "You'll just have to fend for yourself." I replied with a small smile of my own. The two of us ate as he told me about his day at university. Apparently he had several big tests coming up in the next couple of weeks, and I wished him luck.

I really hoped that he was able to make a successful career being an Alienist. I just wish that our parents were still around to see how far he has come. After dinner I washed the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen while he went to his room to study. Deep down I wished our lives had turned out a bit different, but we're still better off than most people in the world. At least we aren't living in tenements where sickness and poverty love to dwell... where violence and abuse fester. Not that those things can't happen in a middle class or wealthy family. The point is that I'm grateful for the had Henry and had been dealt even though it wasn't perfect. When I was finished I walked into the sitting room where I found my brother drinking a glass of whiskey as he read one of his psychology textbooks. 'I guess he got a little bored of being in his room.' I thought inside of my head as I joined him on the sofa. "Freud or Breuer?"

I asked him curiously. "Breuer." He replied without looking up from his textbook. I silently sat there and cleared my mind for a few minutes. My stomach was fluttering with anxiety as I thought about my first day of being a housekeeper. I really wanted to impress doctor Kreizler and whomever he might have living or visiting his home. It wasn't just the money that mad he me what to be the best I could be. Perhaps it was pride or wanting to allow my brother the opportunity to meet the doctor. Either way, I was nervous as a bull in a fine China shop. To ease my worry filled mine I cracked open my book once again and lost myself in the world of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. When the clock chimed I looked up to see what time it was. "Ten o'clock. We better retire for the night or we won't be of much use in the morning." I said, and Henry agreed. After making sure all of the lights were off, we went to out separate bedrooms. I changed into my nightgown and climbed into bed. Thankfully there was a nice cool breeze blowing in from the window. The heat of August seemed as if it would turn into the cool comforts of September soon. I think the whole city was ready for a break from the blistering heat. I ended up staring up the ceiling for a few minutes before drifting off into a deep sleep.

+++++

A/N: Thanks for reading! I really hope you guys like the story so far!

[blackfreethinkers]

Robert bowers wanted everyone to know why he did it.

“I can’t sit by and watch my people get slaughtered,” he posted on the social-media network Gab shortly before allegedly entering the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh on October 27 and gunning down 11 worshippers. He “wanted all Jews to die,” he declared while he was being treated for his wounds. Invoking the specter of white Americans facing “genocide,” he singled out HIAS, a Jewish American refugee-support group, and accused it of bringing “invaders in that kill our people.” Then–Attorney General Jeff Sessions, announcing that Bowers would face federal charges, was unequivocal in his condemnation: “These alleged crimes are incomprehensibly evil and utterly repugnant to the values of this nation.”

The pogrom in Pittsburgh, occurring just days before the 80th anniversary of Kristallnacht, seemed fundamentally un-American to many. Sessions’s denunciation spoke to the reality that most Jews have found a welcome home in the United States. His message also echoed what has become an insistent refrain in the Donald Trump era. Americans want to believe that the surge in white-supremacist violence and recruitment—the march in Charlottesville, Virginia, where neo-Nazis chanted “Jews will not replace us”; the hate crimes whose perpetrators invoke the president’s name as a battle cry—has no roots in U.S. soil, that it is racist zealotry with a foreign pedigree and marginal allure.

The president’s rhetoric about “shithole countries” invites dismissal as crude talk, but behind it lie ideas whose power should not be underestimated. Warnings from conservative pundits on Fox News about the existential threat facing a country overrun by immigrants meet with a similar response. “Massive demographic changes,” Laura Ingraham has proclaimed, mean that “the America we know and love doesn’t exist anymore” in much of the country: Surely this kind of rhetoric reflects mere ignorance. Or it’s just a symptom of partisan anxiety about what those changes may portend for Republicans’ electoral prospects. As for the views and utterances of someone like Congressman Steve King (“We can’t restore our civilization with somebody else’s babies”), such sentiments are treated as outlandish extremism, best ignored as much as possible.

