#at least i can say it was really fun to paint something somewhat properly at last | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

oathkeeper-of-tarth · 3 years

Text

The d’Avenir Treatise on the Essentials of Monster Hunting (Vol I) - Preface and Introduction

The timing of this whole thing with the campaign is pretty amazing, as it turns out. In the middle of absolute work hell and attempts to sort out my general apartment/living situation, a little while ago I entered a fic into the /r/CurseOfStrahd second annual fanfic contest. It was one of my attempts to kind of write out and process the way our own run through the module went, stretch out some poor, suffering, unused writing muscles, and it was also super duper self-indulgent. So I'm very, very proud to say it won first place amidst some really great competition, and super happy to rep my best girl Ez.

Summary: In the aftermath of Strahd's destruction and the not-quite-loss of her mentor, Ezmerelda d'Avenir sets out to tie up loose ends and lay some ghosts to rest, and continues carving out a path for herself in the Domains of Dread.

Word count: 9999, as there was a 10k limit. I had fun.

Rating/Warnings: T, with canon-typical violence, and dealing with death and loss in a general gothic horror setting. Spoilers for the Curse of Strahd module.

---

The d’Avenir Treatise on the Essentials of Monster Hunting (Vol I) - Preface and Introduction

Being a compendium of successes, failures, tricks, and warnings relating to detecting, tracking, fighting, and ultimately destroying undead, fiends, lycanthropes, and assorted monstrosities.

1.1. Introductory remarks

Their ride back to town is a quiet one. The silence is broken only once they are sitting, their hunting and travelling gear half-unpacked and strewn about, in the library just above van Richten's herbalist shop.

"Were we in any other profession, this would be a cause for celebration," van Richten's lips twist into a bittersweet wisp of a smile, and he pushes a warm cup of tea into her hands. "A demonstration of pride in an apprentice's first job well done, for all to see and revel in."

Ezmerelda tries to look up at him and meet his gaze properly, but her shoulders, her head, her eyes all feel too heavy. A leaden weight seems to have settled on every bit of her. She is tired, bone-deep, but the very thought of lying down and closing her eyes to attempt to sleep fills her with disgust and no small amount of dread. She knows exactly what she will see. The man, just on the cusp of middle age, entirely unremarkable at first... features quickly twisting into a mask of monstrous hunger, then to wide-eyed horror, and, finally, resorting to desperate pleas for mercy as the stake hits home and his screeching form dissolves to ash.

It feels like the ash still coats the back of her mouth. The tea smells of strong herbs, with just a whiff of something even stronger that van Richten must have snuck in from the liquor cabinet. Her hands clench around the cup, and a burning need to justify and defend herself drives her to finally speak up.

"I was ready," she insists. "I am ready."

"I know," van Richten replies, softly, sadly.

The tea scalds her tongue, but she drinks it anyway.

---

Getting up from the damp, cold floor of the tomb again feels like an impossibility. She can barely keep her head above the ground, eyes stinging with a mixture of blood and sweat and the glare of pure, magical sunlight. The clawed gashes on her ribcage burn with every weak, hard-won breath, and a metallic taste coats the back of her tongue.

But she is not done yet. She has one last lightning bolt left in her, and Strahd and his dusk elf lackey are so beautifully, perfectly aligned. Ezmerelda can't keep her lips from curling up into a smirk as she raises an arm and mutters her incantation, feeling that familiar tickle of static rising all around her.

She holds on, builds it up as much as she can, teeth grinding together, ears buzzing - until she can hold on no longer, and the energy flies from her, the flash near-blinding, the roar of accompanying thunder ringing in her ears.

She sees it hit home, the first traces of foggy vapour swirling around Strahd's convulsing form, and a beautiful satisfaction fills her.

Then, she lets herself go.

An instant or an eternity later someone is shaking her into jarring and painful wakefulness, jostling her head against the rough floor. Her mouth is filled with the bitter aftertaste of a potion, and she grimaces as she feels the familiar residue on her lips and chin.

"Fine, fine, old man, relax, I'm up," she manages, slurring the words, struggling to blink her eyes open and into focus. "I'm awake. Stop it."

But it's not him.

It is Ireena, wide-eyed gaze somehow growing wider still at her words. The reason for this becomes abundantly and agonisingly clear as she points to somewhere behind Ezmerelda... to where Rudolph van Richten lies, very pale and very still, a greater and more profound calm upon him than she has ever witnessed.

"No."

She didn't even see him fall.

"Why didn't you help him?" Ezmerelda knocks the empty potion bottle away, and it clatters loudly against the stone, finally finding rest near a streak of dark ashes. "What are you waiting for, what--"

"I tried. It was... it's too late," Ireena whispers, "I'm sorry."

Ezmerelda feels shame flood her immediately at the misaimed anger. "No. No, I'm sorry. It's not your fault. I'm sorry. I just-- wait." Awareness of just where they are and what they were in the middle of doing suddenly overwhelms her, and she feels panic crawl up her spine. "Is it over? Did you stake that bastard once and for all?"

Ireena nods, mouth curling in visible distaste. "I did, just like you said to. Your last hit - it was enough to force him to turn into mist, and then, when... when he reformed in the coffin, I did it."

The relief Ezmerelda feels at that is so bitter it burns. "I missed it, then," she murmurs, and feels ridiculous immediately afterwards. Ireena shakes her head, and helps her sit up.

She allows herself a few precious moments of rest against the cold, damp wall of the crypt, eyes painfully locked on van Richten's still, still form. As soon as she feels half-capable of moving, she all but drags herself to his side. Feeling for a pulse, a breath, anything at all to help her disbelieve what is plainly before her eyes.

She finds no such thing. He's dead, and it feels like a stake through her own heart. After all her efforts, after getting into Barovia just to get the damned foolish old man off his self-destructive warpath and out, only to lose him now, to fail right at the end...

A pale shimmer falls over the scene before her, like a curtain right before her eyes. Ezmerelda blinks and shakes her head, but can't make it go away. She reaches up, and--

Erasmus all but swoops down to be face to face with her.

It takes her a moment to properly grasp what she is seeing. Erasmus. Somehow still there, his ghostly form hovering over his father's body. Gesturing at her wildly, pointing down at something, and, finally, using his ectoplasmic paint to draw... a circle within a circle, hanging in mid-air.

She follows his wordless instructions to the best of her current ability and, with some painfully suppressed reluctance, looks down at van Richten. And there on his finger is a ring that was certainly not there before.

Erasmus seems insistent and quite unusually agitated, so Ezmerelda takes the ring, trying not to register the coldness of the hand it was on, and puts it on numbly, feeling utterly beyond thought.

Suddenly, cutting through the fog that seems to have descended upon her mind, bubbling up like an idea from her own consciousness, a thought - a voice. A familiar voice.

'Ezmerelda? Ah. I see. Well, that could have gone decidedly better.'

She feels tears welling up in her eyes, an unstoppable burning in her chest. She wants to laugh until she can't breathe, or sob her lungs raw.

Instead, she sits back against the cool stone wall. As the adrenaline wears off, she becomes more aware of the extent of her injuries: the sting where foul claws raked across her midsection and upwards; the burns of magical fire on her palms. She fishes out the last potion from her pocket, and downs it in one greedy gulp. The relief is near-instant.

Her faculties at least somewhat returned to her, she opts for a laugh as she recognises the ring for what it is. Ireena looks at her with some concern, but Ezmerelda waves it away.

"A ring of mind shielding. Protect the mind, and store the soul, should the worst happen. Of course you of all people would come so prepared."

Ezmerelda twists the ring on her finger, marvels at the detailed engraving.

"Should I... we could... there's ways. To get you back. I mean..."

She trails off, and there is a brief pause before the voice in her mind pipes up again. 'No. No, I think, at long last, it is time for me to stop. And rest.'

Even though her entire being wishes to rail against this, to insist on the need for Rudolph van Richten to exist, and protest the injustice (just when she'd gotten him back!), Ezmerelda manages, barely, a soft, "I understand."

'There is still some work to do before that, though, no? Loose ends for us to take care of before, well...'

That, she feels far more comfortable with. It almost comes as a relief. "Yes, of course. First order of business, we will sit down, and we will work out a plan. And we will stick to that plan."

There is a soft chuckle in her mind.

"What's so funny? You love plans."

She imagines, in better, happier days, the old man - only slightly less old - shaking his head at her with a long-suffering smile.

'Thank you for humoring me, is all I'll say. Now, go handle things here properly and finish up, while I think of a list of priorities for us. Miss Kolyana is waiting for you.'

1.2. A brief reflection on personal experience

Ezmerelda is pulled into a room, hand clamped over her mouth. The door slams shut, and she almost stumbles as she is suddenly released.

"What in all the realms are you doing here?" The colourful half-elf carnival master hisses at her in a voice decidedly unlike the one he was just using in the downstairs taproom. Now that they are close, she can see the magical disguise of the Great Rictavio is utterly impeccable, but the eyes... the eyes are unmistakable.

They are also flooded with the closest thing to panic Ezmerelda has ever seen in them.

"I'm here to help you. You don't stand a chance on your own."

"How did you find me?"

Ezmerelda shrugs noncommittally, and doesn't look behind him. "I have my ways."

He shakes his head. "That isn't good enough. If his agents - and there are many, I assure you! - catch even a whiff--"

She finally glances at the ghostly form of Erasmus, just barely visible over Rictavio's shoulder, unable to be perceived by the one man he wishes he could reach out to and reassure. He meets her eyes and holds his finger up to his lips.

"I recognised your horse," she says, at long last.

"Dear Drusilla? Oh..." Rictavio seems to almost deflate at that, though his nervous pacing doesn't slow.

Erasmus' visage shows what has to be gratitude, or relief, or both. Then he closes his eyes, seemingly tired, and the shimmering remnants of him disappear from view.

"Damned stubborn, foolish girl..." Rictavio moves deftly around the small room, securing the shutters on its single window, locking the door from the inside, gaze darting around wildly. Then he reaches up and removes his hat, and Rudolph van Richten, looking more old and more worn than Ezmerelda was perhaps ever prepared to see, stands in his place.

"I had a plan, you know," he sighs, tossing the hat onto the bed. "One that I can now no doubt forget about entirely."

"There's no time for your endless preparation and planning. Any waiting game we try to play is a losing one. There's a young woman who desperately needs our help, a legendary weapon to be found, and there's a monster to hunt, feeding on an entire land. I've been to the castle, scouted out--"

"You've done what?"

Ezmerelda doesn't look at him and chooses to pace a small circle around the room herself. "The castle. Ravenloft. Getting in was a breeze - getting out was the hard part." She suppresses a brief shudder at the memory of her invisibility spell running out and Strahd's eyes boring directly into hers, as if he'd known she was there all along. "But, well, I managed. And more importantly, I found a way into his crypt."

Van Richten sits down on the bed, rubbing circles into his forehead.

"Ezmerelda, you can't be here." His voice sounds pained, almost. "You know you are not safe near me. My curse--"

"Sincerely, fuck your curse," Ezmerelda spits. "After all these years, it can wait a few days before striking. Can't be worse than what will happen to both of us and anyone involved if we can't manage to work together on this. We have to. I tried, by myself, but..."

She tries not to dwell on the terribly brief confrontation, the bite of the cold, cold grasp that seemed to steal the very life out of her, and her rather desperate escape.

"Ezmerelda," van Richten starts again, then pauses, and just looks at her - a long, heavy look. "Why?"

"There are still people who care about your well-being," she replies simply and softly, "no matter what you may believe."

Then she straightens her shoulders and allows the steel back into her voice. "So listen to me. We are going to stake that devil in his lair, and we are going to get out of this cursed land. Together."

For once, he doesn't argue.

---

Their lord and master may be gone, but there are plenty of foul things still crawling around Castle Ravenloft - and occasionally crawling out of it as well.

How lucky for the Village of Barovia, then, to have a monster hunter visiting.

"...so I think that should do it for that particular area of the barracks," Ezmerelda flicks a stray bit of zombie gunk off of her bracer, then casts an apologetic look at Ireena. "But who knows what else he has buried under there."

Ireena Kolyana, the girl haunted, hunted, and tormented by the vampire, deciding she's had enough of running, turning on him and wielding a sword of pure sunlight against him. Poetic justice, if Ezmerelda fancied herself a poet.

Ireena Kolyana, looking exhausted in a very different way, now caught up in burgomaster duties, barely finding time in her overstuffed schedule to hear about the results of Ezmerelda's latest expedition to the castle.

"You know," Ezmerelda begins, eyeing the stacks of papers and growing chaos on the desk between them, "if you ever get really tired of this, and miss life on the road..." she nods towards the window, and the wagon just outside it. "I have room for one more. And could always use a deft hand with a sword."

Ireena smiles, but the sadness underpinning it is palpable. "I can't, not now at least. There is too much to take care of here. And without Ismark..." a shadow falls briefly over her face, then she visibly forces it back. "Some day, maybe. I would honestly love to."

Ezmerelda nods, then moves to stand up, and holds out a hand expectantly. "Come on, you have time for a walk. A minute to escort me out and say goodbye, at least."

Ireena chuckles quietly and shakes her head, but pushes away from the desk and takes the proffered arm.

The sunlight is bright, tempered only by a wisp of white cloud here and there. Ezmerelda feels a light pull on her arm as Ireena stops on the threshold of the house for just a fraction of a moment. The hesitation is brief, barely noticeable, but the pause as if needing to catch her breath and the subsequent dawning joy - pure, almost radiant by itself - as the sunlight hits her skin--

Ezmerelda realises she's staring, blinks, and makes herself look away.

Their stroll is indeed brief, and as soon as they turn the corner and reach the parked wagon, Ireena sighs and stands half-ready to hurry back to her office and her duties.

"Hey," Ezmerelda puts what she hopes is a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I know you can handle all of this. Never doubt that."

This wins her a sincere smile. "Thank you."

Knowing there's no more point in delaying, Ezmerelda pulls away, moves to arrange her things around the wagon and prepare to leave.

"The offer stands," she says as she climbs into the driver's seat. "Keep it in mind."

"Maybe next time," Ireena replies with another sad smile. But then she pauses for a moment, almost as if thinking something over. Then she darts in quickly, and kisses Ezmerelda's cheek.

"Don't stay away too long," she says, quietly, then draws away again. Ezmerelda nods her agreement, and takes up the reins of her conjured horses.

Ireena waves her goodbye, and stands, looking on, bathed in sunlight.

And then the road turns, and she disappears from Ezmerelda's view.

'Well.'

"Shut up." Ezmerelda can feel her face burning. "Absolutely no need to read into things."

'You know I mean no offense. I only want the best for you.'

"I am perfectly fine," Ezmerelda grumbles. "Besides, this is the last thing she needs right now."

'You don't know that. Ask her sometime, perhaps, to tell you herself. Too many people have assumed too much about that young lady, I think. Myself included.'

"Oh, what do you know..."

There is a distinct sensation of stinging grief, never quite healed, as the voice comes again. 'You seem to forget I was young once. In love once. More... than once. And though it never ended well, like few things in my life did, the only thing I have ever regretted was not acting sooner. And regret is...'

"... the enemy of progress. I know." Ezmerelda sighs, the old man's oft-repeated saying rattling around in her mind as she snaps the reins and takes them down the road westward. "Maybe next time."

1.3. Materials and methods, an overview

Her balance is off still, but the past few weeks have brought incredible improvement. She flicks her rapier upwards, then lunges - back, forth, back, forth, fully and properly bearing weight on her right side in the training yard for the first time in months. The new prosthetic is truly a work of art and a masterful display of craftsmanship. Ezmerelda feels almost giddy at the sensation of ducking and weaving under the wooden limbs of the training dummy, feinting deftly, ignoring the burn in her arm and shoulder. The maneuvers are not yet close to her peak speed and fluidity and elegance, not after the long, arduous recovery she is only now reaching the end of. But it is all so very, very promising.

It also brings to mind - because how could it not, when for the better part of the past half-year she has had more time to think, and remember, and reflect than in her entire life? - van Richten's drills. He was always far more of a theoretician than practitioner of swordfighting, but he was certainly no slouch with a blade. The precision and perfection of form he insisted on instilling in her initially seemed to clash with her more free, improvisational, off-the-cuff approach, but ended up blending with it to great effect in ways that occasionally surprised them both.

She goes through attack patterns he's drilled into her and realises she misses him, the cantankerous old man and all his frustrating ways, and suddenly finds herself fervently wishing she wasn't doing this alone. She spares a moment to imagine the amount of fussing over her he would likely have insisted on, with his overprotective bedside manner that she used to chafe and scoff at whenever one of their hunts went badly for her. She thinks of all the lovely, fleeting drawings Erasmus would have made for her.

Her next step is careless, thoughtless, distracted, and as a result only a little off. The lunge is misaimed, unbalanced, and her knee twists unpleasantly. For the briefest flash of a moment she could swear she can feel the teeth sinking in again, and the horrible tearing.

Ezmerelda winces, fingers clenched around the rapier's handle, knuckles white. Her teeth grit as the wave of pain subsides so very, very slowly, but doesn't quite go away. She remembers, belatedly, that she has an audience.

"Ah, almost there," she calls back to the artisan eagerly awaiting her feedback, voice forcefully kept steady, without turning to face them, and taps her rapier on the metal plating running up from the heel. "We'll need to make another slight adjustment to the ankle joint, I think. But this is definitely and by far the best one yet. Let me get some more practice first, and we can go over the details in the afternoon."

Ezmerelda doesn't wait to see if her words are acknowledged. She hefts the rapier back up.

---

Before she reaches the first crossroads west of Vallaki, she turns the wagon south and into the woods.

"I have some unfinished business of my own to settle first," Ezmerelda states very matter-of-factly, preempting any interrogation from the ring's general direction.

The wagon trail to the top of the hill is easier to navigate than ever, and the camp is abuzz with activity, as it usually is. But this time the feel of it all is a bit different.

Ezmerelda knows it well; the air of a caravan packing up to leave.

Arabelle sees her weaving through the horses, strolling towards the large central tent, and darts towards her immediately, then freezes not three feet away. Ezmerelda can tell plain as the new Barovian day that she is torn between looking dignified and throwing herself at her in a hug.

So she crouches down and opens her arms first, and is almost knocked over when Arabelle rushes in.

"I want to show you something I've been practicing," Arabelle whispers conspiratorially, "but you'll need to lend me a dagger."

Ezmerelda's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but she obliges the girl after only a moment's contemplation, still crouched down and one arm around her narrow shoulders.

The dagger is one of the smaller ones she usually keeps concealed, but even so it seems far too large in Arabelle's hands. Nevertheless, in a few surprisingly dextrous motions with only a couple of moments of hesitation, she seems to make it disappear - then produces it again as if out of thin air.

"Huh. Impressive. Did your uncle teach you that little trick?"

Arabelle nods, but her pride is palpable. "Papa was so mad! He says that both him and you are a bad influence and I am far too young to be handling blades."

"There's no such thing," Ezmerelda scoffs, but motions for her dagger back and tucks it away safely. "Where is your father? I wanted to speak with him."

"Luvash is busy," another voice cuts in cooly, and Arrigal steps out of the fading, scarce shadows, somehow slipping under her notice even with the bright streams of sunlight all around. "But you can speak with me."

Ezmerelda stands up slowly, and can see him sizing her up.

"Run along now, Arabelle," Arrigal says in a much warmer tone of voice, but without taking his eyes off Ezmerelda for even a moment.

Arabelle gives her one last look as she turns to leave, and Ezmerelda tries to give her a reassuring smile - but then she realises Arabelle doesn't seem concerned or reluctant or... anything at all. She seems supremely calm, and not seven years old at all.

Arrigal steps forward and, even as uncannily quiet as he always is, it startles her back into the moment. Then, he reaches out a hand.

Ezmerelda meets his gaze, steps forward, and takes it. The handshake is firm, and she smirks. "Looks like you backed the losing side, cousin."

The term of address rolls off her tongue with some bite of irony in it. Arrigal inclines his head in acknowledgement. "You can't say it wasn't a fairly sure bet. A matter of survival, of course. We do what we must to keep our people safe. But," and he draws a bit closer, as if letting her in on a secret. "I'm glad he didn't send me after you."

Ezmerelda nods, and decides she isn't in the mood for a debate. "You know, so am I. I would have hated having to kill you. Instead, here you are, in an excellent position for a little introspection, changing your ways... much better this way, isn't it?"

He shakes his head with a grin, and finally lets go of her hand. "You are a menace. But we follow the traditions, and you have a place here. Where are you going?"

"Borca," she says, and pointedly doesn't elaborate further.

Arrigal laughs. "Off to more of your grim business right away! Well, one has to admire your tenacity. You can stay, of course, and leave with us tomorrow. We will share the road at least part of the way."

So Ezmerelda stays, and exchanges news of recent caravan routes and planned Mist-traversal with Luvash. The fire roars to life as the sun sets. Tales are told, and she contributes some of her own.

"Regale us, cousin," Arrigal says, grinning wolf-sharp, arms open wide as if to encompass the entire camp, "with the story of the fall of the devil Strahd."

Arabelle is a delight, as always. The truce with Arrigal, if it can be called that, is uneasy, but holds. The ring is quiet.

Arabelle insists on riding with her in the morning ("You did fish her out of that lake... brought her back to us," Luvash grumbles. "I suppose there's no harm... I'll have none of that monster-hunting nonsense, though!"). Her delight at the summoned magical horses is palpable, even as she tries to hide it. Ezmerelda gives her the reins until they need to enter the Mists, and is only slightly surprised to see her managing well, with just a few pointers here and there.

The whole way, Arabelle demands stories of her and van Richten's exploits very matter-of-factly - interrogates, almost, at times. Her eyes are large, intent, focused, as Ezmerelda obliges, for hours.

"I knew you would win," Arabelle says at one point, breaking a rare longer stretch of silence between them. "Uncle didn't want to listen to me, but I knew."

Ezmerelda looks at her, matches her seriousness. "I hope he will learn to listen, one day soon."

1.4. Common pitfalls

Ezmerelda inches back to consciousness more than wakes, and hisses as she almost reflexively tries and fails to sit up. She recognises her own bed in the former guest room above the herbalist shop, but the details of how she got there are fuzzy at best, completely absent at worst. She is, however, very aware of a merciless pounding in her head and that she has most certainly just pulled some fresh stitches.

A swirl of colourful ectoplasm greets her when she next opens her eyes, Erasmus' fleeting but always lovely and cheerful greetings hovering above her.

Well. Ezmerelda forces a pained smile at him, knowing that if he is here, his father cannot be far, and--

Ah. Familiar footsteps on the stairs, and the distinct creak of the second one from the top, as Rudolph van Richten enters the room with uncanny timing.

He doesn't seem to be surprised to see her awake as he gives her a quick look-over, even as concern and frustration clearly war on his face.

"I thought we had reached an agreement," he begins at last, very deliberately calmly.

Ezmerelda doesn't reply.

"I thought," he continues with that same calm tone, "that we had made a plan. That was my distinct impression of our last conversation."