The concept of “white genocide”—extinction under an onslaught of genetically or culturally inferior nonwhite interlopers—may indeed seem like a fringe conspiracy theory with an alien lineage, the province of neo-Nazis and their fellow travelers. In popular memory, it’s a vestige of a racist ideology that the Greatest Generation did its best to scour from the Earth. History, though, tells a different story. King’s recent question, posed in a New York Times interview, may be appalling: “White nationalist, white supremacist, Western civilization—how did that language become offensive?” But it is apt. “That language” has an American past in need of excavation. Without such an effort, we may fail to appreciate the tenacity of the dogma it expresses, and the difficulty of eradicating it. The president’s rhetoric about “shithole countries” and “invasion” by immigrants invites dismissal as crude talk, but behind it lie ideas whose power should not be underestimated.

The seed of Nazism’s ultimate objective—the preservation of a pure white race, uncontaminated by foreign blood—was in fact sown with striking success in the United States. What is judged extremist today was once the consensus of a powerful cadre of the American elite, well-connected men who eagerly seized on a false doctrine of “race suicide” during the immigration scare of the early 20th century. They included wealthy patricians, intellectuals, lawmakers, even several presidents. Perhaps the most important among them was a blue blood with a very impressive mustache, Madison Grant. He was the author of a 1916 book called The Passing of the Great Race, which spread the doctrine of race purity all over the globe.

Grant’s purportedly scientific argument that the exalted “Nordic” race that had founded America was in peril, and all of modern society’s accomplishments along with it, helped catalyze nativist legislators in Congress to pass comprehensive restrictionist immigration policies in the early 1920s. His book went on to become Adolf Hitler’s “bible,” as the führer wrote to tell him. Grant’s doctrine has since been rejuvenated and rebranded by his ideological descendants as “white genocide” (the term genocide hadn’t yet been coined in Grant’s day). In an introduction to the 2013 edition of another of Grant’s works, the white nationalist Richard Spencer warns that “one possible outcome of the ongoing demographic transformation is a thoroughly miscegenated, and thus homogeneous and ‘assimilated,’ nation, which would have little resemblance to the White America that came before it.” This language is vintage Grant.

Most Americans, however, quickly forgot who Grant was—but not because the country had grappled with his vision’s dangerous appeal and implications. Reflexive recoil was more like it: When Nazism reflected back that vision in grotesque form, wartime denial set in. Jonathan Peter Spiro, a historian and the author of Defending the Master Race: Conservation, Eugenics, and the Legacy of Madison Grant (2009), described the backlash to me this way: “Even though the Germans had been directly influenced by Madison Grant and the American eugenics movement, when we fought Germany, because Germany was racist, racism became unacceptable in America. Our enemy was racist; therefore we adopted antiracism as our creed.” Ever since, a strange kind of historical amnesia has obscured the American lineage of this white-nationalist ideology.

Madison grant came from old money. Born in Manhattan seven months after Robert E. Lee surrendered to Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox, he attended Yale and then Columbia Law School. He was an outdoorsman and a conservationist, knowledgeable about wildlife and interested in the dangers of extinction, expertise that he soon became intent on applying to humanity. When he opened a law practice on Wall Street in the early 1890s, the wave of immigration from southern and eastern Europe was nearing its height. “As he was jostled by Greek ragpickers, Armenian bootblacks, and Jewish carp vendors, it was distressingly obvious to him that the new arrivals did not know this nation’s history or understand its republican form of government,” Spiro writes in his biography.

Jews troubled Grant the most. “The man of the old stock,” he later wrote in The Passing of the Great Race, is being “driven off the streets of New York City by the swarms of Polish Jews.” But as the title of his 1916 work indicated, Grant’s fear of dispossession ran wide and deep:

These immigrants adopt the language of the native American, they wear his clothes, they steal his name, and they are beginning to take his women, but they seldom adopt his religion or understand his ideals and while he is being elbowed out of his own home the American looks calmly abroad and urges on others the suicidal ethics which are exterminating his own race. Grant was not the first proponent of “race science.” In 1853, across the Atlantic, Joseph Arthur de Gobineau, a French count, first identified the “Aryan” race as “great, noble, and fruitful in the works of man on this earth.” Half a century later, as the eugenics movement gathered force in the U.S., “experts” began dividing white people into distinct races. In 1899, William Z. Ripley, an economist, concluded that Europeans consisted of “three races”: the brave, beautiful, blond “Teutons”; the stocky “Alpines”; and the swarthy “Mediterraneans.” Another leading academic contributor to race science in turn-of-the-century America was a statistician named Francis Walker, who argued in The Atlantic that the new immigrants lacked the pioneer spirit of their predecessors; they were made up of “beaten men from beaten races,” whose offspring were crowding out the fine “native” stock of white people. In 1901 the sociologist Edward A. Ross, who similarly described the new immigrants as “masses of fecund but beaten humanity from the hovels of far Lombardy and Galicia,” coined the term race suicide.