Ezmerelda clenches her teeth, then grinds out, "I couldn't just stand by and let that beast--"

"You could have voiced your disagreements with the plan and brought your concerns to me, instead of running off on your own in the middle of the night," van Richten is clearly struggling to keep his voice level. "You almost died."

"Fine, I am voicing my disagreements. We know it's a wereboar. Just go at it with our silvered weapons, set up an ambush where we found its lair... why wait? Why give it more chances to hurt people?"

"To be absolutely certain we have all the information. That we have looked at it from every angle, that we have not overlooked a crucial detail. Minimise its chances to hurt us."

"But by then it might have mauled half the village to death, or worse!"

Van Richten's gaze on her is sharp. "And if we get ourselves pointlessly killed, are the villagers any safer for our hasty, brash, ill-thought sacrifice?"

"Hasty, brash, and ill-thought. Fine, if that’s how it is, how you think of me," Ezmerelda throws her hands up, and wishes she could march off, slamming a door shut behind her for good measure, as childish as the thought makes her feel.

Van Richten sighs deeply, and pulls up a chair to sit next to her bed. Ezmerelda recognises it as one from downstairs, and feels a small stab of guilt at the thought of him setting up a vigil at her bedside.

"We can't go rushing in on half-checked information," van Richten begins, after a brief silence, looking down at his hands. "We can't, because... because I have done that, in the past. And people - good, brave, dedicated people who chose to stand against evil, people who trusted me - died as a result."

"I have been wrong," he continues, still not looking up. "I have followed faulty sources without the due diligence of thorough enough vetting. I have overlooked things, and I have lost many. I will not and cannot allow that to happen again. We have to be careful, patient, and vigilant, always."

"I'm not advocating for blindly rushing in," Ezmerelda protests, "I'm merely--"

"I won't have you on my soul as well. I have far too many already."

"And I won't have any more innocents on mine! We had all the relevant information two days ago. Four people could have been alive today if we had acted on time. We were right."

"And what about when you aren't, Ezmerelda? What about when you aren't?"

Ezmerelda looks him right in the eyes, steely. "Then I will make sure I am the one who pays the price for my own mistakes."

"Oh," van Richten smiles sadly, "If only that were possible."

---

The letter arrives just as she is preparing, to her great relief, to leave Port-à-Lucine for good. It is hand-delivered by an ostentatiously dressed man in a stylised fox mask, entirely - and Ezmerelda feels her lips curl in annoyance - unassuming and usual for the land of outrageous pretense that is Dementlieu. The way he seems to disappear in the moment it takes for her to glance down at what he has thrust into her hands is also something Ezmerelda finds hard to marvel at anymore.

Overjoyed to be able to return to the relative privacy and safety of her wagon, she tosses away her old harlequin mask in the sincere hopes of never having to put the damn thing on again. Then she throws herself on the bed and focuses on tearing into the sealed envelope, absorbing its mysterious contents.

After she reaches the end of the letter's brief text, she stays very still for a long while.

'Not a name I thought I would see again, if I am to be honest,' van Richten's voice comes slowly, sounding very wary.

Ezmerelda breathes out a frustrated sigh, an unidentifiable jumble of feelings warring in her chest and burning up her throat. She tries to reply several times, then stops, and closes her eyes. Collects herself, at least somewhat, and decides to focus on the practical. "How do we even know this isn't a forgery, or some sort of trap?"

'We don't. But it is a loose end I, for one, am not prepared to simply overlook.'

"She's tried before, but I never... I don't have time for this right now, I--," she throws the letter and the shredded envelope onto the chest at her bedside, and runs an annoyed hand through her hair, again, and again, and again. Thinking, or at least trying to.

'We have time. You and I both know it's not time that is the problem.'

They are nearing the end of their planned journey, finishing up their business with Alanik Ray and Arthur Sedgwick's latest investigations and bidding farewell to Dementlieu. And then it was supposed to be on to Mordent, to call in at the Mordentshire shop briefly, and afterwards to Darkon - to Rivalis, and the villages surrounding the old Richten estate. Some ghouls to fight off, wraiths to purge, ghosts to lay to rest, to help the villagers out, before... well. They'll come to that when they do.

Ezmerelda can't deny the detour would only be a brief one.

"A 'loose end'," she huffs. "Really."

'I am just trying to help you. Don't waste years of your life like I have, either bitter or wondering or fleeing. Confront your - our - past, at least this part. Lay it to rest, if you can.'

"The past does not lie behind us. It is part of what we are, and part of what we always will be," Ezmerelda recites, then sighs again. "Old Vistani saying."

A moment of silence. 'Make sure it is a good part, then.'

Ezmerelda's memory of her mother feels... not fuzzy, but perhaps a bit tweaked and twisted over the years, more by feelings overtaking it than by any fault of recall. The images of what she remembers and what now stands before her don't match, but have a strange, dissonant overlap, leaving visible in the centre a woman Ezmerelda could almost, almost imagine seeing in the mirror. One she hoped to never see again after that night of wordless parting, many years ago.

Years of imprisonment seem to have been surprisingly kind to Madame Irena Radanavich. She has wormed her way into some kind of favour with someone powerful here, no doubt, as has always been her utterly unscrupulous way. The cell is clearly a formality, more of an office than anything, a parlour for receiving agents and lackeys, as well as bosses. There is even a chair - a worn, old wooden frame with faded red upholstery - placed a little ways away from the bars, facing them. Ezmerelda also gets a distinct impression that the guard standing in the corner is not there for any visitor's safety or protection.

The woman in the cell seems to light up the moment she sets eyes on Ezmerelda strolling into the cell space with a pretense of casualness.

"My, how you've grown! My, and yet-- oh, darling," concern seems to flood her face and voice, and - there, a subtle, wry twist - Ezmerelda thinks she catches a false, even mocking undertone to it. A flash, and it’s gone, and perhaps she merely imagined it, or even wanted it to be there, an ache for some semblance of simplicity to box this woman in. "There's both more and less of you than last time I saw you."

"Really?" Ezmerelda scoffs, and almost wants to laugh. "All those tales I've heard of your vicious, clever, insidious scheming, and that's the best you can come up with?" She crosses her arms, and clicks her metal heel against the floor loudly. "Not an angle you can use against me, I'm afraid. Try again."

"You wound me!" A dramatic hand placed over her chest. "Treating your own mother like that, who has never had anything but your best interests at heart. Who you've never even come to visit."

Ezmerelda slips the opened letter through the bars, letting it land on the hewn stone on the other side. Then she moves to sit down on the solitary chair.

"I'm only here because I got your letter."

"Oh! Good. My dearest Ezmerelda, I was--"

"I am here to tell you I want you to leave me alone," Ezmerelda continues, acting as if she hasn't heard a word. "For good. Forget I exist, preferably. I want nothing to do with you, and I never will. And the only thing I might want to do with your plotting and scheming is foiling it, so it is in your best interest to leave me out of it all. And van Richten..."

The saccharine smile dips down, almost into a scowl. "And here I'd heard you'd finally seen sense and parted ways with that old fool."

"You hear much, I see," Ezmerelda replies, cooly.

"I have my ways. My sources. People loyal to me, who have yet to abandon me."

Ezmerelda feels the swipe like an airy almost-cut of a dagger that just barely misses. "Well, here's something new for you, then. Something your little web-weaving spiders seem to have missed. You'll be happy to hear he's dead."

"And right away you come back to me! Time to end your silly games, eh, Ezme? Good, good. A start--"

"You have no right to call me that," Ezmerelda cuts her off, rapidly losing her will to restrain herself.

"Come now, dear. That's no way to talk to your mother, your own flesh and blood. It's about time we set all this nonsense aside, don't you think? Your family--"

"You're no family of mine."

"Please," she scoffs loudly. "You sound like an angry child. And... oh, really, what kind of name is 'd'Avenir' even?"

"My name," Ezmerelda replies, perfectly matter-of-fact, and refuses to even entertain further discussion of the matter.

"I wonder how you'll do," Madame Radanavich smiles, but this time the threatening edge is obvious, pretense briefly abandoned, "all alone. Playing your little games of pretend with your make-believe name. You'll come crawling back to me yet."

Ezmerelda finds herself thinking of Erasmus, and almost believes she can see him, out of the corner of her eye. Tries not to think of what this confrontation might be bringing back for him. Thinks of the Martikovs welcoming her with open arms and offering shelter even in the darkest and dourest and most dangerous of days; thinks of Ireena with the sunsword and an entire wealth of feeling tangled in a tired, relieved smile somehow brighter than the blazing sunlight itself. Of nights around the fire in the camp outside Vallaki, and little Arabelle pulling on her coat, extorting promises of lessons in both swordfighting and divining. Of Arthur Sedgwick and his honest, caring eyes, and his patient instruction in properly using a flintlock, as his husband gleefully offers detailed scientific explanations of the weapon's workings from the side. She twists the ring on her finger.

"I'm not alone," Ezmerelda says simply, and feels resolute steel pouring back. She stops to consider her next words more carefully.

"I watched your actions and your curse destroy a good man's life. But I want you to know that you wanted to take from him, and in the end you took from me, the daughter you profess to care about so much. And now you crow at me about flesh and blood and expect me to, what? Beg you to let me come back? Back to what? A mouldy cell and as short a leash as the current master feels like giving you?"

"Bold words for one given to following an old wretch around like a sad pup, even as he keeps trying to kick you away," Radanavich sneers, then shifts back to sad pity in the blink of an eye. "Oh, yes, my dear, it's so very tragic... I've heard it all. Look at you - you're wasted on him."

"Oh?" Ezmerelda raises an eyebrow cooly, clamps down on the sting to her pride and the deliberate scrape against old wounds, and almost wanting to scream you are the reason he feared that daring to care about someone would be a death sentence for them. "And what would you prefer to be using me for?"

"How dare you! After all I've done for our family, while you throw your lot in with the man who killed your brother and imprisoned your mother!"

Ezmerelda feels suddenly tired, more than anything. "You know he did no such thing. And I've done very well for myself, despite you."

"Have you, now? What price have you paid for your... profession? What has it cost you already?"

"Nothing I wouldn't be ready to pay ten times over if it meant ensuring the safety of an innocent, or beating back those such as you. You still don't understand," Ezmerelda just smiles sadly, allowing only the slightest undercurrent of danger. "I'm neither lost, nor settling for anything, nor desperately grasping at a chance, nor tragically misguided. This is what I want. This-- this cause, this fight, this is exactly what I was meant to do. And I am very, very good at it."

"Oh, Ezmerelda, if excitement and adventure and glory is what you are after, I know of much that you could do! So many causes that your... talents... would be an excellent match for. You do have a certain reputation, and I know several highly influential actors who'd know exactly where to put your skills to use, no matter how they were acquired. You could do so well for yourself! Rise right to the top of the ranks in the blink of an eye, become truly great."

Ezmerelda shakes her head, and sighs, and moves to get up from the sad, solitary seat.

"Ezmerelda--"

She quickly turns towards the bars and leans in, baring her teeth and grinning widely. "I killed the devil Strahd," Ezmerelda smirks at the look of shock she gets in response. "I think your petty schemes are a little below me, don't you?"

She turns to leave, not waiting for a response. The guard leans back in his corner as she moves away from the bars, waving him off.

"Oh, do feel free to let your masters know," she tosses over her shoulder nonchalantly as she makes her way out. "Though I have to say I haven't really looked into whose lapdog you are nowadays."

Ezmerelda hears a frustrated growl behind her as the sickeningly sweet, pleasant mask falls for good. As the door slams shut behind her, she doesn't look back.

She lets the noise of the city drown out her thoughts as she slowly makes her way back to her wagon, more than ready to be on her way elsewhere. Until, after a while, a familiar voice comes swimming up through her mind.

'How do you feel?'

"I don't know," Ezmerelda murmurs, after a long silence. "Ask me tomorrow."

1.5. Notes on useful classification and categorisation

As she finishes rattling off the information she's gathered on a series of apparent annis hag encounters that van Richten asked her for, he looks-- well, 'impressed' is the only word Ezmerelda can think of to describe it.

In the ensuing moment of quiet, he takes off his spectacles, fidgets with them briefly, polishes off a smudge with his handkerchief. Then, he looks her right in the eye. "You, girl, are a veritable sponge."

Ezmerelda flashes him a smug smile, then remembers the other matter she wanted to bring to his attention. She clears her throat, and begins, with uncharacteristic hesitance. "I've also been looking into some... other things. Another way I can contribute, I think."

The only reply is a raised eyebrow, so Ezmerelda steels herself and decides to go forward with her planned demonstration. She quells the nervous fluttering in her stomach, and instead focuses on the points of her own fingers as they trace well-practiced patterns in the air. With a final flick and a quick mutter of the incantation she's quietly recited so, so many nights in her room when she was supposed to be asleep, the very air around her right hand shimmers with heat. A few tense moments later, a small mote of flame appears in her palm.

Ezmerelda bites back an exclamation of joy at the success, tries to keep her expression fairly neutral, and looks to van Richten expectantly.

His eyebrows are, very amusingly, trying to climb into his hairline. "Where in the world did you learn to do that?"

She lets the little flame dance between her hands, casually skip from one to the other, flickering giddily, and feels an odd sense of relief wash over her.

"I saw it in one of your books. Almost by accident, and it... it just made a lot of sense to me, even just skimming over it. So I thought, why not? If I could get a handle on a few of the spells, I could complement your arsenal quite well. Bring more to the fight."

Van Richten nods, but there is a wary undertone to his words. "As long as you aren't making any ill-advised deals and pacts - which, I'll remind you--"

"-- are all of them. I know. Don't worry. I'm only interested in things I can glean by myself."

"Well, I'm not much of an arcane practitioner, though I am quite familiar with a lot of theory. I'm afraid I won't be able to provide any elaborate training or instruction--"

"That's fine," Ezmerelda rushes to say. "I can continue like this. The research, the books - it's..."

She trails off, not quite knowing how and what to explain. Arcane magic is fascinating, surprisingly enjoyable, and strikes a deeply satisfying balance between being hard-won and feeling like it comes naturally to her.

It also feels... hers.

"It's very engaging material," she finishes after a little while. She moves to close her fist and extinguish the tiny fire, but something stops her at the very last moment.

"Indeed," van Richten replies simply, and gets up from his seat. "Well, I do need to go tend to the shop, but rest assured we will discuss the tactical applications of this later today."

Just as he is out the study door and about to start down the stairs, he pauses, and turns back to look at her, a bright and sincere smile on his face. "Very well done, Ezmerelda."

The flame flickers, ready to fly from her fingers, bursting with potential.

"Thank you," she murmurs long after he is gone.

---

It is deep nighttime when Ezmerelda shakes off the last tendrils of the Mists and sets eyes on the cliffs of Mordentshire. The wagon's wheels clatter over rain-slick cobblestones as she navigates the still-familiar streets of the seemingly unchanging harbour town. The cold sea wind makes her tighten her coat around herself, to very little avail.

She can't say she's missed the weather.

By the time she spies the sign neatly painted with the words Herbalist - Dr. Rudolph van Richten, she feels soaked through and entirely miserable, and spends only a moment giving the place a quick look-over.

The shop is in fine shape - if she didn't know better, Ezmerelda could easily believe its owner closed it up for the night and left just yesterday. The wolfsbane and garlic in the planters underneath each window are flourishing. She makes a mental note to make her first order of business in the morning calling in on the neighbors and discussing further arrangements with Mrs. Polk, in whose capable hands van Richten has been leaving things for years.

In the meantime, she fervently hopes for dry clothes and a workable fireplace.

A quick rummage between two bushy wolfsbane plants - the second and third one on the right - produces a spare key, and Ezmerelda remembers with mild amusement her shock at this mundane weakness in van Richten's usually impeccable and overthought defenses, years ago.

"Keys," he'd looked at her over the rim of his spectacles, "are hardly a problem for things that truly want to harm me."

The little bell chimes as she opens the door. Catching a glimpse of herself in the very precisely placed full-length mirror just opposite the entrance, she wastes no time before going upstairs. The second stair from the top creaks its old, familiar reassurance.

Ezmerelda enters the room that used to be hers, in between harrowing hunting trips and trying adventures, during her years training with van Richten. It doesn't seem to have changed much - nor does it seem to be in use as anything but spare storage space.

She does her best not to think about how empty and quiet the house is, or how she's never truly been alone in it. Instead, she hangs up her coat, rolls up her shirt sleeves, unpacks some of her things, and, by the time she gets a proper fire going, realises sleep is the very last thing she feels like doing. Her eyes alight on the small desk in the corner, and she instead decides to do something she hasn't in a while.

She sits down to write.

First, Ezmerelda takes off the ring and sets it aside, muttering a quick good night, Doctor under her breath. Then she takes out some of her collection, observations accumulated over the years - jotted down on everything from thick parchment to old wrapping paper. Combining it with the wealth of van Richten's remaining material and into something eventually coherent will no doubt be a challenge, but a challenge is not something Ezmerelda d'Avenir has ever shied away from.

It is just haphazard, quick notes on anything of consequence that comes to mind at first, carried by an odd nervous energy. A more systematic approach will have to come at some later point.

While knowledge is a key weapon in any hunter's arsenal, honing one's body as well as mind is absolutely necessary, she writes, tapping her foot on the wooden floor in a way that often drove van Richten to distraction. Many of the creatures of the night become, in their cursed states, inhumanly strong, and in such instances one must be particularly careful of engaging them in close quarters, for even the greatest strongman would be at a disadvantage.

However, not all of these encounters need be solved by violence. Many ghosts

She pauses, pen slowly dripping ink onto the half-filled page before her, and sees Erasmus out of the corner of her eye. She turns her head to face him, and for once in their long and unusual life-and-afterlife-spanning acquaintance, she finds she can't quite read him.

Many ghosts are held in their in-between existence due to unfinished business. Tethered to some regret or incomplete task from their mortal lives, they seek resolution and closure. Many hauntings can thus be resolved by investigation, and what I must term a primarily sympathetic approach. Of course, one must also always be wary and on the lookout for deliberately misguiding spectres who seek to play upon one's pity.

The first signs of dawn creep into the room by the time she has moved on from ghosts to wraiths to trying to sort out her notes about creatures that lurk underwater - old notes that have been, to her chagrin, very appropriately and unsalvageably waterlogged.

Ezmerelda manages to light another candle just before her current one sputters out, and rubs at her tired eyes. Then she pauses, gazing idly at the ink stains on her fingers.

She reaches over for a new page, setting her current work aside. There is something else she wants and needs to write, something other than dry facts or hopefully helpful guidelines. The first few sentences come in fits and starts, but soon enough she finds them flowing out of her pen almost of their own accord.

What I would like to make clear is that this is not an inherently bad place. The lands themselves can be beautiful - wondrous, even. Worth living in, and worth fighting for. And the people who live in them do not deserve to live in fear. I, and many others, could simply leave for some better, tamer prospects, yes - but then what? Nothing is gained if we merely surrender an entire world, a collection of lands so fantastically varied and so full of promise, to a cruel, merciless, hungry night. It can't all be abandoned as collateral damage in a great punishment intended for a horrible few. I can't, and won't, allow this to happen.

Maybe the foes are overwhelming, and the fight endless. But a life saved is a life saved. A victory is a victory. One innocent snatched away from a grim fate, one tendril of darkness beaten back - that is enough. But only if we persist at it, day after day after day. And evil may be impossible to ever completely destroy, but it is far weaker and less widespread than it could and doubtlessly wants to be, in at least some small part thanks to our continued efforts.

A dour prospect? Perhaps, for some. Ezmerelda smirks to herself, and gazes down at her veritable manifesto, and thinks back to that cell in Il Aluk.

What better life is there to lead? None, for her.

I, for one, don't intend to give up anytime soon. I hope that in you, dear reader, I can find one of like mind. And perhaps one day we shall find ourselves standing together.

She lights another candle, and continues.

1.6. Conclusions and remarks on future work

She clenches her hands as she steps into the sitting room that morning, decisions made after a long, sleepless night of contemplation. As if fate is conspiring against her, the first thing she sees is Erasmus, hovering over his father's shoulder. He turns to face her as soon as he notices her, a bright smile he saves just for her on his pale, ghostly face. She knows what a struggle it is for him to manifest this way, how much it takes out of him. The thought of his precious few minutes today being this...

It takes immense effort to speak up, interrupting van Richten's apparent focus on the post strewn about the table in front of him.

"I think... I think it's time for me to go."

"Go? Where?" He blinks, looking up from his papers.

Ezmerelda swallows, but hesitates only for a moment. "I don't know," she answers, chin tilted up, almost proud. "But I know we can't go on like this. I don't want to go on like this."

They butt heads and scrape against each other constantly. Chafe and grate and, and, and. She can't remember the last time they agreed on even the most cursory thing. It has reached a level where she fears his presence will become intolerable, and anything binding the two of them together become irreparably soured and tainted.

She refuses to allow this to happen.

Erasmus has drawn a coin. Two sides. He indulges in a small, semi-teasing pantomime, pointing at the two of them as his shimmering, ectoplasmic drawings hover briefly before vanishing like so much smoke, and Ezmerelda shakes her head sadly.

"I don't want to come to resent you, that is all. I don't think I could bear it if I did."

"If you think it for the best, by all means," van Richten says simply, and leaves it at that. He never turns to fully look at her. There is an undercurrent to his voice Ezmerelda can't quite place - something deeply tired, and far more complicated than plain sadness.

It rains heavily that morning as she sets off, as if the world itself wants her to rethink this. The muddy road squelches almost threateningly under her horse's hooves as she leads him forward.

Van Richten doesn't come out to see her off.

"I'll miss you," she breathes to herself, and half-hopes it somehow reaches both of the companions she is leaving behind. But she has only the rain and her horse's steady trot on the trail for company.

It is quiet.

---

Finally, the familiar mists of Darkon, and the countryside of Rivalis, lie before them. The inevitable, at a familiar estate fallen into quite a state of disrepair.

'No, leave it be,' van Richten said, at her hesitantly presented idea of including returning Richten House to at least some of its former glory on their list of unfinished business and loose ends.

Still, this is where he wanted to come. At the end.

Ezmerelda never saw it in its prime. She was a mere child then, kept well away from her family's machinations. Until she was (inevitably, irrevocably) drawn in, her fate forever entangled with that of the van Richten family. But even now, in all its disrepair, rich traces of what the gardens, the orchard, and the house itself used to be permeate the atmosphere, like ghosts themselves.

She walks across the hills of the grounds, all the way around the mansion to the family cemetery. She slows as she moves up to the two most recent graves, so easy to find, and thinks, briefly, of the body van Richten insisted on being burned before they left Barovia, just in case.

Just in case, she agreed, knowing all he knew about what foul magic and foul intentions could do to physical remains in the wrong hands, and built him a pyre.

The headstones before her are simple but elegant, as is the tidily engraved lettering on them.

Ingrid van Richten

Erasmus van Richten

'Well, here we are.' For a disembodied voice softly projecting into her mind, almost as through a mild haze or over some great distance, it is one of the heaviest things Ezmerelda has ever heard.