Grant blended Nordic boosterism with fearmongering, and supplied a scholarly veneer for notions many white citizens already wanted to believe. But it was Grant who synthesized these separate strands of thought into one pseudo-scholarly work that changed the course of the nation’s history. In a nod to wartime politics, he referred to Ripley’s “Teutons” as “Nordics,” thereby denying America’s hated World War I rivals exclusive claim to descent from the world’s master race. He singled out Jews as a source of anxiety disproportionate to their numbers, subscribing to a belief that has proved durable. The historian Nell Irvin Painter sums up the race chauvinists’ view in The History of White People (2010): “Jews manipulate the ignorant working masses—whether Alpine, Under-Man, or colored.” In The Passing of the Great Race, the eugenic focus on winnowing out unfit individuals made way for a more sweeping crusade to defend against contagion by inferior races. By Grant’s logic, infection meant obliteration:

The cross between a white man and an Indian is an Indian; the cross between a white man and a Negro is a Negro; the cross between a white man and a Hindu is a Hindu; and the cross between any of the three European races and a Jew is a Jew. What Grant’s work lacked in scientific rigor, it made up for in canny packaging. He blended Nordic boosterism with fearmongering, and supplied a scholarly veneer for notions many white citizens already wanted to believe. Americans’ gauzy idealism blinded them, he argued, to the reality that newcomers from the Mediterranean and eastern Europe—to say nothing of anyone from Asia or Africa—could never hope to possess the genetic potential innate in the nation’s original Nordic inhabitants, which was the source of the nation’s greatness. Grant gleefully challenged foundational ideas:

We Americans must realize that the altruistic ideals which have controlled our social development during the past century and the maudlin sentimentalism that has made America “an asylum for the oppressed,” are sweeping the nation toward a racial abyss. If the Melting Pot is allowed to boil without control and we continue to follow our national motto and deliberately blind ourselves to all “distinctions of race, creed or color,” the type of native American of Colonial descent will become as extinct as the Athenian of the age of Pericles, and the Viking of the days of Rollo. His thesis found eager converts among the American elite, thanks in no small part to his extensive social connections. The New York Times and The Nation were among the many media outlets that echoed Grant’s reasoning. Teddy Roosevelt, by then out of office, told Grant in 1916 that his book showed “fine fearlessness in assailing the popular and mischievous sentimentalities and attractive and corroding falsehoods which few men dare assail.” In a major speech in Alabama in 1921, President Warren Harding publicly praised one of Grant’s disciples, Lothrop Stoddard, whose book The Rising Tide of Color Against White World-Supremacy offered similar warnings about the destruction of white society by invading dusky hordes. There is “a fundamental, eternal, inescapable difference” between the races, Harding told his audience. “Racial amalgamation there cannot be.”

Harding’s vice president and successor, Calvin Coolidge, found Grant’s thesis equally compelling. “There are racial considerations too grave to be brushed aside for any sentimental reasons. Biological laws tell us that certain divergent people will not mix or blend,” Coolidge wrote in a 1921 article in Good Housekeeping.

The Nordics propagate themselves successfully. With other races, the outcome shows deterioration on both sides. Quality of mind and body suggests that observance of ethnic law is as great a necessity to a nation as immigration law.

Endorsing Grant’s idea that true Americans are of Nordic stock, Coolidge also took up his idea that intermarriage between whites of different “races,” not just between whites and nonwhites, degrades that stock.

Perhaps the most important of Grant’s elite admirers were to be found among members of Congress. Reconstruction struggles; U.S. expansion in the Philippines, Puerto Rico, and Hawaii; high levels of immigration—each had raised the specter of white people losing political power and influence to nonwhite people, or to the wrong kind of white people. On Capitol Hill debate raged, yet Republicans and Democrats were converging on the idea that America was a white man’s country, and must stay that way. The influx of foreigners diluted the nation with inferiors unfit for self-government, many politicians in both parties energetically concurred. The Supreme Court chimed in with decisions in a series of cases, beginning in 1901, that assigned the status of “nationals” rather than “citizens” to colonial newcomers.

A popular myth of American history is that racism is the exclusive province of the South. The truth is that much of the nativist energy in the U.S. came from old-money elites in the Northeast, and was also fueled by labor struggles in the Pacific Northwest, which had stirred a wave of bigotry that led to the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882. Grant found a congressional ally and champion in Albert Johnson, a Republican representative from Washington. A nativist and union buster, he contacted Grant after reading The Passing of the Great Race. The duo embarked on an ambitious restrictionist agenda.

As the eugenics movement gathered force in the U.S., “experts” began dividing white people into distinct races. In 1917, overriding President Woodrow Wilson’s veto, Congress passed a law that banned immigration not just from Asian but also from Middle Eastern countries and imposed a literacy test on new immigrants. When the Republicans took control of the House in 1919, Johnson became chair of the committee on immigration, “thanks to some shrewd lobbying by the Immigration Restriction League,” Spiro writes. Grant introduced him to a preeminent eugenicist named Harry Laughlin, whom Johnson named the committee’s “expert eugenics agent.” His appointment helped ensure that Grantian concerns about “race suicide” would be a driving force in a quest that culminated, half a decade later, in the Immigration Act of 1924.

Johnson found a patrician ally in Senator David Reed of Pennsylvania, who sponsored the 1924 bill in the Senate. A Princeton-educated lawyer, he feared that America was going the way of Rome, where the “inpouring of captives and alien slaves” had caused the empire to sink “into an impotency which made her the prey of every barbarian invader.” This was almost verbatim Grant, whose portrait of Rome’s fall culminated in the lowly immigrants “gradually occupying the country and literally breeding out their former masters.” (His plotline helped him preserve the notion that fair-haired and -skinned people are responsible for all the world’s great achievements: Rome’s original inhabitants were Nordic, but contemporary Italians were descendants of Roman slave races and therefore inferior.)

Grant’s slippery pseudoscience also met with significant resistance. The anthropologist Franz Boas, himself of German Jewish descent, led the way in poking holes in Grantian notions of Nordic superiority, writing in The New Republic in 1917 that “the supposed scientific data on which the author’s conclusions are based are dogmatic assumptions which cannot endure criticism.” Meanwhile, the Supreme Court was struggling mightily to define whiteness in a consistent fashion, an endeavor complicated by the empirical flimsiness of race science. In one case after another, the high court faced the task of essentially tailoring its definition to exclude those whom white elites considered unworthy of full citizenship.

In 1923, when an Indian veteran named Bhagat Singh Thind—who had fought for the U.S. in World War I—came before the justices with the claim of being Caucasian in the scientific sense of the term, and therefore entitled to the privileges of whiteness, they threw up their hands. In a unanimous ruling against Thind (who was ultimately made a citizen in 1936), Justice George Sutherland wrote:

What we now hold is that the words “free white persons” are words of common speech to be interpreted in accordance with the understanding of the common man, synonymous with the word “Caucasian” only as that word is popularly understood.

The justices had unwittingly acknowledged a consistent truth about racism, which is that race is whatever those in power say it is.

As the Immigration Act of 1924 neared passage, some in the restrictionist camp played up Grant’s signature Nordic theme more stridently than others. Addison Smith, a Republican congressman from Idaho, proudly invoked the Scandinavian, English, Irish, and other northern-European immigrants of his district, highlighting that among them were no “ ‘slackers’ of the type to be found in the cities of the East. We have ample room, but no space for such parasites.” Johnson was prepared to be coy in the face of opposition from other legislators—mostly those from districts with large numbers of non-northern European immigrants—who railed against the Nordic-race doctrine. “The fact that it is camouflaged in a maze of statistics,” protested Representative Meyer Jacobstein, a Democrat from New York, “will not protect this Nation from the evil consequences of such an unscientific, un-American, and wicked philosophy.”

“A fundamental, eternal, inescapable difference” exists between the races, President Harding publicly declared. “Racial amalgamation there cannot be.” On the House floor in April 1924, Johnson cagily—but only temporarily—distanced himself from Grant. “As regards the charge … that this committee has started out deliberately to establish a blond race … let me say that such a charge is all in your eye. Your committee is not the author of any of these books on the so-called Nordic race,” he declared. “I insist, my friends, there is neither malice nor hatred in this bill.”