'A few words, if I may,' van Richten's request comes, gentle, and she nods, finding herself oddly wordless.

'I am so proud of you,' he begins, and the ferocity of it almost startles her. 'I hope you know this, always. If I have ever made you doubt this, as I pushed you away - I am sorry. I regret many things in my life, as one does, no matter what I like to say - but most of all I regret that I didn't tell you this sooner.

You are the best of my life. But more than that, you have grown far beyond me, into a finer person than most could dream of being. And I am sorry I wasn't there for you, that you had to do so much of it on your own. But know that when I see you... I couldn't be happier, or more in awe.'

There is a very brief pause, and then the voice softens again.

'I love you as my own, and am deeply honoured you would consider me, and that I get to consider you, family.'

Ezmerelda swallows once, twice, struggles, then finally lets her tears fall freely.

'Look at you. You don't need me anymore. And I can only hope your legend will far surpass anything I have ever done - there is so much ahead of you! Your light stands so very bright against the darkness. But I am glad, so very glad - selfishly, perhaps - that we were there together, at the end.'

"So am I," she manages a whisper. "Love you too, old man."

'Now I suppose it is time for me to go.'

Erasmus looks at her, bittersweet pouring from him in waves, and he gives a small nod. His form flickers, and then disappears, and Ezmerelda knows she will never see him again.

She knows how the ring works, too. The soul within it can choose to depart whenever it wants to. She knows she doesn't need to do anything - that she couldn't, even if she wanted to. It brings with it a strange sort of peace.

Ezmerelda inclines her head. "I hope you see them soon." Tell Erasmus I'll miss him, she wishes she could say.

She spins the now-inert ring around on her finger, a habit she will need to break. She wants to tear it off, and throw it as far away from herself as she can. She wants to never take it off as long as she lives.

A soft rain starts up, and Ezmerelda feels oddly grateful for the feel of it on her face, even as she knows there is no one here but her.

It is quiet.

---

With gratitude to the notes and tutelage of the esteemed Dr. Rudolph van Richten, whose guidance and wealth of knowledge have proved invaluable on countless occasions, and whose friendship changed the course of my life more than once.

#ezmerelda d'avenir #rudolph van richten #curse of strahd #dnd #dungeons and dragons #fanfiction #my fic #oathkeeper writes things #erasmus van richten #ravenloft #gonna take my horse to the old svalich road #tabletop

64 notes · View notes

twistedtummies2 · 3 years

Text

Green-Eyed Devil

A silly piece of Sherliam fluffiness; nothing kinky, just sweet foolery. Summary: William James Moriarty always thought that Sherlock Holmes & Dr. Watson made a good pair...but he finds himself getting very jealous over just HOW good a pair they might be.

In Other Words: Liam goes into “jealous boyfriend mode.” ‘Nuff said. :P

---------------------------------------------------------

Another busy day in London. People bustled to and fro in the cool, semi-drizzly afternoon’s yellow-gray light. Paupers held out their hats in hopes of alms, while the gentry chattered, unconcerned by the rain pattering onto their umbrellas. Hoofbeats clip-clapped upon the cobblestone streets as carriages and hansom cabs went back and forth, carrying their passengers quickly but carefully through the mild downpour.

One particular carriage turned a corner onto Baker Street: a black carriage, with strange red-tinted lamps on its sides, which matched the dark, blood-colored lining of its inner cushioning, barely visible through the windows of the coach. The same deep red was painted on the wide wagon wheels. It was a nobleman’s coach, something that turned many eyes, as it was rare for a nobleman to hurry along Baker Street. While the road was by no means a slum, it was not one of the grander parts of the city either: a decent middle-class zone. Those who knew the street best smirked, already having a guess as to where the carriage would stop. They were correct...but not for the reasons they expected. In the driver’s seat of the coach was a young man, dressed in a dark blue suit, with a matching tie and hat, and wire-rimmed spectacles upon his fine nose. His blonde hair fluttered at the sides of his head, half-hiding the nasty scar upon his cheek; the only thing that marred his otherwise handsome, youthful face. A pair of strange red eyes which seemed to dimly glow in the shadows of his hat brim stared resolutely onward...until the carriage neared its destination. “Whoa there!” the man in blue called to the twin horses that pulled the carriage, and tugged on the reins, slowing the stallions to a stop. They whinnied softly and shook their heads as the driver tied the reins off, then hopped down from his seat and opened the door to the coach. “Brother William,” he said to the one inside, “We’ve arrived.” There was a pause...then, a lone figure stepped out of the carriage. He was tall and thin, his stance as elegant as his choice of clothes as he adjusted the gray top hat on his head and tucked a silver-topped cane under one arm. He wore a rich brown suit, and white kid gloves; over this was a thick black overcoat. His countenance was almost identical to that of the other man, with the same blonde hair and unusual red eyes...although his eyes glowed much more brightly, and the whole face seemed narrower, sharper, more mature and almost predator-like in shape, while still having a pleasing, downright attractive demeanor. His expression was serene and gentle, magnetic in the way the features were fixed; a cool, effortlessly composed face that seemed unperturbed by the rain, or anything else, for that matter. The lips on the endlessly calm face stretched ever so slightly into a satisfied smile as he saw the address plaque on the door only a few feet away: 221B. “Brother?” The man in brown turned to the man in blue. “Yes, Louis?” he responded, his voice the same practiced, even calm that could be seen on his face; pleasant, yet unbreakable. Louis James Moriarty squirmed a bit; he looked nervous. “Is this really wise?” he asked, and looked to the door as well. “Asking HIM to join you for dinner, I mean.” “Why not? The Cafe de L’Europe serves fabulous suppers.”

“It’s not the food that worries me,” Louis said, somewhat blandly, and gestured with a toss of his head towards the building. “HE, after all, is simply meant to be a part of your game. And if he figures out the truth through frequent contact…” Louis trailed off. William smiled a little wider. “Ah. Are you afraid the White Pawn might take the Black King, Louis?” the man in brown asked, almost teasingly. “That’s part of it, yes,” Louis answered, in a slow, careful way. William let out a puff of amusement through his nose...then reached out with his free hand, placing it on his brother’s shoulder. Louis turned quickly to face him. “Holmes is a powerful piece in our grand puzzle,” William said softly, making sure not to be heard by any passers-by. “One must know the enemy in order to reach the endgame properly. The more I study him, the more I can learn.” He paused, looking towards the door once more. His eyes narrowed as he seemed to peer through the door. “Besides,” he murmured, and his voice quivered ever so faintly with emotion. “I find him interesting. He seems a clever man...and a lucky one.” Louis narrowed his own eyes and said nothing. He paused before speaking again. “William,” he said, and the genius in brown raised an eyebrow at the use of his name as he gave his younger sibling a sidelong glance. “I don’t like it. I really don’t.” “Holmes’ interest in me, or mine in him?” William checked, voice even and seemingly uncaring. “Both,” Louis confessed. “The more time you spend with him, the more dangerous the game becomes.” “The game was always dangerous, Louis,” William said with a light chuckle, and his red eyes twinkled deviously. “Now the game is just more FUN.” “That’s my point,” Louis responded. “You’re literally flirting with trouble; you could be dining with disaster. I know you, brother. Don’t think I didn’t realize what was going on during the train trip to Durham, or the way you smiled when you spoke of his visit to the university.” William’s smile flickered, showing weakness for the first time, though he kept his eyes on the door. “Louis,” he said at length, “I know you’re looking out for what’s best for me. And I appreciate it. I do.” He turned back and smiled to his younger brother. “I will ALWAYS appreciate you, little brother,” he promised, his voice filled with firm meaning. “That is never going to change, no matter what happens in the future - in our plans, between myself and Holmes - you will always be my light. Having said that, I am not the sort of person to allow my emotions to ruin my strategies.” Louis seemed to relax...and a small smile of his own fell onto his face. His cheeks seemed to turn a bit pink. “If you say so,” he said, his own voice a bit shaky, before his eyes hardened again. “But after Enders in January, Hope in February, and the business with Mr. Bonde in March…” He trailed off, taking a deep breath before stiffening his back. “...If he continues to incommode us, I will remove him myself.” William’s smile was affectionate. He nodded. “I would ask no one else to do it, brother,” he said, sounding pleased to hear it...then added, very quietly, seemingly more to himself than to Louis, “I’m not sure I would have the stomach for it now…” There was an awkward pause, which was interrupted by Louis giving a nigh-imperceptible shiver. William perceived it, however. “How thoughtless of me, keeping you standing in the rain!” he smiled anew, and patted his brother on the shoulder. “Why don’t you take the carriage somewhere dry and get yourself a meal? I can take a hansom up to meet you.” Louis nodded and told William where he was going, then drove the carriage off. William watched his brother go, then marched up to the door of the flat house at long last. He could feel the rain speckling his own clothes, and had no desire to be soaked. He took the brass knocker and, without another moment’s hesitation, he knocked upon the door. Almost immediately, he heard footsteps coming to the door...then, a woman - a little older than himself, but not by more than a few years - answered. Her eyes were the color of emeralds, her hair an auburn shade, tied into a bun. She was dressed in a very proper-looking pink tea dress, a cream-colored apron draped over her front. The woman tilted her head slightly as she blinked up at William. “Hello?” she greeted, curiously. “May I help you?” William doffed his hat; the drizzled rain felt cool and soothing on his golden scalp. “Good day,” he greeted, in his most dulcet voice. “My name is William James Moriarty. I am a Professor of Mathematics at Durham University. I take it you are the famous Miss Hudson?” The woman’s cheeks turned almost as pink as her clothes, and she smiled. “Only thanks to Dr. Watson’s stories,” she chuckled, then frowned and mumbled to herself: “I really need to remind him it’s MISS Hudson, not Missus...yet…” She shook herself out of that thought and stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Come in!” she said cheerily. “No need to stand out in the rain!” “Thank you,” Professor Moriarty said with a short, respectful bow of his head, and stepped into the parlor of the flat house. He offered his cane, his hat, and his black overcoat to the landlady-slash-housekeeper, who graciously smiled as she put the items up on a rack… ...Then scowled as Moriarty began to walk across the room towards the stairs. “OI!” she suddenly snapped. William stopped short, eyes wide, a little alarmed...although the carefully constructed evenness of his voice never once gave that away. “What’s the matter, ma’am?” he asked, politely. Miss Hudson took a breath to calm herself. “Nothing, sir, nothing,” she mumbled. “Just...you forgot to wipe your feet on the mat.” William blinked, and looked down at his shoes. He admitted he felt a flutter of embarrassment as he saw he had left rain-soaked footprints on the floor leading up to the staircase. “Oh,” he whispered to himself, and smiled apologetically, his voice as graceful as his movements as he stepped back, retracing his steps carefully, and did so. “My apologies. It quite slipped my mind.” “Never mind,” huffed Miss Hudson. “I’m sorry for snapping at you, Professor, just...at least you LISTEN, unlike that stubborn, skull-wearing…!” She took another breath and sighed. William’s smile became more akin to a smirk. “I take it Mr. Holmes is as trying as Dr. Watson’s publications would lead one to believe?” he puzzled. “No,” Miss Hudson droned. “He’s even WORSE. I’ve never had children, sir, but after Sherlock Holmes, I think I know what it’s like to raise one, and I don’t think it’s fun.” Moriarty chuckled. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he soothed, and cocked his own head. “Is Mr. Holmes in, by the way? May I see him?” “He is, and I suppose that will depend upon Mr. Holmes,” Miss Hudson answered, and stepped in front of the young Professor, leading him back to the stairs. “Not that I imagine he’d have any objections. He speaks of you often, you know.” William paused at the foot of the steps. “Does he now?” he questioned, seemingly more to himself than Miss Hudson, but she answered anyway. “Yes, almost as often as he rambles on about how important tobacco ash is in an investigation,” she mumbled, with a wry chuckle. “He gets so wrapped up in the little things!” “Well, the little things are often the most important,” Moriarty defended as the pair made their way up the stairs to the upper floor of the building. “That’s what he says,” Miss Hudson shrugged. “I’ve never understood it myself, nor how many different types of ashes he claims there are! Something like one hundred different varieties-” “One hundred forty, actually.” Miss Hudson froze on the steps and looked to the Professor, whose uncanny smile never once faltered. He hadn’t sounded like he was bragging or patronizing, he just...said it. “Yes,” she murmured, and nodded slowly. “That’s exactly right, I remember now...have you read that monograph he published?” Moriarty gave one of “his smiles”: the masks of pleasant sweetness where his eyes closed and his lips curved perhaps a little TOO wide to be genuine looks of happiness. “We’ll say yes,” he answered, in a chirping sort of manner. Miss Hudson raised an eyebrow at the cryptic reaction, then shrugged and led Moriarty up the steps. The Professor followed at a polite pace and distance as she approached the door at the top of the stairs, leading into the rooms of her most popular tenant. She knocked on the door, sharply rapping it with her knuckles. “Sherlock!” she called. “Go away!” a voice from the other side of the door called back. William couldn’t help but chuckle under his breath as Miss Hudson flushed with indignation. “What’s that kind of talk for?” she shouted. “You have a client!” “Tell them to go away, too; I’m busy,” was the snorted response. Then came a new voice: milder, more genteel. “Ah, Miss Hudson...ask them if they wouldn’t mind waiting? We won’t be too long, I should think…” “No more than an hour,” added the first voice, and the Professor was almost certain he heard the other voice hiss angrily: “Not helping, Sherlock!” “I don’t mind waiting,” Moriarty said, placidly. And he didn’t; there was no rush to his visitation. Miss Hudson, however, was incensed, and would hear none of it. “Like HELL you will!” she snarled, causing William to quirk his brow at her language before she glared at the door like it was the source of all the trouble in her life. “Sherlock, you cannot keep a gentleman like Mr. Moriarty waiting! He is-” “Mister WHO?!” came the first voice. “Moriarty! Professor Moriarty from Durham!” Miss Hudson answered. Scarcely had she gotten out the last word, however, than the door burst open, and Miss Hudson jumped aside with a yelp as an excited figure all but jumped through the doorway. William’s smile softened and took on a shade of amusement at the sight of Sherlock Holmes, who looked breathless and almost manic, his smile stretched wide across the handsome but angular proportions of his face. His dark blue eyes (which Moriarty noticed were slightly baggier than usual) gleamed as his dark hair - unkempt as ever - sprung out in every direction, from the curlicue cowlick to his untidy ponytail. He was dressed in his usual garb: not the deerstalker and inverness cape the public knew from the illustrations in the Strand, but a dark blue coat and trousers, along with brown leather shoes that had seen better days, and a white shirt with its top button undone. Moriarty couldn’t help but give a passing glance at the glimpse of a strong chest and collarbone that were visible through that partition… The gangly detective grinned widely, as if his whole day had just become a little sunnier, and extended a hand to William - the one that wore his silver skull ring. “LIAM!” he boomed with a jovial laugh. “You couldn’t have come at a better time! I was just about to get started on a chemical experiment, come in, come in!” Before either the Professor or Miss Hudson could stop him, the detective all but dragged the mathematician through the door. Miss Hudson blinked at the closed door after it slammed shut...then sighed and shook her head, before sniffing primly and heading back downstairs. “Mad as a hatter; he always will be,” she muttered. Meanwhile, the Professor brushed himself off briefly as he stood in the entrance area of Sherlock’s flat. Holmes smirked, tucking one hand into his pants pocket, the other scratching his chin as he eyed William critically. “So, Liam...how was your ride over here? You took your own coach, didn’t you?” “Bumpier than I would like, but not too bad,” shrugged William, not at all bothered by how easily Holmes guessed. “Well, with the weather, you might have found the trains easier. Did our case on the Paddington line make you that squeamish?” teased Sherlock. William gave another of “his” smiles. “Perhaps a little,” he lied in a sing-song way. “Ah...how do you know he came in his own coach?” Blue and red eyes turned to look at the third person in the room: another young man, in his twenties - roughly the same age as both the sleuth and the schemer - dressed in an olive-colored jacket and trousers, along with a brown vest, a neat-looking off-white shirt, and a burnt-yellow-colored ascot. His skin was very lightly tanned, his eyes were the same shade as his vest, and his hair was a sort of pale grayish-blonde color. The eyes were very wide and bright, and peered between the two geniuses with curious interest as he stepped closer. “Elementary, My Dear Watson,” Sherlock chimed, and then looked back to Moriarty. “I don’t think you properly got introduced, did you?” William shook his head, and then looked to Watson with a smile, extending a hand. “A pleasure to see you again, Doctor,” the Professor greeted in a warm but casual voice. “William James Moriarty, at your service.” “It’s nice to meet you, officially,” Watson smiled back with a nod, and shook the hand of Professor Moriarty. “John H. Watson. Thank you, by the way, for helping Sherlock with the Hawthorne case.” “Oh, please,” Moriarty chuckled, lifting his other hand in a dismissive gesture. “Say nothing of it. I’m simply glad I could help an innocent person and see a criminal brought to justice. It was exciting, playing detective, really. I’m surprised you didn’t publish that one.” “Sherlock talked me out of it,” admitted Watson, and gave an accusing look at the detective. Holmes shrugged. “It was a simple case. Too simple, too quick,” he said, boredly. “You two were the only things that made it interesting. I figured your adoring readers would like something more interesting.” “Sure they would,” Watson muttered, then looked back to Moriarty, huge eyes burning with interest. “Now...about your ride here...do you know how he guessed it?” “He didn’t guess it,” insisted Moriarty. “He DEDUCED it, Doctor. And I think I know.” “Oh?” Holmes spoke up, and smiled challengingly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Prove it. Go on, Liam, what were the clues?” “Three clues, really: it was all a question of sight, recollection, and smell.” “Huh?” Watson spoke up, brow furrowing in curiosity. “What do you mean?” “First, recollection,” Moriarty explained, and began counting off the points on his fingers. “Mr. Holmes knows I live in Durham. To say that’s a bit of a walk from here is an understatement, and I do not own a bicycle. So there was no other way to get here beyond covered transportation, especially in this weather: the rain may be light sprinkling, but with that much ground to cover, I would have been soaked to the bone. This leads into sight: if I had even come in a dogcart, for instance, the mud and rainwater would have been splashed onto me.” “But you could have come in a cab!” “That’s where the smell comes in, John,” Holmes interjected, pulling up the sleeve on one of his arms and scratching at a spot there before rolling the sleeve back down as he elaborated. “No driver would take someone from Durham all the way to Baker Street; too much of a distance, and the Moriarty household is much too remote to simply hail a passing cab. Liam either would have had to catch a cab or a horsebus from the train station, or take his own carriage directly from his house. And as there is no scent of smoke from the steam engines or any crowds on him, as you would expect from the former scenario, that leaves only the option of him making the full journey in his carriage.” Watson blinked...then let out a slightly nervous chuckle. “Well...it...sounds kind of obvious when you put it that way,” he admitted, sheepishly. “That’s because it is obvious,” Holmes boasted. “Indeed,” slithered William. “Just as it is obvious Mr. Watson has been diluting your cocaine solution from seven to five percent.” Holmes gaped and Watson gasped. “H-How...how did you guess that?!” sputtered Sherlock, who looked mortified. William’s smile was simple and innocent. “Elementary, My Dear Holmes,” he answered, in a gently teasing tone...and pointedly said NOTHING else. Holmes gulped thinly, and gave a tight sort of smile. “Liam, you rascal,” he hissed under his breath, eyes dancing. “You’re GOOD at this game.” “Thank you,” Moriarty purred, with a slight bow, then looked towards the chemistry set. It was prepared on a table near the window. “So, what was the experiment you mentioned, if you don’t mind my asking?” “Oh!” Sherlock Holmes exclaimed, snapping his fingers, and gestured for both Dr. Watson and Professor Moriarty to join him as he sat down at his chemistry set. Watson stood to his left, while William paused at his right, both watching the detective check on the items he had gathered, to make sure everything was in place. “Part of a case?” William guessed. “Yep,” Holmes popped the word out with his lips before continuing: “A man in Cheshire - John Vincent Harden by name - came to us with the problem yesterday.” Watson nodded, and pulled from his coat pocket a piece of paper. On it was a list of items, untidily scrawled. “Mr. Harden’s friend is currently in the dock under suspicion of murdering the family butler,” the doctor explained. “This piece of paper - which includes the murder of the butler as part of a number of surly deeds to be done - is the only clue that can prove he might be innocent.” “I see,” William murmured, looking at the paper briefly...then nearly jumped as Sherlock snatched it away. The sleuth glanced over it before scoffing through his nostrils. “Offhand, I can deduce very little,” he muttered, placing the paper on the table and squinting down at it. “Only that the paper comes from Mongolia and has no watermark, that the one who wrote this is a drinker, and that they are probably not very rich.” Liam grinned, looking proud as a plum, and was about to comment...but Watson beat him to it. “The odor of cheap brandy, plus the weight and texture of the paper, right?” he smiled hopefully. Holmes grinned. “Very good, John!” he chuckled, and nudged the doctor’s shoulder with a light punch, making Watson squeak like a mouse before gripping his shoulder. Watson gave a blushing, shy smile as he rubbed his shoulder and Holmes all but sang out: “You’re getting better at this every day!” Watson shuffled on his feet. “It was...really nothing; you can smell the brandy part, easily,” he mumbled. This was the moment where Professor Moriarty’s usually marble-carved smile flickered faintly, and his red eyes seemed to shine a bit brighter...and not in a pleasant manner. He slowly looked Watson over, taking in the way the surgeon and former soldier stood and smiled at Sherlock. He could sense the doctor’s heightened pulse even from here...the way the pupils dilated as he watched Holmes work… It could just be happiness at being praised - the rather wide, almost childlike small on John’s face could make that clear - but, of course, it could also mean something far, FAR more meaningful. William glared...but then shook his head, clearing it. No. Not a chance. There was no reason to get worked up. Not yet, anyway. “Liam,” Holmes spoke up, catching Moriarty’s attention as he handed him the paper again. “Is there anything you can see that I haven’t noted yet?” “Black dust,” William said, without taking the parchment piece up. “The ink half-hides it; the man either works as a lamplighter, or frequently goes somewhere where gaslights that require coal are plentifully found.” Holmes nodded, humming softly in thought as he pulled his magnifying glass from his coat pocket and inspected the letter closely. As he did, Watson inched closer...and Moriarty felt his own chest tighten almost imperceptibly as he saw the doctor lean against Holmes, his head in the crook of the detective’s shoulder and neck. It was a casual sort of movement; something intimate, but not necessarily sensual. The same went for the affectionate smiles the two shared before looking back at the paper. All the same, William suddenly sensed the way his own fists tightened at his sides. He felt strangely cold, and he didn’t like it. “Well, until I put it through the chemical test, I can’t say much else,” Sherlock sighed at last. “So far, none of this helps Mr. Harden’s friend: he works at a theater with gaslights, and is, in fact, a frequent patron of a local pub.” So saying, Holmes stood up and held out a hand to Watson, flexing his fingers in a beckoning motion. “Light, please,” he ordered. Watson rolled his eyes but obligingly pulled and struck a match from his waistcoat pocket. Holmes plucked up the match, and then, grinning widely, lifted the paper, preparing to set it ablaze… “STOP!” Holmes jumped at Watson’s shout. “What now?” “You can’t just burn the whole thing!” John protested. “I can, and I will,” huffed Holmes. “He DOES need to reduce the paper to ash in order to conduct the experiment,” Moriarty put in. “Thank you, Liam!” Sherlock nodded. William smiled, a light glimmer of victory in his expression...but the victory was squashed when Watson spoke up again. “Well, burn a small portion of it then,” John suggested. “After all, this is your only sample: if something goes wrong, and you burn the whole thing, you won’t be able to conduct the experiment again, properly, will you? Plus, you’ll be ridding the courtroom of evidence!” Holmes opened his mouth to snap back something...then closed it...and blinked. “...Oh,” he murmured. “I...somehow did not consider that.” He smiled with friendly admiration. “John, what would I do without you?” he chuckled. “Well, you need SOMEONE more normal to tone down that insanity of yours,” John smirked back. Holmes laughed. William’s smile remained fixed...but his eyes narrowed. “You two are even closer than I realized,” he observed, quietly. Sherlock had just asked John to fetch him some scissors. As the doctor returned with the cutting blades, Holmes nodded. “Well, yeah. We’re pretty much inseparable.” “Yes, like two peas in a pod,” Watson agreed, as Sherlock cut a small portion of the paper off the rest. He then tilted his head and added: “I suppose more like two cherries in a bunch, actually. I’ve never liked peas.” “Neither have I!” Holmes exclaimed. “What a remarkable coincidence!” Watson grinned brightly. William felt his molars grind against one another very slightly. He breathed through his nose to relax; externally, he looked thoroughly composed, his smile still set...but inside, he could feel something bubbling up inside him, like magma in a volcano. He wanted Holmes to smile at him that way. He suddenly wanted to be the one there with him constantly. It wasn’t fair that someone else got to be around his nemesis so often. “I always knew you two made a good pair,” he thought to say, as Holmes burned the cut piece and then carefully brushed the ashes into a small bowl. “John has helped me on nearly all my cases since Jefferson Hope,” Sherlock smiled. “Honestly, it’s hard to imagine a time before he came around.” “Aww,” Watson mumbled, blushing once again. “Thank you, Sherlock.” “Oh, don’t think anything of it,” sniffed Holmes, as he poured the ashes into a beaker filled with a curious blue liquid. “After all the times you’ve bungled things, I have to stroke your ego a LITTLE bit.” “Oi! I do not bungle things!” Watson cried out. “Oh, no?” smirked Holmes sitting back and crossing his legs and arms with a supercilious smile. “And what about that case with Miss Stoner? You were so proud of yourself when you found footprints outside her bedroom window...only for us to find out they were OUR footprints the whole time!” “That...I...a-anyone could have made that mistake!” Watson sputtered, withdrawing childishly as he rubbed the back of his neck with embarrassment. “Not me!” chirruped Sherlock Holmes. Watson glared. “Oh, no?” he retorted, mimicking Holmes’ voice and posture as he smirked deviously. “Then how about that time you let those counterfeiters go because you accidentally set the house on fire?” “IF LESTRADE HAD BEEN THERE ON TIME, THEY WOULD HAVE BEEN CAUGHT!” Holmes shouted, and pouted like a sulking child. “I thought we agreed never to speak of that again!” “How do you set a house on fire with a spoon, Holmes?” Watson ribbed. “Clearly, another of your many talents.” Holmes growled...then reached up and pulled Watson down - “C’mere, you!” - giving the gray-blonde soldier a noogie and making him shriek and laugh. William watched the shenanigans with utter apathy. Or at least, utter external apathy. Internally, he wished he could have such an open, joking friendship...in truth, Moriarty had never really felt he HAD a true friend till Sherlock Holmes. He’d understood what friendship was, but beyond his family, he tended to see most people - even his closest subordinates - as pawns for use in his grand scheme. “Ahem,” the Professor cleared his throat, and the pair froze...before jumping away from each other like singed cats. The reaction was so much like two young lovers being caught kissing in private that it almost made Moriarty squirm. Almost. “As amusing as these hijinks are...what about your experiment, Holmes?” “Ah!” Sherlock exclaimed, smacking his own forehead. “Thank you, Liam, for reminding me. Watch carefully, both of you…” So saying, Holmes placed the beaker under a large contraption on the table: it consisted of a glass flask, with a burner under it, and a long curlicue tube - which was patched in several places - stretching from its open top. The beaker was set under the end of the tube, and Holmes switched on the burner. The flask was filled with a bright green liquid. It bubbled and fizzed, and soon began to rise in the glass chamber, pumping into the tube. Slowly but surely, it began to make its way through the piping. Holmes watched the fluid flow intently, his feet tapping on the floor like an excited, eager child, his hands drumming his knees impatiently as he muttered to himself. “Yes...yes, good, good...c’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon...hmmm, yes-yes-oop! No, no, bad, bad-yes! Good! C’mon, c’mon-ah! That’s it! C’mon, c’mon...yes, yes, yes…!” Both William and Watson leaned close as the fluid reached the end of the tube...and, after an excruciatingly lengthy wait of exactly three seconds...PLIPP. A single green drop plopped into the beaker. FWOOMPH! A puff of smoke burst from the beaker as the fluid turned red...then purple...then changed back to blue. There was a pause...then, Holmes grinned wider. He began to chuckle...and the chuckle became a giggle...and the giggle became a loud, roaring laugh as he jumped out of his chair, throwing his arms up in joy. “IT WORKED! IT WORKED, JOHN!” he almost screamed. Before either of them could comment, Holmes suddenly slapped both hands down on William’s shoulders. Moriarty stiffened almost imperceptibly; he felt his heart almost stop as he looked into the earnest, happy blue eyes of the detective. “Liam...Liam, it worked!” he gasped out. “I knew it! I KNEW it! You knew it, too, yes? Right?” Moriarty blinked a few times; for a moment his mask fell away. His eyes were very wide and seemed to sparkle faintly...but finally, he recomposed himself, and licked his lips thinly before speaking. “I did,” he confirmed with a nod. “Distilled sodium chloride, yes?” “Exactly! EXACTLY!” Holmes cheered with an extremely hyper nod. “Um...wh-what just happened?” Sherlock turned around fast to face Watson. Moriarty felt a pang in his blackened heart as he realized he missed the warmth and closeness. “Oh, you don’t know?” Holmes blinked. “Would I have asked if I did?” Watson reasoned. “Hmph. Touche,” shrugged Sherlock, and pointed to the beaker. “It’s simple, John: that reaction could only have happened if the paper was, at some point, exposed to a great deal of salt water vapor.” Watson gaped. “Then the person who wrote the paper came from somewhere by the sea. Most likely the dockyards!” Watson realized. “Precisely!” Holmes said, with a clap of his hands. “And you know what that means, don’t you?” “That Mr. Harden’s friend is innocent! He lives in a spot far, FAR from the docks; on the other side of London, in fact! Well done, Sherlock!” “Yes, indeed,” William spoke up, a little more forcefully than he usually liked. He wasn’t at all liking the closeness of the pair, in any sense of the word, in that given moment...and, he realized, he had yet to present his invitation to his nemesis. “Now, Mr. Holmes, since you’re experiment’s done, I wanted to know-” “Sherlock!” Watson exclaimed, and Moriarty realized - with no small amount of affrontation - that neither had been listening to him. Watson, however, immediately backpedaled and smiled nervously at the red-eyed guest. “Oh, sorry, Professor…” “No, no. Go ahead,” Moriarty purred, trying not to clench his teeth as he spoke. He barely succeeded. Watson nodded, and looked back to his dark-haired partner in crimefighting. “How about we celebrate with some dinner? My treat!” “Excellent suggestion, John; I didn’t eat at all yesterday, I could use something now,” Holmes admitted, somewhat sheepishly. “You need to watch that,” John warned. “I will try,” Holmes laughed weakly. “Where should we go?” “Why not the Bugle Tavern?” Watson suggested, in a tone that suggested there was some significance in the spot. William James Moriarty was by no means a snob: his upbringing and his philosophy prevented that. But with that said...he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of superiority flood through him when he heard John Watson’s suggestion. He knew the Bugle; he’d taken a witness there for interrogation during the case of the Earl of Argleton. It was not a BAD place, but it was on the seedier side of the city; the food was decent but cheap. Compared to where he planned to take Holmes, it was hardly an even match, and as the detective was his intellectual equal - a man of many similar tastes - it seemed unlikely he’d ever- “A perfect choice, John!” Holmes declared, and William’s perfect poker face very, VERY nearly broke apart at the seams. “We’ll have a quick dinner, then head to the station to speak to Gregson.” “Right,” Watson nodded as he headed to the door and picked up his bowler hat and cane. “Perhaps with the help of our evidence, and a few very simple charts and graphs, we can convince him that night follows day.” “Yes, and that two plus two will inevitably equal four,” Sherlock snickered, and pulled a cigarette from his pocket as he started to follow Watson… ...Then froze...and slowly turned around to look at Moriarty, who still stood beside the chemistry set. “Oh, ah...Liam...I’m sorry, was there something you needed?” he asked. Moriarty blinked slowly...then, gave another of his far-too-happy-looking smiles. “Oh, it can wait till another day!” he sang. “Off you go! Enjoy yourself!” “Thanks, I will,” Holmes chuckled, and turned to Watson, extending the hand that held his cigarette. “Light, please? Again?” Watson obligingly lit the cigarette. Sherlock took a long drag from it, and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling, before leaving the flat. “See ya, Liam!” he called over his shoulder with a quick wave. Watson smiled politely and tipped his hat to the Professor, before using his cane to shut the door as they departed. The instant both were gone, Moriarty’s expression became cold as ice. He slowly turned his head to look out the window - almost the way a snake might turn its head when charmed from a basket - and watched as he soon saw Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson walk out into the soft shower and down the street. He saw the doctor’s arm squeeze Holmes’ shoulder...saw the way the two inched closer… William’s red eyes blazed like burning coals from the pits of Hell. He briskly marched out of the room and down the stairs. “Ah, Professor, there you are!” Miss Hudson greeted, with an oblivious smile, and handed him back his overcoat, hat, and cane. “Did you get what you needed?” Moriarty swung on his coat and carefully placed his hat upon his head. “No,” he said, very, very softly - so softly Miss Hudson wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly - as he took the cane, gripping it so tightly the hidden sword within nearly rattled. “But I still might.” He tipped his hat and left, saying nothing else but “Good day, Miss Hudson,” as he departed the flat house and went to hail a cab.

Miss Hudson wasn’t sure, but she almost swore the red eyes had turned green.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The following day, at the Moriarty Mansion, William was sitting alone in the study, poring over a quaint and curious volume of Egyptian lore. Louis had prepared tea and sandwiches, and the mastermind - currently dressed in his fine, gold-and-burgundy robe - was sipping from a cup of Earl Gray while he read. A knock came at the study door, and Moriarty glanced quickly at the portal before placing the thin silk bookmark on the page he was focused on. He then shut the leatherbound tome and put it to one side. “Come in, James,” he called out. The door opened, and James Bonde’s turquoise eyes soon connected with William’s. The master spy was dressed in their usual garments: a light gray suit and small homburg hat, a neatly-pressed lavender tie elegantly bound around their throat. Bonde smiled, the beauty mark at the corner of one eye crinkling slightly as they removed their hat and swept some loose strands of corn-colored hair out of their face.

“How did you know it was me?” “Two very good reasons,” William smiled. “First of all, because I was expecting you, and second of all, because I heard your footsteps in the hall, and your step is unlike any other in England.” The Napoleon of Crime waved a hand towards the seat across from him and simply said, “Please.” James Bonde took the hint, and sat down, hands in his lap, legs crossed, chin held up with cocksure pride. “I take it you have a mission for me?” “Should you choose to accept it,” William confirmed with a nod, and lifted his teacup again, stirring the tea with elegant, slight turns of his wrist. “In your...ahem…‘past life,’ you spent some time with my appointed nemesis, yes?” “Yes,” smirked Bonde, a twinkle in their eye that called back to the days when Irene Adler planned her plots. “I guess that means I have the advantage of being the only agent in our organization who’s slept with the enemy.” Moriarty froze, red eyes latching onto Bonde. “Or, at least, in enemy territory,” James corrected quickly. Moriarty smiled. “James,” he said, far-too-sweetly. “You know how I really feel about him, don’t you?” Bonde nodded slowly, their own smile faltering a bit in confusion. “Well then, please don’t make jokes like that again,” William went on, in a voice that indicated he was a hundred times more aggravated than he chose to let on. James gulped nervously as William sipped his tea far, FAR too crisply. He could almost imagine the unspoken words from the Napoleon of Crime: If you do, they’ll never find your body. “...I’m, uh...I-I’m sorry,” Bonde stammered out with uncharacteristic fear. “It’s fine,” William said with a light sigh, and shook his head as he put his teacup down. His smile settled into a look of sincere apology. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bonde. I’m...feeling a little testy today, that’s all.” Sensing he was out of danger, James nodded and smiled back sympathetically. “I take it your nemesis is what my mission concerns?” the spy said, and then turned serious, frowning. “Is he getting in the way too often?” “Not often enough,” mumbled Professor Moriarty, and shook his head again, this time in answer. “No, James, it’s not that. And it’s not Mr. Holmes I want you to deal with.” James raised an eyebrow. “Dr. Watson, then?” Bonde guessed. “As a matter of fact, yes,” William said, and sat back in his seat, steepling his fingers. “I want you to keep an eye on the flat for two weeks. I want you to pay particular attention to Watson, and whenever he and Holmes leave together for any reason, follow them. I don’t care if they’re simply going to shop for tobacco at the market: keep tabs on them both. Next Friday, you will make a final report on anything suspicious you encountered.” “Suspicious? In what way?” Bonde frowned. “You’d expect US to be the ones up to no good, after all.” Moriarty chuckled. “I will let you be the judge,” he purred, smoothly. Bonde looked confused, but nodded slowly. “Very well, I’ll take the job,” James said, and cocked his head. “But...William...why?” Moriarty shut his eyes, pausing as he tried to decide on his words. “Let us simply say,” he answered steadily, “That I’m concerned about their relationship. Take careful stock of all you see, while I deal with the plans for our next caper, and the rest deal with other matters.” “As you wish,” Bonde said, and stood up from his chair, replacing his hat. “One other thing, James,” Moriarty added, lifting a single finger in instruction. “This mission is particularly special: I’d like to keep it between us. Tell no one else: not any other member of the gang. Not even my own brothers.” James frowned, narrowing his eyes; he wasn’t sure what was so important that had William this worked up...but clearly it mattered a great deal to the Professor. The True M. “Yes, sir,” Bonde said, and tapped his hat brim. “I’ll do my best.” “Very good. You are dismissed; if you need help, inform me. Good day, Bonde.” “Good day, Professor,” smiled James, and exited promptly. The moment the door shut behind James Bonde, William sighed to himself, bowing his head quietly in musing thought. “I suppose,” he whispered to the empty room of books, “That it’s quite wasteful of me to use my Knight for such a menial job in the grand scheme of the game...one should never misuse resources…” He paused...then smirked as he lifted his teacup again, and took another sip before picking up his book to continue reading. “...Then again,” he chuckled lightly, “I’ve committed far worse sins than a little self-indulgent espionage. I AM the Lord of Crime.” He glared as he hissed under his breath: “If anyone is stealing a heart here, it’s going to be ME.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