Once passage of the act was assured, however, motives no longer needed disguising. Grant felt his life’s work had come to fruition and, according to Spiro, he concluded, “We have closed the doors just in time to prevent our Nordic population being overrun by the lower races.” Senator Reed announced in a New York Times op-ed, “The racial composition of America at the present time thus is made permanent.” Three years later, in 1927, Johnson held forth in dire but confident tones in a foreword to a book about immigration restriction. “Our capacity to maintain our cherished institutions stands diluted by a stream of alien blood, with all its inherited misconceptions respecting the relationships of the governing power to the governed,” he warned. “The United States is our land … We intend to maintain it so. The day of unalloyed welcome to all peoples, the day of indiscriminate acceptance of all races, has definitely ended.”

“It was america that taught us a nation should not open its doors equally to all nations,” Adolf Hitler told The New York Times half a decade later, just one year before his elevation to chancellor in January 1933. Elsewhere he admiringly noted that the U.S. “simply excludes the immigration of certain races. In these respects America already pays obeisance, at least in tentative first steps, to the characteristic völkisch conception of the state.” Hitler and his followers were eager to claim a foreign—American—lineage for the Nazi mission.

In part, this was spin, an attempt to legitimize fascism. But Grant and his fellow pioneers in racist pseudoscience did help the Nazis justify to their own populations, and to other countries’ governments, the mission they were on—as one of Grant’s key accomplices was proud to acknowledge. According to Spiro, Harry Laughlin, the scientific expert on Representative Johnson’s committee, told Grant that the Nazis’ rhetoric sounds “exactly as though spoken by a perfectly good American eugenist,” and wrote that “Hitler should be made honorary member of the Eugenics Research Association.”

He wasn’t, but some of the American eugenicists whose work helped pave the way for the racist immigration laws of the 1920s received recognition in Germany. The Nazis gave Laughlin an honorary doctorate from Heidelberg University in 1936. Henry Fairfield Osborn, who had written the introduction to The Passing of the Great Race, received one from Johann Wolfgang Goethe University in 1934. Leon Whitney, another of Grant’s fellow travelers, evidently received a personal thank-you letter from Hitler after sending the führer a copy of his 1934 book, The Case for Sterilization. In 1939, even after World War II began, Spiro writes, Lothrop Stoddard, whom President Harding had praised in his 1921 diatribe against race-mixing, visited Nazi Germany and later wrote that the Third Reich was “weeding out the worst strains in the Germanic stock in a scientific and truly humanitarian way.”

What the Nazis “found exciting about the American model didn’t involve just eugenics,” observes James Q. Whitman, a professor at Yale Law School and the author of Hitler’s American Model: The United States and the Making of Nazi Race Law (2017). “It also involved the systematic degradation of Jim Crow, of American deprivation of basic rights of citizenship like voting.” Nazi lawyers carefully studied how the United States, despite its pretense of equal citizenship, had effectively denied that status to those who were not white. They looked at Supreme Court decisions that withheld full citizenship rights from nonwhite subjects in U.S. colonial territories. They examined cases that drew, as Thind’s had, arbitrary but hard lines around who could be considered “white.”

The Nazis reviewed the infamous “one-drop rule,” which defined anyone with any trace of African blood as black, and “found American law on mongrelization too harsh to be embraced by the Third Reich.” At the same time, Heinrich Krieger, whom Whitman describes as “the single most important figure in the Nazi assimilation of American race law,” considered the Fourteenth Amendment a problem: In his view, it codified an abstract ideal of equality at odds with human experience, and with the type of country most Americans wanted to live in.

Grant, emphasizing the American experience in particular, agreed. In The Passing of the Great Race, he had argued that

the view that the Negro slave was an unfortunate cousin of the white man, deeply tanned by the tropic sun and denied the blessings of Christianity and civilization, played no small part with the sentimentalists of the Civil War period, and it has taken us fifty years to learn that speaking English, wearing good clothes and going to school and to church do not transform a Negro into a white man. The authors of the Fourteenth Amendment, he believed, had failed to see a greater truth as they made good on the promise of the Declaration of Independence that all men are created equal: The white man is more equal than the others.