James Bonde stared somewhat dully out the window of the empty house across the street from 221B Baker Street. Teal-toned eyes kept a careful watch in the night on the one lit room in the house. He could see the silhouette of Sherlock Holmes, fiddling away on his violin. He could hear the detective playing, too...a nostalgic smile came to his face; he could almost remember hearing those tunes play him to sleep, in another lifetime… Bonde shook his head and lightly slapped his own cheek (more of a rough pat) to keep himself focused. He’d been instructed by William, to watch them from the moment they awoke to the moment they went to bed. The doctor had evidently retired some time ago, but Holmes was still up and about, playing his violin and tinkering with his contraptions. It had been a few days since Bonde started his mission, and Holmes had been given a case by one Mr. Cubitt from Norfolk, involving a mysterious secret code. Bonde had followed Holmes and Watson every which way they went, but so far, nothing of particular unsuality had occurred; Holmes refused to travel to Norfolk till Cubitt sent more information, and so much of their days were spent in the flat, simply trying to puzzle out what they had been given so far. As a result, the past three days had really been quite boring for Bonde. A part of him felt a pang, as it always did, and he wished William had given him a different job; the side that was still Irene Adler wished she could walk across the street and just...tell Holmes the simple fact. Certainly, he guessed she was still alive, but...that was nothing to a direct encounter. James Bonde was a professional, and held out: whatever purpose William had for this mission - be it personal, or something related to the Great Problem - his job was to keep a close eye on things and keep track of any interesting movements: from before they woke up to the moment they both clocked out. Right on cue, Holmes’ silhouette disappeared from the window...and not but sixty seconds later, the light in the room went out. Bond sighed softly, and stood up, stretching; the room in the Empty House was small, dark, and not very large. It was lonely, too: aside from getting meals, Bonde stayed here all day, and could not focus too much on any great amusements, such as reading, lest he lose focus. All he had was solitaire; Moran had been teaching him how to play cards, and it was better than nothing. Bonde grumbled to himself about the slowness of the case as he began to pack up his playing cards...but no sooner had he tucked the box back into a pocket in his jacket lining...than he froze, as he saw the front door of 221B open. From his spot in the window, Bonde watched intently, wondering what was going on. The unmistakable figure of Dr. Watson crept quietly out the door. He shut it silently, and glanced from side to side, as if checking to make sure no one on the street was watching him. The street was silent and quiet; lonely on that dark night. The Doctor twirled his cane, propping its length against his elbow, and began to stroll down the street. Bonde could make out Watson’s brown eyes; they furtively darted from side to side in a ferret-like way. Unlike Moriarty, Dr. Watson had an absolute lack of anything resembling a poker face. Bonde continued to watch as Watson approached an alley...then, after checking once again, slipped into the passage between the buildings and vanished. Suddenly realizing he’d lost track of his target, Bonde cursed under his breath and raced downstairs and across the street… ...But by the time he reached the alley, Dr. Watson was nowhere to be found. “Damn,” muttered Bonde...then took a breath, and straightened his tie and hair, which had been tousled in his quick sprint. There was nothing to be done now; the question was, whether to report this to William now, or wait? After pondering for a moment, Bonde walked off down the street back towards his own lodgings. He would wait. It’s what William would want. For all he knew, this was a one-time affair; whatever had Watson acting so sneakily, it could be resolved by morning. Then he would have no reason to worry at all. Right?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Six times?” Professor Moriarty repeated, blinking quickly in surprise. “Yes: six times in just two weeks. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, in fact,” nodded James Bonde, standing almost like a warrior at attention as he made his private report. He was standing near the threshold of William’s room in the manor. William James Moriarty was dressed in his usual clothes, minus his brown coat, which currently hung loosely on his bedpost. “And you’ve lost him every time?” William frowned; he didn’t sound angry, or even disappointed. He was simply checking his facts. “Not exactly,” Bonde claimed, and hastened to elaborate: “The past two times, I was able to catch up with him, but I can’t follow him beyond a certain point.” “What do you mean?” “He’s been visiting a noble’s house.” William’s eyes widened. “He’s what?” “To the Forrester estate,” clarified Bonde. “He climbs over the wall at a certain point, leaps into the yard...then, every night, after a couple hours, crawls back up and high-tails it back to Baker Street.” “Hmmmm,” Moriarty murmured, placing a finger to his lips in thought as he looked down at the floor, brow furrowing. “Have you seen what happens when he goes over the gate?” “This last time, yes,” nodded Bonde. “He doesn’t enter the house, but instead runs to a gazebo in the courtyard. He clearly knows the residence well; he knows when the night watchman comes around with his dog, and avoids them.” Professor Moriarty scowled and made a sour sound in the back of this throat.. Things were more serious than he thought: behavior like that wasn’t just sneaky, it was literally criminal. It appeared that a stolen heart was far from the worst thing he had to fear from John H. Watson. “What do you think he’s up to, William?” James asked. “I haven’t the foggiest idea. Yet,” Moriarty responded. “But I intend to find out.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That very night, being a Friday, Professor Moriarty lay in wait behind a tree, in a park area across from the Forrester Estate. He wore a long, black, hooded cloak over his usual suit, and gripped his sword cane tightly in one hand. His red eyes glowed in the dark as he kept his focus zeroed in on the high stone walls of the mansion spot. The Forrester Family was not a bad one, nor even the most noble: they were gentry, people in the upper-middle class, who qualified among the elite but lacked the status of proper Lords and Ladies, Knights and Dames, and so on. With what they had, they were generous, and most considered them friendly. William had nothing against them, and while he sought to destroy the social order...that didn’t mean destroying the good in it. What he wanted was to eradicate evil through his own means… ...He wasn’t sure whether or not to hope he would have to do that tonight. He saw the glare of a bullseye lamp through the grates in the black iron gate that closed off the estate. The distant shape of a man with a large, black dog on a leash walked past and then disappeared: that was the night watchman James Bonde had mentioned, no doubt. Almost on cue, not long after the watchman passed, Moriarty saw a familiar figure - dressed in a green coat and a dark blue bowler hat - trot around a corner. Moriarty narrowed his eyes as Dr. Watson flattened his back against the wall. His expression was tense, worried...almost scared. He glanced from side to side, and sighed with relief; he hadn’t noticed William, and was glad to find apparently no one had spotted him yet. “It’s alright,” William heard Watson say. “What he doesn’t know, won’t hurt him…” Moriarty felt his own eyes blazing as he suspected who the “he” Watson referred to was. “Soon,” Watson added to himself, adjusting his tie and then looking up at the wall. “Soon...it will all be over…” Then, without another word, the Doctor jumped up and grabbed hold of the wall’s edge. He let out a sharp yipe, and bit his lip to silence himself; as he scrambled up to climb over the wall, the sounds and motions he made reminded William so much of a big, dumb dog trying to clamber over a fence, he nearly laughed. Nearly. Not quite. From what he was hearing, he was beginning to have grave worries. Once Watson disappeared over the wall, William took his turn to check and make sure there were no witnesses nearby...then - cloak fluttering about him as he went - he raced to the wall, and leapt over it with the grace of a gazelle. The courtyard was lushly kept, with grass, small topiary trees, and little yellow flowers all around. Quaint and tended to with perfect decorum. Across the lawn of green grass, Watson saw Dr. Watson racing towards a distant red-and-blue gazebo; it was octagonal in shape, and was a closed-off affair; no door, but with thick, tinted windows on seven of its eight sides. William was about to dart forward...when he heard the barking of the Watchman’s dog. Quickly, he dove into the bushes, and crouched low. The Watchman and his dog soon hurried to the spot; both looked around, then the man mumbled something to the black hound...and the pair continued on their way. William waited till their footsteps faded...then, stole across the lawn and made a dash towards the distant gazebo, stealing across the courtyard with such silence, he might as well have been a part of that black night. The Master Criminal only paused once more; this was when he noticed he had to run past an open window, and the light was still on. Inside, he saw Cecil Forrester - the lady of the house - speaking with a maid. Both were fair women with chestnut-colored hair. The two left the room, and Moriarty continued towards the gazebo, keeping low and moving with quiet quickness; one might have mistaken him for a wolf, stalking its prey. Moriarty traced a wide path as he drew closer and closer to the gazebo; he had no desire to be spotted when he got too close. Once he reached it, he flattened himself quietly against the glass-paneled walls, and sidled closer to the open entrance. As he moved nearer, Moriarty could hear a voice; it was tremuluous, faint, and he couldn’t quite make out properly who it belonged to or what they were saying. Once he was right beside the door, that voice stopped...and he picked up the unmistakable sound of John Watson’s voice. Now, he could most certainly make out the words… “It’s too soon. I don’t want to take any risks. This is a delicate operation; one false step, and everything could be ruined. But don’t worry...if worse comes to worse, I can handle him. He won’t be a problem. We’ll get everything we want...nothing is going to stop us. I swear it.” William narrowed his eyes into crimson slits, and prepared to draw his cane sword...before whipping around the side and spinning into the gazebo. “‘Hell is empty. All the devils are-’” The melodramatic quote was stopped short as William froze in place and his eyes went wide at what he saw. Dr. Watson - who had just kissed the lips of the person with him - gasped and backed away fast… ...Leaving a young, beautiful lady standing alone in the center of the gazebo, her indigo eyes wide and bright with surprise. Her hair was the color of brass, and she was dressed in the prim, proper outfit of a governess. Moriarty and the young woman stared at each other, each equally stunned. It was Watson’s stuttered, scared exclamation that broke them out of their momentary stupor. “P-Pr-Pro-Professor M-Moriarty!” he managed to cough out...then, impulsively, he moved forward again… ...And held the young lady close, in a protective, caring way. She coiled back against him, looking startled and more than a little scared by the red-eyed stranger that had swooped into the area. “What...what are you doing here?” Watson asked, a little accusatorily. Moriarty soon regained his composure, the look of utter speechlessness leaving his face as it slid back into his usual, blank, mask-like features. “Following you,” he answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, and pointed his cane at the young lady. “Who is this, and what is going on?” Watson squirmed a bit uncomfortably at the Professor’s blood-eyed stare. He held the woman closer and then answered. “I...this is...my fiance,” he answered, and turned rather pink in the face. “Her...her name is Mary Morstan.” Moriarty blinked. His expression didn’t shift an inch. “Fiance?” he repeated, not sounding surprised, but simply questioning. “Y-Yes,” the woman answered. William realized he was still holding out his cane...and, not wishing to frighten the young lady any further, lowered his secret weapon. Mary smiled and sighed gratefully before going on: “I work for Mrs. Forrester; I live here. It’s, um...i-it’s a pleasure to meet you, ah...Mr. Moriarty.” William paused, before giving a single nod. “Mutual,” he responded, but his voice was still quite frosty, then looked back to Watson. “Is this why you’ve been sneaking out three nights a week?” Watson blanched. “H-How did you…?” “I have my ways,” William answered, smoothly. Watson flushed and shuffled on his feet. He hugged Mary close with one arm, his other hand holding hers as she embraced him. He smiled bashfully before looking back to Moriarty. “I...we proposed in secret,” he admitted. “I met Mary thanks to a case. I’ve been...I’ve been keeping this secret from Sherlock.” “Why?” William wondered. Watson frowned and looked askance. “Because I’m not sure if Holmes would approve,” he admitted, quietly, a sad look in his eyes. “He...the two of us have been inseparable, since we met, and...I’m worried about how he’ll react when he finds out about Mary and I.” “So you’ve been meeting her in secret; to rendezvous under the stars,” Moriarty romantically surmised. Watson blushed more and Mary giggled. “Something like that, Professor, yes,” Miss Morstan confirmed in a saccharine sort of way. “Is that what you were whispering about?” William presumed. “Saying you weren’t ready, that you could handle him?” “Yeah,” Watson chuckled, and scratched the back of his head. “I, uh...I-I guess wording like that could sound kinda suspicious, huh?” William sighed through his nose as Mary giggled again. “Very,” William agreed. His face remained blank, his lips still set in a straight line as he then went on: “If I may advise you, Doctor...I think you should tell Holmes soon.” Watson frowned and lowered his head; he looked amusingly guilty, like a little boy caught with his hands in the cookie jar. “Well...I know I SHOULD, but...I don’t want to make him mad,” he admitted, almost meekly. “Not about this. I still want to work with him, and...and he’s my friend, so…” “So,” Moriarty interrupted, “Shouldn’t you be used to sharing secrets with him?” Watson looked up, a little startled. Moriarty’s expression had become a thin, taut smile. “If Mr. Holmes is truly your friend, he should be able to handle something like this,” he reasoned. “Perhaps he’ll be jealous or untrusting at first, but that is to be expected. But behavior like this is dangerous, and it could lead to more bad than good. You shouldn’t be afraid to admit to Holmes things like this.” Watson bit his lip, and looked at Mary, who nodded back to him. He smiled, then looked back up at the Professor. “Yeah. That...I guess that’s right. I’ll...I’ll see about telling him soon. And...and no more of these...these midnight liaisons.” He looked back to his fiance. “We’ll meet on our own terms, without all this roundabout racing. Right, Mary?” “Of course,” she responded, and kissed his nose, making the doctor give a bashful, red-faced smile. Moriarty looked the pair up and down as they hugged...then turned on his heel. “Well,” he said, shortly and sharply. “Now, with that issue settled, I’ll be on my way.” Watson watched as Moriarty left the gazebo and began to walk back towards the wall. His brow knitted itself into a knot, and he paused, whispering “One moment” to Mary before kissing her forehead and hastily hustling out of the gazebo. “Professor!” he called out, and Moriarty paused. His red eyes glittered like rubies as he turned back over his shoulder, expression chilling. Watson didn’t seem scared. He smiled in a kind, amiable manner. “Why DID you follow me?” he asked, simply and bluntly. Moriarty said nothing. Watson paused before taking a guess: “Were you concerned about Sherlock?” Moriarty nodded, still saying nothing. Watson chuckled and smiled gently. “You don’t need to worry, Professor: when I hide things from him, it’s nothing sinister. Sherlock his my best friend, and one of the most fascinating people I know.” “I’m glad you think so.” “Oh, I know it’s so. Just like I know the reason why you looked so jealous when I asked him to join me for dinner.” Moriarty’s eyes widened...then narrowed again. Watson smiled humbly. “I AM getting better,” he said, in a faint, cheeping sort of voice. “You won’t tell him, will you?” William checked, voice staying even, conveying neither worry nor rage. Watson smiled a patient smile; he placed a hand on the young Professor’s shoulder, causing Moriarty to stiffen with surprise. “You just told me that, if he’s really my friend, I shouldn’t keep secrets from him,” Watson stated. “I think the same is in reverse: whatever you feel for him...I think he needs to hear it from you. No one else.” William paused...and his bangs hid his eyes from sight. “And if he doesn’t feel the same?” he queried, in a strangely business-like tone. “I think he will,” Watson chuckled. “You two are practically made for each other: you’re both extraordinary. You both live for the game. You’re both intelligent. You’re two of a kind! I know it’s not the kind of relationship our society smiles upon, but...if it’s the true way you feel, why should that matter?” He patted Moriarty’s shoulder, and then finished: “You’re two sides of the same coin. You belong together...Liam.” William was silent...then, a slick smile slithered over his lips. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll remember that. But please...don’t call me Liam.” Watson pulled back quickly and let out a nervous laugh. “Ah...heh heh...s-sorry, I won’t.” “Thank you,” Moriarty repeated, and gave a mock salute with his cane. “Goodnight, Doctor. And do apologize to Miss Morstan for me: my unseemingly dramatic entrance no doubt gave her quite a fright.” “You can say that again,” mumbled Watson, and returned the mock salute with a real soldier’s stance. “Goodnight, Professor!” William smiled a little wider...and then walked forward. His dark cloak allowed him to easily slip into the shadows...and soon he was gone. As he prowled through the city back towards home, William James Moriarty couldn’t stop smiling. He hadn’t felt this good in a while.

The Devil swore the lightness in his heart must have been what Angels felt every day.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Married with two children. Native of Suffolk. Works in a public house.” “The shoes gave it away?” “Yeah, yeah. Invalid husband; dismissed from the army for his injuries four years ago.” “Three.” “Oh, yes, of course, three! Lastly, at least one of them has a drinking problem.” Sherlock Holmes took a swig of ale from the pewter cup he held and sighed, smacking his lips as the woman he’d been scrutinizing disappeared. He then turned to the party across from him with a daring smile. “Your turn, Liam!” William James Moriarty smirked cunningly, and looked out the window. His blazing, cat-like eyes soon caught sight of his chosen prey. “Bachelor by choice,” he began, noting a gentleman in a stovepipe hat who was passing by. “Scholarly by nature; a frequent visitor to the library. Smokes far too much. Works at a very fine hotel, most likely in an administrative position.” “Birth and residence?” “Lancashire for the former, Yorkshire for the latter. I believe he’s visiting London for the sake of family, but he doesn’t much care FOR said family. I speculate his bachelor status might be the reason-ah! He’s gone. That’s all.” William smiled back at a beaming Sherlock Holmes, drumming the fingers of one hand on the table as his chin rested on the other. “How was that, Mr. Detective?” he purred. Sherlock laughed and applauded. “Liam, you excel yourself!” “I try,” shrugged Moriarty, without much modesty, and lifted his own pewter cup before taking a drink. All around the pair, the bustle and hustle of the Bugle Tavern buzzed and hummed and bellowed...but neither gave it much attention. “I’m so glad you accepted my invitation to dinner,” William said, sincerely, folding his hands on the table with a quiet smile. “Eh,” Holmes shrugged, stirring his drink in its mug as he spoke. “When we met for lunch in Durham, you were busy grading papers. I’m glad we could just have a meal together. Although…” He paused, and then gestured with a careless wave of his free hand around the establishment. “...I am surprised a nobleman would choose to eat HERE.” William smiled a bit wider, and glanced about. A few people were giving him odd looks; it was rare someone so well-to-do showed up in this place. He shrugged again and smiled to Holmes. “I am full of surprises,” was all he said. “Isn’t that the truth,” chuckled Holmes and took another drink. Moriarty watched the detective for a few moments, eyes scanning him. His crimson irises flickered vulnerably for a split second before he spoke again. “Mr. Holmes...may I be very frank with you?” “Sure,” Holmes drawled. “What’s up?” “I’m very glad I met you.” Sherlock blinked and froze, his smile fading. “Eh?” he tilted his head. “Why do you say that? I mean...I’m flattered, obviously, but...what brought this on?” “It’s...hard for me to say,” William admitted with a very soft laugh, before going on. “It’s just...while I have my fair share of friends, and a family of my own that cares for me...I’ve always felt this...disconnect from the world around me.” He glanced out the window as he went on, watching people go by. “Like you, I can look at a person and analyze everything about them...and I can do it very rapidly. While on the surface I am placid as a still lake, my mind is always racing out of control. The sheer amount of mental exertion I go through just in the span of taking a single breath can be exhausting. The rest of the world moves...so slowly. Too slowly. Everyone going about their lives, making differences in small ways or simply shambling around…their minds so rarely used to their fullest...” He tilted his head downwards. “...There are so many days where I feel...I’m totally alone in the universe. Where the mental strain becomes too great.” He paused...then looked back up at Sherlock, once again flashing one of “his” smiles. “It’s relieving to know there’s someone even more mentally fractured than I!” Holmes snorted with laughter. “Well,” he muttered, taking a drink, “We all have our problems, don’t we?” He paused...then licked his lips of some foam as he put down his ale and leaned forward on the table. “I...I have to admit...it’s good to be able to talk to someone who can work on my level,” Sherlock said, with a surprisingly tender smile. “Someone who isn’t my obnoxious control freak of a brother, I mean. I…it’s like...” He paused, biting his lip, hesitantly...then sighed and ran a hand through his hair with a shake of his head. “Ahhh...I’m not good at heartfelt confessions,” he mumbled, and gave an almost sheepish smile. “I guess...I’m trying to say I feel the same way. And...it...it honestly feels really good to hear you...say all that, even in such a teasing way.” The pair smiled at each other, their eyes seemingly magnetized as they found themselves leaning and inching closer across the table. “...Holmes…” “Yes, Liam?” “I...feel there’s something else I should tell you.” “Yes?” was the breathy response. William’s lips were quivering as he moved nearer. “I...I think I might be in lo-” “GENTLEMEN!” Both shot back, sitting straight up in their chairs as a fat waiter with a bristly moustache waddled over to their table, and placed their meals - two plates of steak with baked potatoes - upon the table. “‘Ere’s yer food, gents!” he boomed. “I ‘ope ye find it t’yer likin’!” “I’m sure we will,” Moriarty smiled with a nod, his composure so fully complete it was as if nothing had happened. “Thank you, sir.” “Talk to ya later, Pete!” sniggered Holmes with a wink. The waiter winked back, nodded to Professor Moriarty, and then trundled off. “What were you saying, Liam?” Sherlock asked, as he began to cut into his steak, sawing off a huge chunk and stuffing it into his mouth. William much more elegantly carved a tiny square off his slab of beef, and hummed happily as he savored the juices upon popping it into his mouth. “I forget,” he lied through his teeth...then gave a challenging smile as he glanced to each of their pewters. “Say, Mr. Holmes…” “Mm-hm?” Sherlock grunted through a full mouth. “How much can you drink in a single sitting? Before you collapse?” Sherlock paused mid-chew...then smirked around his stuffed chompers, chewing a few more times, slowly, before gulping down his food. He stifled a burp in his fist and gave a cocksure smirk. “Probably more than you, fancy-pants,” he bragged. “Would you like to make a wager?” Moriarty crooned. “Sure! We’ll make it a race! First to finish twelve straight rounds without falling over wins!” declared Holmes. “Think you can handle that, Mr. Mathematician?” “As long as you can count that high,” was the sharp response. Holmes cackled and lifted his pewter. “You’re on, Liam! May the best man win!” William James Moriarty put down his fork and knife, and lifted his ale. As he clanked it against Sherlock’s, he answered the dare with one of his own, his eyes sultry as he slithered out his response. “Catch me if you can, Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock Holmes shivered almost invisibly, and quickly took a drink. As Liam’s seductive red glare caught his azure eyes, the criminal mastermind had no idea that the one thought on his mind was being copied by the other man at the table. Someday, I’ll tell him I love him. Someday.

The End

47 notes · View notes

jettingtothemoon · 4 years

Text

Costume Party

➳ pairing: alucard x trevor x m!reader ➳ genre: fluff, modern au ➳ warnings: swearing, suggestive themes?, alcohol usage ➳ word count: 2337 ➳ rating: pg-15 ➳ summary: In which you and adrian throw trevor a surprise halloween party. ➳ a/n: a request from wattpad

What better place to throw a Halloween party other than Dracula's castle itself? Well, what used to be Dracula's castle. Now, it was your home but it wasn't like you lived here alone.

"Here?" Adrian questioned, looking at your for confirmation that he had chosen the correct place to hang the fake cobwebs.

You smiled, happy to see him taking this seriously despite originally thinking it might not have been a good idea, "Yeah, that's perfect."

It had been your suggestion to prepare a surprise Halloween party for Trevor when he arrived back home. He was in need of some fun, especially after such a long trip. Well, it was only a few days but those few days were very long without him. Both you and Adrian had missed him a great deal.

It's the 21st century so of course, you both called him while he was away but it just wasn't the same as seeing him in person. What better way to welcome him back other than with crazy costumes, fake blood and a keg full of beer? Well, he would at least appreciate the boose.

"Who did you invite again?" Adrian questioned, climbing down from the chair he had previously been standing on.

You finished putting up the last of the decorations in your hand and turned to him, "You know, a few people we know. The castle will be well filled out befitting a great party."

Adrian hummed and walked over to you, "Well, we better get you in a costume before they get here."

With a grin, you happily followed Adrian upstairs to the bedroom. He had already picked out a costume for you, although he made sure to keep it a surprise until this very moment.

"Is that a dress?"

Once again, he hummed and picked up the torn, tattered and bloody white dress, "Trevor will be Frankenstein and you'll be his bride."

After a very brief second of silence, you burst out laughing. It wasn't anything you would have ever expected from Adrian. Actually, you had expected him to make you dress up as a werewolf or a vampire-like himself but no, here he was putting you in a dress.

"Alright then, but doesn't that leave you out?"

"Well, I of course will be Dr Frankenstien himself. A vampire version, obviously. I think that makes me your owner." Adrian explained his idea behind the costumes and how he wasn't left out of it.

You raised an eyebrow and chuckled whilst eyeing up the dress he had prepared for you, "Our owner? I don't think Trevor will like that."

"No, but I'm sure he will be more than pleased to have you as his bride. Oh, and just in case you're not comfortable in the dress I brought some shorts for you to wear underneath."

You smiled and began to change, noticing how Adrian wasn't even trying to hide the fact that he was eyeing you up. When you had managed to pull the dress on properly, you tried to reach for the zip only to find that it was out of reach.

As if on cue, Adrian circled around you and slowly began to pull the zip up, "Don't you look pretty."

"I feel ridiculous. You know most of the people coming to this party are my friends right? I will never live this down." You sighed, although you weren't going to oppose wearing the costume Adrian had specifically picked out for you.

"They'll simply be too stunned to care. You look beautiful my love. Now, time for the make-up." He clasped his hands together excitedly.

It was nice to see him enjoying himself. A Halloween party wasn't something Adrian agreed to immediately but the second you told him that he could pick out a costume for both you and Trevor, well, his thoughts on the matter changed entirely.

Make-up was a must for Halloween. Even if it simply meant some face paint and a bit of fake blood. For Adrian, however, it was simply another fun activity to do with you. With a look of complete concentration on his face, Adrian worked his magic and made you look like a bride befitting the undead Frankenstein.

"There, now just let me spray some temporary colour into your hair and we'll be done."

Once your costume was complete, Adrian instructed you to go finish off laying out the snacks and drinks. And so, you left him to change into his own costume and started by lugging the beer kegs into place.

"What the fuck are you wearing?"

A familiar voice echoed from behind you as Trevor ducked under the spooky tunnel you had created at the entrance of the castle out of a few black sheets and lots of string.

You turned around with a smile, "We're having a Halloween party. I'm the Bride of Frankenstein."

"And where is this Frankenstein, huh? I might just have to duel him for his bride's affection."

It was embarrassing just hearing him say it but Trevor had always been a little possessive of you and Adrian. He was just like that with the people he loved.

"That would be you, actually. Come on, we don't have long and you need to get in your costume." Adrian explained, ushering Trevor up the stairs the moment he reached the bottom.

He was already in his costume, although he was only about halfway through spraying the white colour onto his golden hair. It was a simple costume. A white lab coat that was covered in splatters of fake blood, accompanied by the trail of red that ran along the side of his mouth. Of course, to top it off he was colouring his hair and donning a pair of long black gloves. Not to mention, his fangs were on full display for all to see.

"If you try to paint me green I swear to God Adrian..." Trevor grumbled as he followed after the blonde.

Not long after they disappeared upstairs, guests began to arrive. You were left to greet them all, laughing with them when they mentioned how great your costume was. By the time your lovers returned, the castle was flooded with a sea of people, all dressed up in gory costumes that matched perfectly with the decorations you and Adrian had spent the better half of the day putting up.

"I know what you're thinking, such a dashing monster. You know, I'm usually the one killing the monsters, not pretending to be one." Trevor chuckled as he and Adrian rejoined you.

He hadn't had much time to rest after coming back from his trip, if he had any at all, but he didn't seem the least bit tired. In fact, he looked ready to party. Music boomed through the castle, trembling through the very foundations and, like a leaf in the wind, Trevor was blown along with it. Well, blown over to the beer.

Adrian stood by your side, wrapping an arm delicately around your waist as he leaned into you, "You know, I think this is the best idea you've had in a while. Now, whilst he drinks himself into oblivion, why don't we have a little fun ourselves?"

Before you could ask what he meant, you were whisked away into the crowd of bodies. You certainly hadn't invited this many people but you weren't surprised that more people showed up. The news of a Halloween party in the haunted castle must have spread through town rather quickly.

Adrian took your hand in his and danced so slowly with you, despite the fast pace of the music. He wasn't dancing to the music at all. No, he was simply dancing with you. You rested your head against his shoulder with a smile, welcoming his embrace after such a long and tiresome day. Although, you suspected it would be an even longer night.

"Come on you two, stop being so boring and drink with me!" Trevor yelled over the music, interrupting you and Adrian as he grabbed both of you and pulled you over to where the drinks were.

Trevor was never one for romance, although he had his moments. Now, however, was not one of them.

He shoved a pint of beer into your hand and then passed one to Adrian, who sighed with a roll of his eyes and downed the drink in one. You soon followed suit. The pints soon turned into shots and, before long, the three of you were really rather drunk. With a hearty laugh, Trevor wrapped his arm around your shoulder, his entire weight falling onto you for a brief moment before he found his feet again.

"We should do this all the time."

You chuckled, "Do what? Dress up as monsters and party?"

"No. Drink, party and fuck to our hearts' content!" Trevor declared with yet another laugh.

It was nice seeing him having fun without any stress. He liked to stress. Too many monsters to kill, not enough monsters to kill. Not enough time at home with you and Adrian, too much time stuck at home. He was hard to please but always told the two of you how you made his life worth living, even if mostly when he was drunk or simply feeling extra sappy.

"You know, we haven't actually done that last one yet." You smirked.

Just because Trevor wasn't home for a few days didn't mean that you and Adrian hadn't, well, had sex. Of course you had but there was something about it when it wasn't all three of you, it just wasn't complete. Enjoyable, yes. But in the end you'd always wind up lying in bed wondering what Trevor was up to, amusing yourselves by joking about how he was probably lying in bed all grumpy because the two of you weren't by his side. He always missed you when he went on his trips and the two of you certainly missed him. Adrian went with him sometimes which meant that you were home all on your own until they returned, although they always made sure not to be gone for too long.

"That is true. Think we can ditch our own party and head upstairs?"

Before you could answer, Adrian stumbled past yelling out nonsense right before collapsing onto the sofa.

"Or not." Trevor sighed, although you simply giggled at the state Adrian was in.

Neither Trevor or Adrian were good at holding their beer but, when it came to Trevor at least he could function somewhat rationally no matter how smashed he was. Adrian, on the other hand, was and will always be a paralytic drunk.

"Let's get him to bed." You chuckled, dragging Trevor along to help you carry Adrian up the stairs.