Grant’s final project, Spiro writes, was an effort to organize a hunting expedition with Hermann Goering, the commander in chief of the Nazi air force who went on to become Hitler’s chosen successor. Grant died in May 1937, before the outing was to take place. A year and a half later, Kristallnacht signaled the official beginning of the Holocaust.

America has always grappled with, in the words of the immigration historian John Higham, two “rival principles of national unity.” According to one, the U.S. is the champion of the poor and the dispossessed, a nation that draws its strength from its pluralism. According to the other, America’s greatness is the result of its white and Christian origins, the erosion of which spells doom for the national experiment.

People of both political persuasions like to tell a too-simple story about the course of this battle: World War II showed Americans the evil of racism, which was vanquished in the 1960s. The Civil Rights Act and the Voting Rights Act brought nonwhites into the American polity for good. The Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 forever banished the racial definition of American identity embodied in the 1924 immigration bill, forged by Johnson and Reed in their crusade to save Nordic Americans from “race suicide.”

The truth is that the rivalry never ended, and Grantism, despite its swift wartime eclipse, did not become extinct. The Nazis, initially puzzled by U.S. hostility, underestimated the American commitment to democracy. As the Columbia historian Ira Katznelson writes in Fear Itself: The New Deal and the Origins of Our Time (2013), the South remained hawkish toward Nazi Germany because white supremacists in the U.S. didn’t want to live under a fascist government. What they wanted was a herrenvolk democracy, in which white people were free and full citizens but nonwhites were not.

“It was America that taught us that a nation should not open its doors equally to all nations,” Hitler told The New York Times. The Nazis failed to appreciate the significance of that ideological tension. They saw allegiance to the American creed as a weakness. But U.S. soldiers of all backgrounds and faiths fought to defend it, and demanded that their country live up to it. Their valor helped defeat first the Nazis, and then the American laws that the Nazis had so admired. What the Nazis saw as a weakness turned out to be a strength, and it destroyed them.

Yet historical amnesia, the excision of the memory of how the seed of racism in America blossomed into the Third Reich in Europe, has allowed Grantism to be resurrected with a new name. In the conflict between the Trump administration and its opponents, those rival American principles of exclusion and pluralism confront each other more starkly than they have since Grant’s own time. And the ideology that has gained ground under Trump may well not disappear when Trump does. Grant’s philosophical framework has found new life among extremists at home and abroad, and echoes of his rhetoric can be heard from the Republican base and the conservative media figures the base trusts, as well as—once again—in the highest reaches of government.

The resurrection of race suicide as white genocide can be traced to the white supremacist David Lane, who claimed that “the term ‘racial integration’ is only a euphemism for genocide,” and whose infamous “fourteen words” manifesto, published in the 1990s, distills his credo: “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.” Far-right intellectuals in Europe speak of “the great replacement” of Europeans by nonwhite immigrants and refugees.

In the corridors of American power, Grant’s legacy is evident. Jeff Sessions heartily praised the 1924 immigration law during an interview with Steve Bannon, Trump’s former campaign chief. Bannon regularly invokes what has become a cult text among white nationalists, the 1973 dystopian French novel The Camp of the Saints, in which the “white world” is annihilated by mass immigration. Stephen Miller, a former Senate aide to Sessions and now among the president’s top policy advisers, spent years warning from his perch in Sessions’s office that immigration from Muslim countries was a greater threat than immigration from European countries. The president’s stated preference for Scandinavian immigrants over those from Latin America or Africa, and his expressed disdain for the Fourteenth Amendment’s guarantee of birthright citizenship, are Grantism paraphrased.

That nations make decisions about appropriate levels of immigration is not inherently evil or fascist. Nor does the return of Grantian ideas to mainstream political discourse signal an inevitable march to Holocaust-level crimes against humanity. But to recognize the homegrown historical antecedents of today’s rhetoric is to call attention to certain disturbing assumptions that have come to define the current immigration debate in America—in particular, that intrinsic human worth is rooted in national origin, and that a certain ethnic group has a legitimate claim to permanent political hegemony in the United States. The most benignly intentioned mainstream-media coverage of demographic change in the U.S. has a tendency to portray as justified the fear and anger of white Americans who believe their political power is threatened by immigration—as though the political views of today’s newcomers were determined by genetic inheritance rather than persuasion.