The blonde grinned at you and extended his arms out towards you as if he knew what was happening, grabbing at the air between the two of you as he slurred, "Up, up. Let's gooooo."

You shook your head and went to help him up but, before you could, Trevor had beaten you to it, "Can't have my bride tugging this sack of potatoes up the stairs, can I?"

"Just get him to bed, I'll clear everyone out. What time even is it? One? Two in the morning?"

"Three. It's almost three in the morning." Trevor groaned and threw Adrian's arm around his neck as he gently picked him up.

With a nod, you headed over to the speaker, unplugging it before yelling at the top of your lungs that the party was over. You thanked everyone for coming as the left, sounding almost like a broken record as the swarm of bodies passed you and began heading home. There were a couple of people completely lying around but, after checking they were all still alive, you decided to just leave them to their sleep and sleepily began to head for your room.

When you got there, neither Adrian nor Trevor was anywhere to be seen. It didn't take long to find them though, you simply followed the sound of someone being sick until you reached the bathroom. And there they were. Adrian with his head down the toilet and Trevor, sweetly holding his hair back and rubbing circles into his back.

"This is your fault." Adrian sulked before throwing up what was left in his stomach.

Trevor simply continued to rub those soothing circles into his back and, once Adrian was done, allowed him to fall back against him, "I know, I know. I'm sorry."

"Let's get you to bed." You yawned, crouching down beside Adrian before you helped Trevor get him back on his feet.

The three of you staggered along back to your bed. Adrian was the first to flop down into it, his hair splaying out on the pillow as he landed on his side of the bed.

Trevor noticed you were struggling with the dress and came to help you unzip it. Although he didn't stop there and also went as far to push it over your shoulders until it fell onto the floor.

"You had to be wearing shorts under it." He sighed and buried his head into the crook of your neck.

You chuckled, "That's never stopped you before."

He hummed against your skin, kissing it softly before letting go and allowing you to step out of the dress. For tonight the paint, fake blood, hair colouring and make-up with have to say but there was no way you were going to wear that uncomfortable costume to bed. Trevor seemed to agree, at least to some extent, and pulled off his shirt before climbing in beside Adrian, carefully pushing his long hair over so that he wouldn't lie on it.

"Come on then." He spoke with a soft voice and lifted his arm so that you could lie against him.

You didn't waste a moment and crawled onto the large bed, squeezing up against Trevor as you rested your head against his chest.

Adrian, who you had both expected to have already conked out by now, rolled over and placed a hand on the other side of Trevor's chest with a sleepy smile, "We missed you."

"Yeah, yeah. I missed you too." He spoke with a slight blush, although you were certain that was because of the alcohol.

And so, snuggled together in bed, you finally fell asleep as three once again.

#alucard x reader #trevor x reader #alucard x trevor #trevorcard #Castlevania #netflix castlevania #male reader

130 notes · View notes

cherry-interlude · 3 years

Text

Lana Del Rey Unreleased Ranked (2)

This is a re-ranking of Lana's unreleased songs, after making a first a few years ago. This is all my opinion, which I don't mind anyone disagreeing with but don't come for me for it - honestly, I like every song, despite any criticism, and this ranking is very vague. It's based on objective and subjective opinion.

This is the second of five posts, going past my least favourites.

Money Hunny

Lana details the downside of money, detailing the ways it ruins lives and causes more problems that good for some. However, it’s simplicity isn’t what makes Money Hunny fall short – it doesn’t resonate at all compared to Lana’s countless songs where she is either rich and famous or she is desperate for money (or men with money). As thought-provoking as Money Hunny is, it feels too twee and out of place in her money-adoring music to really hit hard. If Lana has spoken on the topic of how money can literally damage lives more, it would perhaps gel better with me, but with songs like Money Power Glory, National Anthem and Off To The Races (among many, many others), it doesn’t hit the mark as a Lana Del Rey (alternate names included) song.

Strangelove

Strangelove is hypnotising, from Lana’s mesmerising voice that gives her the impression of a Las Vegas desert temptress, seducing strangers and wishing for the simple pleasures of Christmas lights and mint juleps. It hits best for the first opening chorus.

Stoplight Delite

Opening with a tuneful mechanical whir, Lana’s song wouldn’t be amiss in a teen romance film. I’m not convinced by the mishmash of music – the more classical band instruments with unrelenting whirring begins to overwhelm the song. Lana’s at her sweetest in this however.

Daddy Issues

The music is a bit too harsh but it’s a nice enough song, referencing Baby Blue Love among others. It isn’t Lana’s best by far, messy with lyrics that go all over the place, but (yet again), it would be more promising if it was completely remade and produced properly. The demo, I Was In A Bad Way, is a lot more maudlin and less enthusiastic, so it does fall behind Daddy Issues.

Catch and Release

It’s another song that’s kind of creepy, with an eerie vibe thanks to the relentless, whining music and Lana’s razor-edged warnings in her lyrics. Lana is practically a megalomaniac in this song, completely selfish and unafraid to ask for – and get – what she wants. Yet it’s quite a hypnotising track that, with further production, could be more cohesive and dramatic.

Marilyn

One of her old live performances, Marilyn is too simple in its lyrics but is a strangely erotic tribute to Lana’s icon. Lana owns the stage in this performance, a more carnal honouring than some of her other outputs.

Noir

Lana really goes for it in this furious song of crushed self-esteem and badly treated lover. Lana lets her vocals rip and tear as she growls about her “papi”, her being merely his dolly to do as he pleases. It's not her most perfect song but she doesn’t hold back from letting her hurt and frustration spill over.

Bellevue

Lana utilises haunting harmonising in Bellevue and though she seems hung up on her lover not wanting her around (she repeats it, as if she can’t let go, throughout the song) she still convinces herself she could go back to the old days of drinking and not being hurt. It helps – her chanting – to bring out the emotion of the lyrics, and maintain that broken feeling she is so good at conveying whilst saying how happy she is.

Put Your Lips Together

Taking on the character of a femme fatale who can hold her own, Lana seduces the listener on top of a chilled instrumental. Her lyrics are little bit dirtier as much as her vocals aren’t their best in the choruses (of course, it being a rough demo might have something to do with that). It’s definitely a song that, if completed, could rank alongside Beautiful Player and Ooh Baby in her seduction library.

Starry Eyed

Starry Eyed is a romantic enough song, with a gentle plinking intro that leads to a rumbling, Born To Die-esque track – complete with Lana’s pretty vocals. However, it does tend to drag, a slow song that I find majorly skippable. The dragged-out choruses get tiring after a while of listening so I don’t frequently listen to this song.

Breaking My Heart

Lana is fully materialistic in this song, referencing multiple designer companies as well as her desire to be loved and party. It’s not too imaginative in its lyrics, instead pure pop with a mixture of lyrics that never quite come through with a particular meaning, but it’s a good enough bop.

Butterflies Part 1

A little love song about a tumultuous teen romance, Lana plays off the lovestruck teen ultimately in love with a guy not good for her perfectly. It’s heady and full of the rushes of love, emotive enough to get the feeling of a girl going mad from her relationship.

Ben

Lana, using the rain to her advantages, moodily comforts her executive love in the full femme fatale façade, quietly passionate. Lana, as much as she loves him, is still her own woman, insisting she will smoke if she wants and playing with her voice to showcase such control.

All Smiles

Lana puts on a happy smile as she mopes over Jimmy in this small-town, fifties-painted tale of a girl who wants a man she can’t have. She mostly hits the mark in this acoustic track and has the right foundations for a decent country ballad.

My Best Days

My Best Days is a short song of cleverly utilised trap beats, autotune and slowly layering instrumental in which Lana isn’t happy without her lover. The organ outro is gorgeous, and it’s a track that can perk you up or calm you down.

Get Drunk

Restless pace, whispered mocking and an overall darkly seductive tone – it’s unembellished and, in some ways, could play as Lana dealing with her past alcoholism (demanding whomever the song is directed to should get drunk). It’s a vibe Lana should explore more over a decade since Get Drunk and the like were made.

Let My Hair Down

A simple and spooky track, Lana has an acoustic jam session consisting of unsettled guitar, bongos and her voice. It’s rather repetitive but it’s something different that works well. It shows Lana doesn’t need too many fusses and frills on her tracks to make something captivating, much like her Sirens album.

Every Man Gets His Wish

The intro of upbeat whistling climbs into a lowkey track that goes from sensual stuttering and a sad chorus that still sounds like Lana has a smile on her face. The mood shifts along with the tune but it is altogether cohesive.

Dance For Money

As stripped as the pole dancer Lana plays, Lana gently teases and cajoles in her ode to older men, lemonade and motorcycles with little else.

Back To Tha Basics

Much like the title, this track is a little bit basic but it’s still zesty with a wonderful instrumental and some pop-inspired vocals.

Butterflies Part 2

Production isn’t perfect on this track but Lana has such promise in this song in which she compares to lured in girls to butterflies pinned to a wall, all at once melancholy, knowing and cheeky. It’s unfortunate that the lyrics are so hidden beneath the dominating instrumental, but with tweaking this stormer could be even better.

Children of the Bad Revolution

The kind of song that would be found on one of her albums, Children of the Bad Revolution is a pacy dedication to Lana’s life as a delinquent a la the 1950s starlets. It’s good but it’s not anything too impressive, instead a chilled track that is simply about being free.

Beautiful Player

Lana mopes in the track about a somewhat disliked girl (perhaps they’re all jealous of her) who is in love with one of her players, giving the feel of a villain club performer smiling with red lipstick on and black mascara staining her cheeks.

Lift Your Eyes

Lana takes control in this song, instructing her lover to lift his eyes, rise above his demons and join her in self-respect. It’s a fine alternative to her gushing and moping characters, and with machine-like music running under the song, Lana sounds stronger than ever.

Valley of the Dolls

In this compact track Lana is once again frustrated by her lover. It’s pained but pretty with her vocals once again taking the forefront.

C U L8r Alligator

Just an acapella demo, C U L8r Alligator is simply Lana’s voice with her beating a rhythm in time. However, I really do like this song. I think it would sound even better polished and complete, but for a rough demo it’s promising. The Kristijan Majic remix is the version I most listen to, which makes it sound even more eerie (and if anyone remembers the D1ETPUSSY video that went with it, you’ll get why this song doubly haunts me). It’s not Lana’s finest but it’s a song I would have loved to see developed.

In The Sun

In The Sun is so hot it burns, more heatwave than refreshing sunshine, as she scorns her ex-lover. It’s not the finest instrumental but Lana sticks her fingers up with incredulous shock that someone could betray her so. She keeps the vibe great paired with blue skies and swimming pools with the upbeat music.

Hot Hot Hot

Big Bad Wolf, a slightly different demo track, is what I favour – stripped back, sexily uneasy, the lyrics letting the vivid imagery of red skirts, red cars and devilish men shine. Yet Hot Hot Hot is a decent, if not cheesier, song too, the chanting great for singing along.

Trees

Lana and The Rich Whores strike out with this kickass band-driven track that showcases Lana’s feistier vocals strongly. The lyrics are sparse but the overall feel of Lana going nineties-rock-chick keeps me wanting more of her in this style.

Push Me Down

Rather than being like the controversial Ultraviolence, Lana keeps the ‘violence’ fun in this pacy song, demanding her bad boy treats her badly in the best way possible. With a mildly rock edge, it’s still distinctively party-Lana, reminding of a pop-ier True Love On The Side.

She’s Not Me

It isn’t particularly imaginative pop but Lana lets the guitars do the talking as she whispers her warnings to her ex-lover. Lana owns this track, and though it feels a bit amateur in comparison to her discography and some of her stronger unreleased music, it shows she would have been great even if she went for the noughties chart pop scene. Fun and punchy, it’s a song to play on repeat.

I Don’t Wanna Go

The tentative and tight intro gives me the vibe that Lana wants to avoid going home rather than simply wanting to hang out with her lover, and her pain-tinted vocals in the chorus only add to the theory. She compliments her fascinating guy throughout the verses, a little more restrained but ultimately tense in delivery, before confessing how much she wants to stay out.

St Tropez

This is a great track for dancing and a celebration of being a party girl with plenty of attention. Best played when you want to imagine yourself as the main character.

Summer of Sam

Lana has yet another song of being a cutesy bad girl, comparable to the likes of Dangerous Girl and Playground, but it’s still fairly generic, standard pop fare. Summer of Sam is still quite fun however, drenched in pop and even with a hint of rap-talking keeping the song lively.

I Talk To Jesus

Lana returns to her religious roots in a less blasphemous way (Body Electric, for example) and instead sings a sad ditty about wishing she could have her old life. Solemnly it remembers her past (as seen in her older music) where she had the trailer parks, Christmas lights and her equally holy boyfriend.

Axl Rose Husband

The imagery is rich and gorgeous, not to mention the reference to one of Lana’s idols, but Axl Rose Husband doesn’t always do it for me – despite her strained, desperate vocals that perfectly exemplify her emotion.

Ooh Baby

Sampling Sexual Healing, Lana ramps up the sex appeal as she lets the listener know how much they want her, all while keeping it a little but more upbeat than the original song.

Other Woman

Lana’s tired of being the other woman in this track, and I like the way the lyrics flesh out the story a bit more rather. However, the chorus does get a bit tiresome sometimes.

Girl That Got Away

Lana shows you exactly what you’re missing as she mopes for her ex-lover with a smile on her face, taking the reins and knowing she has something he misses in a bubble-gum pop song about being the it girl you’ll regret letting go of.

#lana del rey #lana del rey songs #lana del rey unreleased #cherry-interlude

14 notes · View notes

sleep-i-ness · 4 years

Text

The Nature of the Beast

Blurb: The Doctor is taking you to the one person who has dealt with the Monks before and you weren’t expecting the ‘monster’ in the Vault to be quite so hot.

Content Warning: hopeless lesbian, a thing for hands (because who doesn’t)

Taglist: @kjaneway1 (if you would like to be added please fill in this form)

Beep. You eyed the Doctor with some worry as he fiddled with the extensive locks, each part letting out a further bleep of approval as he came closer to completely unlocking the Vault. He had said he had to do this, that he had no choice and that’s what scared you the most. What monster could he have locked up deep in the basement of the university? You’d never seen him so visibly nervous and your muscles felt frozen at the prospect of coming face to face with the creature. As the doors swung open, you gripped tightly onto Bill’s hand, bracing yourself for whatever beast was within.

The delicate strains of a single melody echoed around the expanse, the piano eerie in the total silence. A woman sat at the stool, head resting on one hand while the other fiddled with the keys, playing the repetitive melody. You shared a confused look with Bill as you dropped her hand, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve.

The Vault was bigger on the inside, perhaps Time Lords needed to overcompensate for something, and there were even wide windows letting in grey light. As you continued further into the room, you noticed that the woman and the piano were inside a hexagonal containment field. Glowing blue posts outlined the raised podium, sparse bar the figure and her piano, and a few ratty-looking pieces of furniture were scattered around the rest of the room. The Doctor flopped into a leather armchair as the doors swung shut behind you, flicking his coat out before sitting. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“But it's, it's just a woman,” Bill blurted, arms spread wide as she hesitated. The aforementioned woman stopped playing and turned around to fix the Doctor with an unimpressed look. “God, the way you and Nardole have been carrying on, I thought you had some kind of monster in here, or something!”

You eyed the woman curiously, wondering what about her was so terrifying. Hair awry, eyes a brilliant burning blue, you couldn’t keep your eyes off the spellbinding figure.

“I do.” His gaze never once shifted from eyeing the woman and he sighed. “Missy, Bill and Y/N. Bill and Y/N, Missy, the other Last of the Time Lords.”

Bill raised her hand in a small wave as the woman eyed the two of you up and you smiled weakly. You shivered involuntarily as her eyes brushed over you, feeling oddly drawn towards her.

“Wait a sec.” Bill turned to the Doctor with a frown. “Why have you got a woman locked in a vault? Because even I think that's weird, and I've been attacked by a puddle and she’s snogged a Zygon.”

You rolled your eyes, suppressing a snort as you realised it was not the time nor place to be making fun of the current state of your love lives. Although it was understandable why they were in such a state, considering you had the hots for an incredibly dangerous Time Lady.

“She's going cold turkey from being bad.” The Doctor glanced up at Bill, eyes finally straying away from Missy. Missy hmphed, not looking away from the piano as the Doctor zeroed back in on her. “I want to ask if you've had any dealings with the Monks before.”

“Of course. I've had adventures too,” she preened, her voice lilting as she twisted her torso to face you all. She had a strong Scottish accent, maybe that was another Time Lord thing, and her voice dropped as she teased. “My whole life doesn't revolve around you, you know.”

“Did you defeat them?” Bill piped up, desperate, brow creased. The guilt was dripping off of her and you winced, wishing you could do something to alleviate it. You knew she blamed herself for the state of the world but, despite the Doctor’s remonstrations, she’d done what she believed was right and you would stand by her for that.

“I did.” Her self-satisfactory tone was tinged with affront, as if there was no doubt in her ability to defeat the Monks. Your teeth tugged on your bottom lip as you watched her, completely enthralled.

“How?”

Missy seemed amused with Bill’s bluntness, painted lips pulling into a savage grin as she exhaled a short laugh. Giving her a once-over, her eyes caught on you again, lighting up as you fidgeted under her gaze.

She turned away again. “I've got some requests. I want some new books, some toys,” the Doctor sighed, “like a particle accelerator, a 3-D printer, and a pony.”

“I don't think that you really grasp what's going on here,” he huffed, his accent bleeding through stronger as his frustration grew. “Nice people generally don't haggle over the fate of a planet.”

“I once built a gun out of leaves. Do you think I couldn't get through a door if I wanted to?” The tension hanging in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife and you gulped as her stare drilled holes into the Doctor. You weren’t sure what you were feeling at her somewhat veiled threat, but you were pretty sure it wasn’t solely fear. Missy jumped up, spinning to face the Doctor by the side of the piano. “I'm here, all right? I'm engaging with the process.”

“Okay,” Bill jumped in, glancing at you for support. You nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, we can, we can get those things for you.”

“C'est supère.” Missy overenunciated the French and you bit back a grin, noting her disappointed expression at the lack of reactions. She sighed, crossing her legs, and tilting her head. “So, what have you got so far?”

As the Doctor rose, so did Missy. He began to pace, each step leading to more thoughts tumbling out of his mouth. But you were distracted by the divine figure in front of you, enshrined in a tight purple suit and sinfully demure white blouse. “They hold on to power by targeting the part of the brain specifically to do with memory and perception, correct? Right?”

Missy closed the lid of her grand piano, fingers deftly clasping around the stand for the lid and folding it down. “Getting warm. Fingers tingling.”

“But they target it with what exactly? How do they sustain it?” Missy sat on the piano lid; hands clasped in her lap as the Doctor rambled. “How do their lies infiltrate the brains of billions? Is it some kind of airborne psychoactive?”

She shifted to lying on the piano lid, gaze following him as he paced round. Something in the shrewd look in her eyes reminded you of a cat watching a mouse.

“Oh my God.” The reverent gasp slipped your lips as she kicked her legs up. The smirk tugging at the corners of her lips gave away that she’d heard you and you flushed.

“No, no, that's very cold, very cold.”

“Something that's constantly being fed to the populace, constantly consolidating its hold. Is it in the water?”

“God, no. It's freezing, freezing.” She gestured wildly; legs kicked up in the air behind her. “Absolutely freezing. Couldn't be colder. Very, very, chilly. So, so chilly.”

Missy swung her legs round and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as she straightened up and jumped off the piano. She winked at you, smoothing down her skirt.

“Oh, come on. I'm bored!” She whined. “You haven't been to see me in six months. No-one has! Not even that bald bloke who looks like an egg.”

“What, you left her alone in here for six months?” You and Bill both whirled on the Doctor, mouths agape.

“Six months,” Missy whispered, repeating Bill with an expression of mock horror.

“I was in prison for six months.” The Doctor protested.

“Start at the beginning.” She ordered, treating him as a teacher would a little kid. “How do they get a foothold on a planet?”

“Some idiot asks for their help.”

Bill glared at the Doctor and you narrowed your eyes at him. Sure, it hadn’t been the greatest idea to ask the Monks for help, but he could have at least been somewhat grateful for how much she was willing to sacrifice for him. And for regaining his vision.

“Well, not just any idiot. It has to be a properly consenting human mind. A pure request, one without agenda or ulterior motive.” Missy’s lips twitched as the Doctor spun on his heel, stalking away from you all. The mania lurking in the back of her eyes frightened you and you shrunk closer to Bill.

“It's them.” The Doctor faced you again, a resigned smile on his face. “That person creates a psychic link, which forms an anchor that keeps the Monks in power. They're the lynchpin.”

“Scalding. Ow.” Missy’s eyes darted surreptitiously from the Doctor to you and back again, lips forming a perfect ‘o’. Your brain short-circuited, eyes caressing the sharp contours of her cheekbones and jawline. God, she was hot.

“But the brainwaves of one person wouldn't be powerful enough to contain an entire planet,” he trailed off; you could almost see the cogs whirring in his great mind. He paused, waving a finger. “The statues! As soon as they got here, the Monks put up statues in every town square, and every park, and every playground.”

“You're on fire, you're literally on fire you're so caliente. That's Spanish for hot.” Missy called back to you and Bill, who could do no more than stare and try to follow on with the Time Lords’ discourse.

“The statues are transmitters. They boost the signal and beam it out all around the world.” The Doctor grinned smugly.

“Boom! You've exploded.” Missy gestured with her hands, the light glinting off the tops of her cheekbones. You inhaled sharply. “Now, all you have to do is find whoever opened the door to the Monks in the first place.”

The Doctor glanced at Bill, raising his eyebrows. “Say I already have.”

“Oh! Well then, you're sorted. Just kill them,” the Doctor’s grin dropped, “that weakens the Monks' grip on the world.”

You grabbed onto Bill’s hand tightly, watching as her face fell, crestfallen. She almost seemed resolved and you rubbed your thumb over the back of her knuckles.

“No, no. No, no, that can't be right,” the Doctor scoffed disbelievingly, somewhat taken aback. Though wasn’t this response unsurprising? “There are planets that the Monks have ruled for thousands of years.”

“It's passed on through the bloodline. Usually the lynchpin goes on to lead a normal life, have their own family, and the link is passed down through the generations.” Missy strode forward, resting one arm up against the supporting poles, the other resting on the enticing curve of her hip.

“But the Monks must have worked that out. They've been doing this for millennia.”

“Why? If the link is passed on, the Monks stay in charge, through, they think, their ruthlessness and efficiency. But if the lynchpin dies and the link isn't passed on, and the Monks get booted off the planet, well, they just chalk it up to experience,” Missy gesticulated, each new point greeted with a flick of her wrist.

She sat down once again, resuming her place at the piano and her fingers ran daintily over the keys. You followed her hands with an unnecessary fixation, wetting your lips nervously as the joints flexed and danced across the notes. Bill’s sudden movement broke your concentration, and you shared a look with the Doctor.

Bill caught the expression on your faces. “No, it's okay. I want to speak to her.”

“Yes?” You couldn’t help the rising disappointment as Missy turned to face her, hands dropping off the piano.

“So when you defeated the Monks, that's how you did it?”

“Well, at this point, all that was left of the bloodline was a wee girl,” you swallowed harshly at the thickened accent, “and I just pushed her into a volcano.”

You could have sworn Missy glanced at you when she repeated the stressing of word in her heavy Scottish accent, that her lips had twitched at your visceral reaction.

“It's me. The lynchpin is me.” Bill’s voice trembled, tears threatening to break from her eyes. You inched closer to her, not close enough to touch but enough to provide some sort of support.

Missy’s attention jumped straight back to Bill, eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly.

“Awkward,” she sang, leaning back on the piano with a hint of smugness at the discordant chords.

“So you're saying I have to die.” No. The Doctor would come up with something else, he couldn’t just let your best friend die.

“No. If you were just to die, everyone's false memories would have to fade, and that could take ages. It's actually better if you keep breathing, if your brain just keeps transmitting, well, nothing. That would blot out the residue false memories.” The grin on her face almost convinced you that the option she was providing was an improvement. Almost.

“What would be left of me?” Bill’s eyes never left her face.

“You'd be a husk. Completely and irrevocably brain-dead. You couldn't even get on Celebrity Love Island.” It was her matter-of-fact tone that riled you, the inevitability in her voice.

“No.” You stepped up beside Bill, face to face with the Time Lady and almost fearful at the feral look buried deep in her eyes. A hand clasped around your elbow as the Doctor yanked you and Bill back from the containment field.

“Even if that was the truth, the fact that you're suggesting it shows there's been no change, no hope, no point.” The Doctor’s words were harsh and the spark in Missy’s eyes fizzled out, replaced with an all-encompassing sadness. Your heart ached for her, despite her sole resolution to your problem being for Bill to virtually die. “We don't sacrifice people - it's wrong - because it's easy.”

“You know, back in the day, I'd burn an entire city to the ground just to see the pretty shapes the smoke made. I'm sorry your plus one doesn't get a happy ending, but, like it or not, I just saved this world because I want to change. Your version of good is not absolute.” A watery sheen covered her eyes, missable as she blinked it away moments after it appeared. “It's vain, arrogant, and sentimental.”

As the Doctor backed down and you were left staring at the forlorn Time Lady, a pang of empathy struck a chord in your heart. The Doctor made it very hard for you to feel like a ‘good’ person - the very first time you met him, he had yelled at you for taking a decision which had saved the entire planet, albeit whilst risking your own life. And forever was a long time to be stuck in his shadow of goodness.

“If you're waiting for me to become all that, I'm going to be here for a long time yet.”

117 notes · View notes

aceofspadegrass · 3 years

Note

Imagine Dori going out to play a game,and after he plays the game..he wouldn't just go straight back to the beach,No!. He would steal the car from Niragi and just drives back to his house,going inside his house grabbing fanta and drives back to the beach with fanta,introducing fanta to hatter and we all know that hatter would accept him.

And then bring fanta back to his and Niragis room,breaking the door at the process to just go inside the room. Noragi utterly goes up to him,yelling at him..but when he sees fanta right next to Dori's leg..he's like" Aight,I'mma steal your dog" And just grabs fanta,and the next Niragi would force hatter to let fanta become a militant dog so that he could give fanta a rifle and a Fedora hat..which fanta will not like if the Fedora hat is given by Niragi-

How about dori giving fanta a Fedora hat?,fanta will love it and sleep with for the rest of his life. Niragi giving fanta a squeaky toy that is basically shaped like a rifle

Fanta is a Good Doggo

Characters: Niragi Suguru, Last Boss, Hatter, Dori Sakurada, Aguni, Cabot

Genre: Niragi get’s to meet Fanta! And maybe shoot a dude dead, but shush.

3k words

This was fun to write. Also, I only have a very vague idea of Fanta’s gender (Trust me, I still don’t know if I’m correct) so if I’m wrong, sorry about that. All I have figured out of Fanta’s gender is based on the underside of this very nice Fanta picture.

When games meant people were going to die in front of everyone lucky enough to stay, within the vicinity of where others shared the same space, not everyone dealt with them well. Some broke a little more each time, some powered through, some even enjoyed it. Either way, everyone earned their right to live in some aspect or another. They fought to keep breathing for another day or two, and came back to their base to eventually do it all over again.

And some, by the sheer power of something refusing to let them hit the dirt and breathe their final breath, just meanders through the games as if it were nothing more than a very realistic fiction.

That’s what was happening, at least in front of Niragi’s eyes. He readjusts the thick black bomber jacket that Sakurada gave him, stained with thick blood, hidden within the darkness. Said man that gave him the jacket was talking to another, who seemed oddly excited to see the man, even though his near carbon copy version was right there within view. Perhaps there was something less wanted in him that Sakurada had. A prettier smile, maybe. Or a nicer demeanour that people preferred to stick closer to. Too afraid to come closer to him.

They were correct to be afraid. Being afraid meant Niragi didn’t have to be seen as weak. But the few that weren’t, respected him. They held themselves at the same level, and Niragi at least gave them the respect if they deserved it.

Begrudgingly, it somewhat extended to his doppelgänger as well. Sakurada never exhibited a single hint of fear towards him, and even willingly attacked him with that darn water sprayer that he kept with him the entire time.

“ Oi! Are we leaving yet or not?” Niragi calls out to the man as he finally bids the other person adieu, Sakurada coming over to him with a kind smile.

“ Hey, can I ask you for a favour?” Sakurada asks, Niragi scowling a little. “ Hah? What for? Can’t you ask me later?” Sakurada smiles at him, and offers zero explanation, other than a simple request to head back himself, as he needed the car to do something. Which, granted, the Beach wasn’t that far from where the game arena was, maybe an extra fifteen minute walk on foot added on to the time it would’ve taken if they took the car, but Niragi still didn’t like how Sakurada thought he’d be okay with it.

But Sakurada was already in the car and driving away by the time Niragi noticed the bastard even left his side with that request, Niragi yelling after the retreating vehicle.

“ Hey! Hey! You asshole, get back here!” Niragi chases the car for a couple more meters, but the car is much too quick for him to chase by foot, disappearing into the night. Niragi lets out a yell, eyes burning with fury and foot stomping against the ground. “ Fuck!” A presence next to him makes itself known, clearing their throat. “ Hey uh…. Did our ride just up and leave us?”

Niragi whips around, blood still boiling, staring at a nobody Beach member, who looked far too innocent and naive to realize that Niragi was simply not in the mood for small talk. Next to them was a blank-faced Last Boss, who Niragi briefly forgot was even with them, the rest having perished within the game. That didn’t matter anyways, Niragi needed something to let his feelings out, and he whips his beloved gun from his shoulder and jabs it in the direction of the nobody, who yelps and backs up in fear. Delicious, raw fear, the person staring at Niragi with pleading in their eyes, even if it too dark to properly make out what they held. The wide eyes, the trembling bones, the bobbing Adam’s apple, that was enough.

“Oh, so you can see. Whoop de fucking do.” Niragi snarks, the person holding their hands up in the air, eyes flickering between the cold barrel against their chest and the burning eyes of Niragi. “ Yes our ride fucking up and left. I don’t know what he was thinking, but we’re gonna have to walk back.” “ H-How far is the Beach?” Came their shaky voice, and Niragi stares in the general direction of where they came from, muttering to himself as he forced his brain to work outside the blaze within his bone.

“ Longer than what I should have to deal with.” Niragi answers, and takes the gun back as he starts walking back to where the Beach should be. The sound of feet against the ground follow him, and the idiot asked way too many questions for Niragi to care about comes too close to his side, staring at him nervously.

“ You seem mad. Was it because of the guy that took the car? I’m sure there was a perfectly good reason for that guy to take the car! Even if it was a little weird he forgot us. It’s a good night for a walk anyways! Lucky it wasn’t a Spades game, otherwise-“ “ Oh my goodness, do you never shut up!?” Niragi looks at them, and in a fit of impulsive irritation he swings his gun against their skull, a crack resounding in the cold empty night, their body hitting the ground with a thud. “ Asking question after question, do you not see I don’t wanna deal with another gosh darn annoyance?! You know what, I’m already pissed, I need to do something. Lucky you.” His lip pulled up into a sarcastic sneer, full of disgust. “ I need a good stress reliever.” He aims the rifle at the fallen body, the person screaming and scrambling backwards.

“ W-Wait!? No, wait, I’m sorry, please don’t-“ Their words were cut off as Niragi pulls the trigger, shots ringing in the air and blood painting the ground. Niragi doesn’t stop until he feels his tense energy get pulled into each and every bullet, when he finally becomes satisfied as the body is nothing more than bloody cheese.

Niragi scoffs, and spits on the body to rub it in, the final piece of the puzzle. He holds his rifle down by his side and stumbles into the night, the sound of footsteps decreased by two.

Three minutes later, and Niragi needed to rant, his mouth opening and spilling his slight against Sakurada to his only audience. Last Boss says nothing in return, but Niragi didn’t need any words spoken back. He appreciated that, not needing any more of a reason to get annoyed. They return to the Beach within a fair amount of time, nobody truly questioning where the others were or where their car even was, other than a few talking amongst each other. One less drinking buddy here, one less of a good time there. Niragi ignores it all and heads straight to Hatter’s, Last Boss behind him the entire time.

He opens the door, Hatter greeting them, Cabot sitting on his lap and wearing Hatter’s sunglasses, the cat comfortable. Niragi walks in and slaps the card on the table, huffing. “ There. Your stupid card.” “ Thank you Niragi!” Hatter chirps, and he looks over Niragi’s shoulder, likely at Last Boss. “ And you as well for letting me watch over your cat! She is such a wonderful buddy for a rousing conversation over the legalities of dolphins!” Niragi never hears a response, nor does he even stay long enough, already leaving the moment he was able to. He heads back to his room to sleep the rest of the night off, too mentally exhausted to really want to deal with anyone else at the moment.

Least of all Sakurada, when he would inevitably come back.

—————————————————————————————————

The sun had not risen yet when the door slams open, hitting the wall rather violently. Niragi is startled awake, and he rubs his eyes and turns to the source of the noise, Sakurada standing there with the hallway lights still on and illuminating him. Niragi’s mood sours the moment he lays eyes on him, and he gets out of bed and storms over to him, grabbing the man by the collar of his shirt.” You little bitch! You left me there at the game and made us walk! What fucking gives!?” Sakurada holds his hands up, one gently tapping the grip that had his shirt. He smiles back, opening his mouth to explain. Niragi at least gave him that, one step away from going to grab his gun and give Sakurada a new hole to breathe out of.

“ It was super important that I took the car, since it was a little far and I needed to carry things! Besides, I didn’t want to disturb you guys and cause too much of a scene-“ “ Leaving us there caused enough of a scene, asswipe-“ Niragi shakes the man, Dori wiggling but maintaining his stance. “ Yes, but-“ Sakurada starts up again, and Niragi was near about to punch the pretty asshole when he felt something step on his foot, and the soft sound of sniffing made him look down, thinking it was Cabot for a second. Instead, a small fluffy dog stood there, brown in colour and very cute. Niragi lets go, the dog looking up at Niragi and barking at him.

“ Is that a dog.” Niragi lets the sentence tumble from his lips, Sakurada eagerly nodding. He kneels down, petting the pooch. The dog’s tail wags happily.

“ Yes! Niragi, meet Fanta! He’s my dog!” He announces, continuing to stroke the dog. Niragi nods as he too kneeled down, and he holds a hand out to Fanta, who sniffs at his fingers before giving them a greeting lick.

“… I love your dog. Fanta, you said?” Sakurada nods, smiling. “ Cool. I’m going to steal your dog now. Night bitch.” He scoops the dog up and carries Fanta to bed, crawling back underneath the covers and setting the dog on top, Fanta barking and investigating the sheets. Niragi’s gun was still tucked in bed with him, but Niragi wasn’t dumb enough to leave the safety off. He even made sure to put a little cap over the trigger to even prevent it being moved.

He wasn’t a Diamonds for nothing.

Sakurada say nothing, but Niragi does hear him laugh a little, and bid him a goodnight as well. Fanta barks in his ear, Niragi gently shutting the dog’s mouth shut.

“ Goodnight, dog. Go to sleep.” Niragi mutters, Fanta whining a little and wiggling out his touch. At the very least he settles down, Niragi huffing inaudibly and falling back asleep, a warm weight remaining nearby him.

Morning comes too soon, and Niragi wakes up to Fanta still besides him, sleeping peacefully. He smiles to himself, already getting an idea, and he picks up the dog, Fanta waking up with a confused yelp from being picked up so suddenly, Niragi carrying the dog right out of the room. He makes sure not to wake up Sakurada as he heads down to Hatter’s room, throwing open the door and slamming on the lights. “ Hey! You! Wake up you slutty flamingo!” Niragi shouts, waking up the leader of the entire Beach. His hair was a bit of a mess, Hatter grumbling and combing his hair with his fingers. “ Ah? Niragi?” Hatter blinks a few times, and comes over the moment he saw Fanta in Niragi’s arms. “ Oh my goodness you brought me a new friend! Hello you glorious being!” Hatter pets Fanta with the enthusiasm of an old man greeting a grandchild, Fanta barking and wagging his tail happily.

“ This is Fanta. Can I make him a militant dog.” “ Hm? Why?” Hatter asks offhandedly, attention fully on Fanta.

“ Because I want to make him a militant dog, and I want to give Fanta a miniature rifle. And a fedora, obviously. Because he deserves one. So do I.” Niragi tells him. Hatter waves him off, still petting Fanta like he was the greatest thing since rubber ducks.

“ I can get that arranged!” Niragi grins to himself, pleased, and Hatter finally looks up at Niragi. “ I’ll get Aguni to get that all arranged for you!” “ Aw fuck yeah.” Niragi mutters, and Hatter continues to pet Fanta for a couple more minutes before he finally had his fill. With a wave from Hatter, Niragi finally leaves. He sets Fanta down, done with carrying the rather large dog, and heads back to his room, Fanta marching alongside him. Niragi smiles down at the dog, internally vibrating with joy.

“ Oh, this’ll be great.”

—————————————————————————————————

Later that day, Aguni comes over to Niragi’s room, looking at the still opened door, which had a rather decent sized crack running through it. He doesn’t mention a word as he comes over to Niragi, setting a small dog sized rifle and two hats on the bed, one much smaller than the other.

“ There.” That was all he said, and after a brief petting of the fluffy dog, he leaves them alone, Niragi grinning excitedly and putting his new fedora back on. Fanta barks at him, tail wagging. Niragi picks up the smaller hat, and he attempts to lower it onto Fanta’s head.

This doesn’t go well, Fanta barking again and running off. Niragi gasps, offended, and gets up to chase him around the room. Fanta was a crafty little dog though, managing to evade Niragi in every turn.

“ Get back here you ungrateful little-“ Niragi begins to shout at the dog, but he’s stopped when he feels cold, familiar mist on his face, Niragi stopping in his tracks. “ Ah! Sakurada, what the hell!”

“ Don’t be mean to Fanta! Also, where did you get that?” Sakurada plucks the fedora off of Niragi’s head, Niragi becoming offended again in the past ten minutes as Sakurada opens the window and yeets it out the window as well. Sakurada spots the tiny dog rifle on the bed, and he gasps as well, picking it up and turning around to look at Niragi like a disappointed mother.

“ Are you trying to turn my child into a murderer! Shame on you, Niragi, you should know better!” Sakurada reprimands, crossing his arms. “ You’re not my mom!” Niragi retorts. “ And come on, Fanta deserves a gun! And a hat!” Sakurada sighs, and simply sets the rifle down on the bed and kneels down, calling his dog over, Fanta happily padding over to him. Sakurada pets Fanta with a smile, then looks to Niragi, the latter still clutching the smaller doggy hat. “ May I see that, please?” Sakurada holds his hand out, Niragi continuing to stare at him. He finally concedes, and he comes over, handing over the hat. “ Fanta didn’t want it though.” Niragi dejectedly mutters with a bit of irritation, but Sakurada only chuckles a little and looks down at Fanta, holding the hat up to the dog’s nose. Fanta sniffs at it a few times, tail wagging. Sakurada looks up at Niragi one more time, Niragi looking down at him in pure confusion, then sheer indignation as Sakurada easily slides the fedora on Fanta’s head. “ There! Easy as that!” “ But- Hey, that’s cheating, how’d you do that!” Sakurada merely shrugs, petting Fanta a little more and standing up. “ I guess Fanta didn’t want you putting it on? Fanta is a very smart dog after all!” Niragi only huffs, crossing his arms and shaking his head at Fanta, who happily lays down on the floor. “ You little prick…..”

Still, that doesn’t stop Niragi from bringing Fanta with him later on patrol, the dog eager for a walk. People cooed at the cute dog, Niragi glaring at a few too dared get too close for comfort. He had to keep up his persona after all, even with the addition of a rather cute dog by his side.

He meets up with Last Boss again by the end of it, Cabot meowing at Niragi the moment he arrives. Fanta barks upon seeing the feline, Cabot tucking herself away into Last Boss’ hood. Last Boss stares down at Fanta in silence, Niragi snorting. “ Your cat is a pussy.”

Last Boss looks at Niragi at that comment, slowly blinking. “ …. Yes? She’s a cat.”

“ Ugh, you made it boring. Never mind. But still! Say hello to Fanta! This is a new member to the militants!” Last Boss nods, and he looks down at Fanta, just staring at the dog. Fanta didn’t seem to mind, merely wagging that little tail.

“ Anyways, I’ll see you later! I need to go get something! If Aguni asks, I went to pamper the fuck out of Fanta. If Sakurada asks, tell him to fuck off. Okay bye!” He waves and walks away, Fanta obediently trailing along with him.

He hops into a car, Fanta in the passenger seat, and drives away, having only the vaguest of ideas where he was going.

Three hours later, he returns, Fanta happily squeaking a squeaky toy that very oddly resembles a small rifle. He opens the door, Fanta running over his lap and into the open area with the little gift in his little doggy mouth, Niragi following after. Once back into the building, it doesn’t take long before Niragi sees Sakurada coming towards him, a worried expression on his face. “ Oh, there you two are! I was worried when you suddenly disappeared, you know! Where did you go?” “ To get Fanta a gift, obviously! Look, isn’t he so happy!” He gestures down at Fanta, the dog squeaking the toy once more. Sakurada smiles, a certain concerned tightness at the edges.

“ Niragi, why did you give my dog a gun again.” “ Hey! A squeaky gun! Huge difference! Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

Sakurada sighs, and he lightly shakes his head. “ Alright, but that’s it, okay?”

“ Ugh, fiiiiiine. Fanta still goes on patrols with me though.” “ Yes, of course. Fanta deserves to go on walks.” Niragi fist pumps the air. “ Aw yeah. You’re the fucking best, you Dior mannequin. Come on Fanta, let’s go throw eggs at the bleached trash bin.” He runs off, Fanta barking and climbing Sakurada’s legs for a few pets from his owner before running off to join Niragi in his crime time.

Sakurada simply watches them go, with the slight hint of worry for his poor Fanta. The dog was a smart doggo though, so Sakurada trusted Fanta to hold his own against Niragi. Hopefully there wouldn’t be….. too much damage control he’d have to do later.

#aib #alice in borderland #aib fanfic #alice in borderland fanfic #niragi suguru #sakurada dori #last boss #takatora samura #hatter #takeru danma #morizono aguni #last boss deserves a cat #niragi attempting to arm a dog twice: How fun.#last boss is very persistently just in the background again #everyone enjoys a Fanta

16 notes · View notes

boba-xing · 3 years

Text

My Prince (K. Seokjin)

warnings: minor angst (squabbling) balanced out by fluff

note: I don't know what this is I just wrote it

You scurry down the corridor barefoot, soles slapping against the cream tiles as your hair flutters in the breeze.

It's a hot day. Too got for your liking. Your father had insisted you went to the spring and bathed to cool yourself down but you couldn't do that with a whirlpool of anxiety in your mind. At least you had to find Soonyoung.

"Soonyoung!" You call out, footsteps slowing to a calm walk as you approach the kitchen and turn your head round the door.

"Soonyoung isn't in here, your Highness." One of the maids replies once they've all curtsied. "I believe she went out to find you only moments ago."

You let out a sigh.

What is it with that girl and disappearing just when you need her? You need a helping hand in cleaning yourself up from the gamekeeper's cat - her pawprints have smudged dirt all over your dress, and it would be best done with a laugh.

"Perhaps I can call you another servant to help you with your dress, I can't imagine his Majesty's reaction when he sees you like this, your Highness." The same maid responds.

"Thank you but I'd rather do it myself." You smile, quickly swishing your dress around and rushing back down the corridor.

"___, there you are!"

Oh no.

You turn and, to your dislike, come face to face with your father and a rather handsome man.

"Whatever happened to your dress? You look absolutely filthy." He scowls, "A princess can't run around the castle looking like this."

"Sorry, father." You gently curtsey to the man beside him, only for the gentleman to take your hand in his and place a soft kiss on the back.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Princess ___." The man says with a slight look of distaste.

"And you..."

"Prince Seokjin." He nods.

"This is your suitor, ___." Your father explains.

"My suitor?"

"Yes, it seems about time that you got married, and of course you must be provided with the best."

"I thought it was mutual." The Prince mutters, loud enough so that you could hear it but your aging father couldn't.

"Well I don't want to get married." You frown.

"It's out of the question for you to not be wedded."

"And why would I want to marry a man I've only just met?"

"Well you'll have a month or two to familiarise yourselves, that should be plenty of time."

"What do you do around here for fun?"

"Well, the gardens are wonderful so I often take a stroll." The man looks uninterested at the idea, "There's a pub nearby, just outside of the castle grounds, lots of the knights go there."

"You've been?"

"No." Your cheeks warm. His gaze is somewhat intimidating, how could you marry such a cold man? Is the kingdom really with this much?

You sit in silence for a moment.

"Perhaps you'd like to see around the castle?" You suggest, resting your eyes on the nature around you.

"Castles are all the same, just like Kings and princesses." He sighs dryly. "Do you have any say in your father's decisions?"

"No, of course not."

"And you've never worked a day?"

"N-no, I can't say I have."

"Then what is your relevance as a princess? To sit and be pretty?" He glares at you, unimpressed with your lack of experience.

"I'm not allowed to do anything else." You reply. "I'm a woman."

"Maybe you should kiss."

"Kiss?" You and Prince Seokjin repeat as you both turn to look at Soonyoung.

"Yes, just to see what it's like."

"I know what it's like." The Prince frowns, turning back to your smaller figure. "Don't you?"

You shake your head, looking down at your toes.

"Alright then, one kiss just so we can get it over with."

"Well I don't want it if its a chore." You oppose. "I want a proper kiss."

"My god, I'm going to be your husband, it can't get any more proper than that."

"But I don't want you to kiss me just because you have to. In fact, I refuse." You huff, insulted at the man's lack of excitement for a smooch. "You may never kiss me."