The danger of Grantism, and its implications for both America and the world, is very real. External forces have rarely been the gravest threat to the social order and political foundations of the United States. Rather, the source of greatest danger has been those who would choose white purity over a diverse democracy. When Americans abandon their commitment to pluralism, the world notices, and catastrophe follows.

[yun-shuten]

Illiteracy

Summary: She could speak and listen, but reading was something she couldn’t understand. Or basically, Hat Kid being illiterate.

A/N - something i wrote up on a whim

Reading had never been Hat Kid’s strong suite. Sure, she piloted her (beautiful, majestic and most importantly, comfy) ship and that required at least being literate, but she had always looked at the pictures to understand the message.

It just made more sense to her, when she could see the bigger picture rather than imagine it from mind jumbling words. It sunk into her mind, a single image that wouldn’t be forgotten for a long time whereas it was the complete opposite for words. A word could only say so much, but a picture could say a thousand words.

However, it seemed like everyone on this planet loved to read.

Mafia Town was full of words; bright red words spray painted on the walls or neon pink scribbled haphazardly on the bricks. All of it was just a bunch of mess that made no sense to Hat Kid. Hat Kid was just lucky that she could understand the local language enough to get her point across.

Mustache Girl was fast to notice her illiteracy. She was a bright girl, a trait that kept her alive for all this time and out of the mafia’s grubby hands. Mustache Girl had noticed the confused looks on Hat Kid’s face every time she saw one of the town’s graffiti and Mustache Girl���s wanted poster. Considering Hat Kid’s alien origins, it didn’t take long for Mustache Girl to connect the dots.

“That’s my wanted poster.” Mustache Girl spoke up when they passed by another one of her wanted poster, gaining Hat Kid’s attention. “See, above my head says ‘wanted’ and below that is the reward.” She explained, pointing at the characters.

Hat Kid frowned in puzzlement, a silent question of ‘why’ in her eyes.

“Because I’m their enemy. I’m the only one here who’s fighting against them.” Mustache Girl answered solemnly. “Everyone else gave up. They don’t want to be singled out by the Mafia.”

Hat Kid hummed in thought before smiling at Mustache Girl. “Thank you for reading to me.”

Mustache Girl nearly stopped in her tracks at her newfound friend’s voice but beamed back proudly. “We’re friends, right? This is what friends do when they can’t do something.” The blonde glanced at some of the signs that remained undamaged from the mafia and grinned widely.

“Say, why don’t I teach you a few words?”

--- 

“Oi lassie, I need you to read this script right now. We’re about to start filming very soon!”

The Conductor was a very busy owl. Being a movie director wasn’t easy at all, and he had to also compete against that stupid director DJ Grooves on this year’s annual bird award. That meant all of his owls (and lassie) had to be in tip-top shape, ready for shooting, and lastly but not least, know about the newest film’s script.

The lass may’ve been a last-minute addition but that wouldn’t excuse her from the responsibilities of being featured in hismovie.

Hat Kid nearly dropped the large bundle of paper that were shoved at her by the Conductor. “Wait-!”

But the owl was already moving away from the child, barking orders at his owls left and right in preparation of today’s shooting. Hat Kid frowned at the Conductor’s behavior and tentatively flipped to the first page of the script.

Hat Kid despaired. She couldn’t read this!

The words were all bunched together that made it barely legible to the hatted child, and to makes things worse, most of the words were very lengthy in size. There were a few words that Hat Kid could recognize from Mustache Girl’s short lesson, but everything else were completely unfamiliar.

She glanced up from the script and looked around the Conductor’s side of the studio. Perhaps she could ask someone to read it out for her?

Hat Kid headed straight to the first owl she saw that didn’t seem to be doing anything and tapped on his shoulder to gain his attention.

“Hm? Oh, aren’t you the little kid that the Conductor got recently?” The owl remarked, “What do you want?”

Hat Kid held up the script in her hands and pointed at one of the unfamiliar words on the print. “Can’t understand.”

The owl picked the script from her hands and adjusted his glasses to read the print better. “Detective? That’s your role I believe. It’s someone who solves a mystery, particularly crime scenes.”

“What about this one?” Hat Kid pointed at another word.

“That’s anonymous. It means someone unknown, like a stranger.” The owl explained, lowering the script enough so Hat Kid could see the word better. “You’re a little kid so it’s no wonder you can’t make sense of some of these words.”  

The owl glanced around him before sitting down and motioned Hat Kid to do the same. “Is there anything else you’d like me to explain?”

---

The Snatcher cackled when the contract tucked itself under the kid’s hat after she had signed it. It was always a good day when an unsuspecting intruder wanders into one of his traps and inevitably hands their soul over to the Snatcher. Especially one that was looking for the Time Pieces that had fell into his forest a few days ago.

“Now as per your contracts, just follow the instructions and who knows? I just might reward you for your hard work.” The Snatcher flashed his usual smile at the kid. It dropped by a fraction when the kid raised their hand at the Snatcher with a frown on their face. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

“This says murder ghost?” Hat Kid asked, pointing at the contract.

The Snatcher leaned slightly closer to look where the hatted child was pointing at. “No, that says fire spirit. You can’t kill ghosts, kiddo.”

The kid made a noise at that before putting the contract back inside her hat and scampered off in the direction of Subcon village. The Snatcher watched for a while before shaking his head and disappearing into the ground.

Weird kid.

The next time he saw the kiddo after sending them off with a Time Piece was when she was supposed to be cleaning the well. Brat had the gall to interrupt him during his reading time.

“What do you want? You’re supposed to be filling out your contractual obligations.” The Snatcher pointed out impatiently, glowering at the girl.

His glare succeeded in intimidating the brat, bring a sense of satisfaction to the Snatcher. Good to know that the kid was scared of him still.

“I-I don’t know what to do.” Hat Kid mumbled nervously, pulling out the contract from her hat.

“What do you mean you don’t know what to do?” The Snatcher repeated with an incredulous tone and jabbed a talon at the contract. “Just readthe instructions there, kiddo! Surely it can’t be that hard even for someone-“

“I can’t read.” Hat Kid interrupted.

The Snatcher blinked and paused, his smile dropping in confusion. “You what?”

“I cannot read.” Hat Kid repeated slowly with a frown. “I’m not from around here.” She gestured at the rest of the woods and the sky.

“You could read the other contract perfectly fine though.” The Snatcher pointed out, not wholly believing the little girl’s excuse.

“You told me what to do. That’s how I knew what I needed to do,” Hat Kid corrected and pointed at the contract’s contents. “I cannot understand though.”

The Snatcher stared at the contract, then to the kid. “So let me get this straight. This entire time, you couldn’t read at all.” Hat Kid nodded. “So how did you know that you needed to murder the fire spirits in your first contract?”

“Familiar word.” Hat Kid explained. “An owl taught me the word.”

“So an owl could teach you what murder is but he doesn’t teach you what a well is?” The Snatcher snarked, folding his arms.  

“It was in a script.” Hat Kid informed sheepishly. “Murder on Owl Express.”

“That sounds boring.” The Snatcher scoffed, setting down the book he had been reading and floated down to his small bookshelf. “Well this won’t do at all. I can’t have an illiterate minion since you do need to read your contracts to know what your obligations are.” He glanced back at Hat Kid. “Say kid, how well are you at reading?”

“Can’t read long words.” Hat Kid replied promptly, holding her hands at a distance to show an estimate. “They get too hard.”

“Eh, I guess I can probably change the contracts to use small words for you.” The Snatcher muttered and pulled out one of his books with a spindly talon. “Now get over here. It’s about time someone taught you how to read properly.”

---

Hat Kid hummed pleasantly to herself as she dove into her pillow fort. Today had been a very interesting day!

She had never been inside a well before, much less unplugged a giant pipe that hid below it. She enjoyed the climb very much, even if the frigid cold water was slightly terrifying to watch crawling up to her.

However, the most interesting thing that had happened today would be the Snatcher teaching Hat Kid basic literature. For all the nonchalance he tried to pass off to Hat Kid, she could see that he was having fun teaching some of the words to the child.

It had been complicated at first, especially since Snatcher had kept trying to introduce more complex words to Hat Kid. Really, why did silent letters exist? It made reading just more complicated.

Hat Kid sat in front of her diary which had yet to be filled with today’s records of events. It was all written in her home language, the one she was most intimately familiar with but otherwise contained nothing else. At least yet.

Hat Kid had never tried to write a diary record in an entirely different language before. But then again, she could always start now, especially since now she could read and write to a degree. The child grabbed the least dry pen on her desk and began to write.

Dear journal

I thought I saw I some weird Tower poking out from between the trees…