"Never kiss you? What about at the wedding?"

"Oh shut up about the wedding, I don't want to marry you!"

"And I don't want to marry you, but we don't have much choice, now come here and let me kiss you."

"What is it?" Your fork fondles the strange lump in front of you, a look of regret on your face as you consider returning to your chambers.

"It's a cake."

"That...is a cake?" You glance at the Prince.

"Have you never seen a cake before?"

"Of course I've seen a cake before, but why does it look like that?" You frown, whispering to him, "It looks like excrement."

"Maybe it is. Maybe the servants are sick of your complaining so they decided to get their revenge. I would if I was them."

"Meredith would never!" You gently slap his arm. "And why, I don't do anything to you!"

"You're very annoying." He brushes his fingers through his locks.

"And so are you."

You have to say you'd never planned on waking up in Prince Seokjin's arms; his warm breath fanning your forehead as his arm sits over your hip. He's incredibly handsome...in a snotty kind of way.

"Why are you staring at me?" he mumbles,

"Why are you pretending to be asleep?" You hum as his eyes flutter open, grip on you remaining still as he looks down into your eyes.

"I thought it would be more peaceful that way." He explains, eyes never leaving yours, "You didn't sleep much."

"No." You reply, glancing away and sitting yourself up. He follows suit, one arm behind your back as if he's caging your side.

"I told you it would be alright." He places his thumb and forefinger on your jawline, gently tilting your head towards his.

The memories of last night hit you like a brick - how you'd bumped into him after a nightmare, and he'd softly soothed you to sleep in his chambers. The treatment took you by shock, you had expected him to laugh in your face or mock your fragility. Yet he comforted you instead.

"Are you scared of me?"

The question catches you off-guard. For some reason he wants to know, wants to know if you'll find warmth in his embrace, if you could stay by his side, if you were hurt by a man like him before.

"No." You look up at him and his gaze slowly falls to your lips. "I could never be."

"He has nice eyes, don't you think?" You turn away from the painting to the man beside you.

"They look perfectly bland to me." Seokjin replies, shifting his hand to your lower back.

You sigh up at him, "You really must learn to give compliments."

"There's no need."

"There is every need! You know, not once have you called me beautiful, or pretty, or radiant, what good is that?"

"Well I don't value you on your appearance."

"But I still want to hear it!" You huff and he chuckles to himself.

"My, you're just like a child." He smiles, "Whining and stamping your feet. If you wanted me to compliment you then you could have just asked."

You pout, turning away from him.

"You're very beautiful, ___, the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

There's a moment of silence.

"Well now you're just saying it because you have to!" You glare at him and he looks shocked.

"You asked me to compliment you so I did!"

"No I didn't, I just asked why you never give me attention."

"I give you attention all the time."

"Not enough!"

"Are you an infant?! How much attention do you need?"

"Clearly more than you're giving me!" You argue, "And it's not just that, sometimes you don't even look at me!"

"I can't always have my eyes on you, ___, I would if I could but unfortunately eye contact is important during verbal communication."

You sigh, nudging his side. "Fine."

"Fine." He repeats.

"But more compliments." You reiterate, playing with a loose strand of hair.

"Whatever you say, darling."

The number of times Seokjin has asked you if he should grow a beard in the past month is absurd. Yet, here he sits asking your for the thousandth time.

"I said no."

"But it might make me look more manly."

"You already look manly." You shrug, "And very handsome."

He reaches his arms out and swiftly pulls you into his lap, placing a gentle kiss on your cheek. "Now imagine I did that with a beard."

"Disgusting. It would be all scratchy and unpleasant."

"But it would look epic."

"Who's looking?"

"Well if I put a mirror over there then I'll be."

"Can't you just imagine yourself with a beard instead?"

The man sighs, pulling at his arms around your waist and sighing before fully facing you.

"___, darling, I really think a beard is the way to go."

"And Seokjin, my love, I really don't think it is."

Seokjin never grew a beard, probably becuase you persuaded him it would hide his sharp jawline too much.

"We're getting married next week." The man wraps his arms around your frame, pressing his chest to your back as he peppers kisses down your neck.

"Mhm."

"I bet you're going to look even more gorgeous than you already do." He grins, teeth nibbling at the shell of your ear in a ticklish way. You squirm a little and he chuckles, turning you around in my arms.

"Does that mean you're finally going to kiss me?"

"I thought I never could."

"I changed my mind." You state matter-of-factly, glaring at his unimpressed expression.

"How convenient."

"Kiss me now then."

"I don't want to." He raises an eyebrow at your puckered lips.

"Why not?"

"Because you're being sulky."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"No I'm not."

"Then why are you pouting?"

You sigh, propping yourself up on your tippy toes and resting yourself against his broad shoulders. He looks at you expectantly and, with upmost delicacy, you place a very sweet kiss on his plump lips.

"If you're going to do it then do it properly." He rolls his eyes, grabbing your face in his hands and shoving his lips onto yours.

The kiss is soft yet sensual enough to have a heavy heat blooming in your chest and your head filling with indecent thoughts. You never thought you'd be here, in this position, with this man.

"Was that better?" He asks, slightly breathless.

You nod violently and he laughs, gently brushing some stray hair from your face.

"You want to know something?"

"I already know quite a lot."

"Of course you do-"

"I do, I read a lot of books."

"Are you going to let me speak?"

"Yes, okay, carry on." You pout.

He smiles softly, pressing his forehead against yours. "I love you."

#kim seokjin #bts #bts jin #Kpop #Fluff #Kpop fluff #BTS fluff #BTS angst #BTS imagine #Fanfic

17 notes · View notes

1-800-imagine · 4 years

Text

cheesy pick up line hcs

sero x reader, kirishima x reader, mina x reader

✎ nonsense: i'm considering making this a series, what do you think? part two is here!!

SERO HANTA: “are you a camera? because every time i look at you i smile.”

this boy this very cheeky, and will take any opportunity to poke fun at you while at the same time flirting

therefore, stupid pick up lines are just his thing

it’s probably well into your relationship too, so you’re at least somewhat used to all his goofiness

anyways, the two of you are probably hanging around. swing in the hammock set up in his dorm. taking in some quality cuddle time.

he’s just sitting there with you in his arms, when you look up to see the slightest little smirk appear on his face

“what’s up, hanta?” you sigh. just looking at the small grin on his face, you very well knew that your boyfriend had something up his sleeve. “oh, it’s nothing,” sero chuckles, watching your brows furrow and a scowl appear, “i swear, babe, don’t worry yourself with it.”

“there’s still tape on the ceiling of my dorm from the last time you told me ‘it’s nothing,’ and that i shouldn’t ‘worry myself about it.’” your voice stern with the intent that you will be getting to the bottom of this. even if it’s the last thing you do. sero lets out another chuckle, filling up the silence of the room. now you’ve had it; you have to know what’s on this boys mind. “spit it out, hanta.” you command, squirming around in his hold thus rocking the hammock.

“ok ok, but don’t say i didn’t warn you,” sero starts, your face shifts back to its former state of confusion, “are you a camera? because every time i look at you i smile.” the once small grin once painted on your boyfriend’s face spreads into his signature, triangular smile. you feel yourself break out into a little giggle, but burry your face into sero’s chest to not give him any sort of satisfaction.

KIRISHIMA EIJIROU: “i would ask you out, i’d just need to be a little boulder”

someone convinced him that it was maximum levels of manly for a guy to confess to/ask out the person he likes this way. *cough* denki *cough*

while kirishima cherishes his friends, he likely confesses to you privately

and even though the two of you were probably hanging out with the rest of the bakusquad, kiri in his head was like ‘it’s nerf or nothing’ *cough* probably the doing of denki again *cough*

so he pulls you to the side, and gets straight to the point

but you best bet the rest of the bakusquad already knows what’s going on

"h-hey, (y/n), can we talk” kirishima stutters out. before you are able reply, he’s already grasped onto your wrist pulling you up off the couch. you notice how denki, sero, and mina are all trading looks with each other, while bakugo continues to give the actors on screen a death glare.

kirishima rounds the corner into an empty hallway, and you follow suit. “what’s going on, eijiro? are you doing alright?” you cock your head to the side, taking in the dusting of light pink on kirishima’s ears. he can’t even look you in the eye properly; instead staring down at his feet, only catching the quick glance of your face. “this doesn’t so manly but, (y/n), i would ask you out, i’d just need to be a little boulder.” the red-headed boy confesses, his face flushing a similar color as his hair.

all kirishima’s able to hear is your snickering, so he looks up in utter bewilderment. “you wanted to ask me out?” you question. kirishima nods profusely, his big puppy dog eyes bore into yours. “well, i’d love to go out with you kiri!” you exclaim, throwing yourself at the boy. kirishima catches you, wrapping his arms around you back. little did the two of you know, the rest of the bakusquad had been watching from afar the whole time.

MINA ASHIDO: “are you from outer space? cause you look outta this world”

unlike kiri, mina is a little boulder. i’ll let myself out, don’t worry.

ok but all jokes aside, mina rubs off of on me as the type who wouldn’t care who’s watching, or listening for that matter

she’ll definitely let this one slip with other people around

but she wouldn’t really care if they were there or not

like it’s either the before or after class, and she just nonchalantly sits down on top of your desk

though your head is laying down on your desk, you’re still able to notice the bright pink flesh sit atop of it. it’s pretty hard to miss. “hey mina, what’s up?” you grumble, picking your head up. your voice drowning into the sounds of the other students filtering in and chatting it up. mina pretty much gets straight to the point, “are you from outer space? cause you look outta this world.”

you look around, trying to read the room. nobody really seems to mind. with maybe the exception of denki, who’s still trying to take notes from mina. flirting between you and your girlfriend had always been a game, but now there’s an audience. how are you planning on topping her cheesy pick up line? simple really. with an even cheesier one. but now the question is: which one to choose?

“well? what is it (y/n)? cat got your tongue?” mina’s voice cuts right through your thought process. you glance up at her with a little smirk. “well. . . well, if you’re asking me,” you begin to stumble over some of your words, “i think your face is. . . it’s like the stars, cause it’s always shining.” unable to contain any of her excitement, mina jumps onto you, pushing both of you down to the floor.

#bhna imagines #bhna hcs #bhna x reader #mha imagines #mha hcs #mha x reader #sero x reader #sero hanta x reader #sero hc #kirishima x reader #kirishima eijiro x reader #kirishima hc #mina x reader #mina ashido x reader #mina hc

168 notes · View notes

anxiouslyfred · 3 years

Text

Star of Wonder

Summary: Virgil’s parents have stifled his questions, and his chances to follow the star to his soulmate with their strict Christian doctrine. That doesn’t stop him from plotting his escape, nor his soulmate from deciding to find him instead.

Warnings: overly strict parents

/\/\

“As you will see in your history books, the common belief among Christians is that the stars leading us to our soulmates originated from the birth of Jesus. While many historians disagree with this, due to mentions of soulmates prior to when those stories were first written down, and the lack of archaeological evidence for Jesus's birth being heralded in the way the Bible describes it, many people do follow this belief.” Virgil's teacher had explained in their class. Another student had asked about the story their parents had used to describe soulmates and he was once again questioning everything his evangelical family insisted was true, despite the evidence against them.

So far he'd remained quiet, avoiding the scolding that any questions to his parents understanding of the Bible or Christianity brought, but this had a major question rattling around his mind that he needed to ask. “Mrs Williams showed us the cave paintings showing people following stars for their soulmates today. Do you think the Wise Men were hoping to find their soulmates when they followed it to Jesus? Was that who their gifts were actually for?” He asked that evening when they'd been discussing his classes from the day.

His Dad always had strong views about what he should or shouldn't learn and had often visited the school to demand something was removed or not taught to his son. Virgil could only thank his determined head teacher for refusing to make special accommodations, but it did lead to interrogations over what the classes he took taught him.

Virgil shivered as a frozen solid glared turned to him after the question. “Are you insinuating there could be anything unpure about the immaculate birth? That anyone favoured in the Bible could have such twisted selfish reasons to try and find the Saviour?” His father demanded, voice raising with every word.

The lecture and telling off Virgil received after that lasted a full hour, and ended up with none of their family properly finishing their meal. If he had been reluctant to share his thoughts about religion or soulmates to his family before then, Virgil was never going to bring it up now.

That didn't stop his parents trying to act like the closest family there ever was, but not even strangers on the street could be fooled to believe it. Sickly sweet words of “You never open up to us. We're here and we'll accept the things you share with us” never did pair well when moments later in the exact same tone the words would become “I don't care that you haven't a soulmate, I care that you're refusing to say a thing about it. Just accept it and let us arrange a marriage for you to a nice Christian girl in our Church. I'm sure Gertrude said her daughter hasn't seen a star yet.”

Virgil did everything he could to avoid Gertrude in the Church after that. Her daughter was barely 10 and far too young for the star to have appeared for her; Never mind that he did have a star, hovering by the sunset. He did try to at least talk to the children in the Church, and let them know that asking questions was okay, but usually better to be directed to people who are open to them. It was the least he could do to hopefully give them a better time of it than he had with his parents.

He went through the actions of following their wishes, applying to the local colleges and doing the volunteering they insisted the family had to do, quietly messaging online forums for support and help. Virgil was doing everything he could to get his route out of the town and chance to follow his star as soon as college began. He never accepted the place his parents thought, but sent his acceptance letter off to the college two states to the west and had packed his suitcase already. As soon as he heard when move in day would be for the dormitories Virgil was going to be on a train there. His parents couldn't then try to track him down using the car they'd given him only to claim use of it if ever they were attending separate functions.

There was no certainty about where the star was leading him. Whomever his soulmate was lived too far away so the star remained high high in the sky but Virgil hoped it would lower at least somewhat when he got further away from his home town.

The star moving towards him and getting noticeably lower each day after school finished for the summer was something Virgil realised with dread. His parents had very clear views over who he should end up with, completely opposite to the people that had attracted Virgil before. Whomever his soulmate was though now seemed to be heading in his direction and rapidly.

Virgil kept an eye on it, watching from his bedroom window, bringing cloud gazing into the activities they'd use to occupy the kids in the playscheme, anything else he could think of to watch the stars movement and try to guess when they'd arrive.

The suitcase was completely packed with all the last things he'd been keeping out of it when the star was level with the roofs of the houses. Virgil didn't know who his soulmate was, didn't have a clue what their relationship would be when they arrived, but if they were going to come seek him out, he was taking any chance at escape they offered.

He was watching from his window that night, almost at midnight, just wondering if the star was going to stop moving and rest for the night or if he'd be meeting his Soulmate that night. The car that turned down the road looked worse for wear but not half so much as the person that jumped out of it as soon as they drew level with his house. The car hadn't even stopped when that happened, but he didn't have time to stop and think about that.

Virgil while mentally relieved that his soulmate was at least masculine framed knew that if they revealed themself to be his soulmate, especially after knocking on the door in the middle of the night, well catastrophic would be putting it lightly. He was grabbing his suitcase, hurrying downstairs as quietly as possible and still didn't manage to open the door before the first knock had sounded.

Looking at the person, Virgil covered their mouth instantly, hearing movement upstairs. “Sorry, I knocked something. Just wanted a glass of water to see if it'll help my mind settle. I think I can been a racoon in the trash so I'll chase it off while I'm down here.” He called upstairs, not loud enough to wake his parents, but enough that they'd hear if one had woken up.

A glance down the street showed another door getting knocked on by the driver of the car so Virgil shoved his case out of the door. “I'm Virgil, your soulmate if the star on my head doesn't give that away. Worst type of Christians up there so lets get this in the car and figure out what can happen then. If you'd prefer to just dump me in a motel somewhere close to you it would be better than here.” He hissed out, ignoring that his hand was now getting licked until he had the door pulled shut.

“I'm Remus, pretty one. You seriously running away with me in the middle of the night? Have you heard some of the most brilliant stories that come from people doing that?” His soulmate leant into his space. “You smell good, but I still can't decide what pronouns to use for you. I'm he/him, and so's Ro-bro. You know who he's going to be waking up?”

The wave towards the car at the end of the road had Virgil snort, “The pretentious git leading the choir. I try my best not to know him. I've stuck with he/him pronouns so far, but if that changes I'll let you know.”

“Are we really running, or can me and Ro have a sleep before you want to get away? Either works cause crashes are great fun to get out of and you're more likely to get into them when driving tired.” Remus asked, taking the suitcase and beginning to head back down the road.

“I'm not gonna change your plans. Just tell me what you're intending and I'll see if I can help, like by pointing out there's a fully furnished but currently empty house 2 blocks away. Might be worth it to crash there tonight.” Virgil had checked the area once he saw the star getting close to his town. Breaking into places would cause him a heck of a lot of anxiety over what would happen if they got caught but facing a screaming fit from his parents was worse.

Remus didn't care though, already loading the car and rushing over to Ro. “My soulmate wants us to break into a place a bit away so I'm stealing the car. Either get your soulmate to let you stay over or come find us. I'll park as close in front of the place as Vi-vi lets me.”

Now they were a bit closer Virgil could see Remus was identical to Ro. It felt sort of like he was high on sleep deprivation and meeting his soulmate, all his anxiety muffled through a fog of knowing change had arrived and he wouldn't have to pander to his parents religion anymore.

This was just the start of an adventure but he could keep the star close by now.

#dukexiety #soulmate au #remus sanders #virgil sanders

16 notes · View notes

boltwrites · 4 years

Note

this week has all the best kinks! i was too early last time so i'm sending it again but could you do sub!bolin x afab dom!reader with a fucking machine?

kinktober 2020 | this week’s list

A/N: oh here we go boys (this is another long one, so be prepared)

by clicking read more you verify that you are at least 18 years old

so, you’ve definitely been introducing Bolin into kinkier shit at this point

you’ve been pegging him for ages now, and while in public he’s as sweet and loving and supportive as ever, in the bedroom, he feels like he can really open up with you and share that more submissive side of himself

so, you secretly ask Zhu Li for some help designing a fucking machine

you were a little disappointed that when you fucked Bolin, you couldn’t see his face all the time, since it was easiest to give it to him from behind. you wanted to be able to watch him come apart, and this seemed like the perfect idea

and you knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Zhu Li could not only make one for you, but also wouldn’t tell a soul. she was in your book club - you two were tight, and she was more than willing to help

Bolin probably gets concerned at some point during the design and construction process because you keep taking “long shifts at work.” while he doesn’t think you’re cheating on him (at least, he fucking hopes you’re not) he is a little worried that he’s boring to you and that you would rather be out somewhere else instead of with him

in reality, you and Zhu Li are not only having a bunch of fun designing the contraption (”Y/n, I have to say, as much as I love Varrick - you’re so much easier to work with” Zhu Li laughed) but have started to add a bunch of extra features. not to mention the safety measures you two were installing so that you were positive you wouldn’t hurt Bolin

Bolin was like, a few days away from finally gathering the courage to confront you when you approached him - home early, before him - excited, bouncing on the balls of your feet

“hey, babe,” you grinned at him, giving him a little kiss as he entered. he was clearly shocked to see you

“hi?” he replied, a little confused. “I thought you were at work?”

“i took off early,” you replied, still grinning wide. “you know these past couple weeks? I haven’t actually been taking extra hours,” you admitted. “I’ve been working on something special for you”

Bolin immediately felt horrible for thinking otherwise “you have?” he asked, hopeful. his heart was probably flipping in his chest - he loved you very much, and he was so excited that you had done something with him in mind.

“yeah. it’s in the bedroom,” you looked at him with lidded eyes, hoping he would get the message, and he blinked, quickly turning red. oh, so it was that kind of surprise. he shivered, even more excited now. what would have take you so long? “wanna see it?”

“yeah,” he mumbled, his voice a little softer, already anticipating his fall into subspace. you tugged him towards the bedroom

and when you opened the door -

his jaw dropped

the machine itself was decently large. it, of course, had its own motor, which was around 2 feet on either side (we’re working with lok tech, remember?). it rested on an adjustable base so that the height could be corrected for any situation, and next to the machine, a remote rested on the bedside table.

Bolin’s mouth fell open and he went absolutely beet red

“is that...”

“yeah,” you nodded, grinning broad. it already had the dildo you usually used on your strap attached to the machine, all ready for him

you waited a beat, and when Bolin didn’t say anything, you got concerned.

“Bo? is this... is this ok?” you asked, getting a little worried

he jumped like he had been shocked, still so red.

“no, no it’s - uh,” he tugged at the collar of his shirt “...when can we try it out?” he squeaked, his voice quiet

spirits, he was fucking adorable. you giggled, wrapping your arms around him in a big hug. you thought he would like it, but you were glad he was just as into it as you were

“whenever you want, baby” you mumbled, covering his face in little kisses. he made a soft noise, wrapping his arms around you

“now?” he mumbled, grinding against you, and oh boy, he was hard. you were so fucking excited.

“yeah, let’s get it set up”

Bolin was just as interested in the machine itself as what it could do to him, so you had him help set up the scene - pulling the bench that you usually had at the bottom of the bed out, to be used as a platform to him to bend over on. you had him lay on it as you adjusted the machine, and he whimpered at the feeling of it, even through his clothes

you told him a little about it, told him how much you wanted to watch him fall apart, wanted to see him get fucked good from a different vantage point, and as you told him all these dirty things, he started breathing deeper, slipping further into it all

by the time he was finally naked and bent over the bench, the machine poised at his entrace, Bolin already prepped, you were breathing heavy too, spread out on the armchair on the other side of the room

“ready, baby?” you asked him, breathless. he looked at you with such lustful eyes - needy for it, as you watched his hips rock against the cushions on the bench

“yeah, please-” he mumbled, pressing his cheek into the bench and nuzzling into it. you gasped at just the look of him already - so ready and waiting

you turned the the machine onto its lowest setting, so that it could enter Bolin at first slowly, to make sure he was properly prepped

he moaned as it pressed into him, pressing back, canting his hips beautifully as the machine pressed into him and bottomed out. he moaned, so pretty, like when you fucked him, except this time, he eyed you from across the room, and you could see from his expression just how much he needed it

“i’m ready, please -” he begged, but his voice was still somewhat composed. it was your job to fix that. you grinned devious, leaning on your elbow as you kicked the machine into its base setting - a steady pace, one you’ve used on him before, one you know he likes. the machine whirred to life, fucking into him deep and without hesitation

Bolin screamed in pleasure, his jaw going slack as he grabbed at the fabric in front of him, searching for anything to give him some grip

“oh, fuck - Y/n-!” he moaned, his body practically vibrating as the machine fucked into him without pause. you looked at him, worry in your eyes

“Bo, green?” you asked, concerned. you were using one of the methods common in your play - green was an enthusiastic yes, yellow was a stop and re-evaluate, and red was a full stop “i’m done with sexy stuff for the night”

“Spirits, yes, more -” he keened at the end, the room filled with obscene noises as Bolin was fucked into the bench, his body tense as he was overstimulated - but he loved it. he had no control over the pace, no control at all, and it was hard and deep and he needed more, even though his nerves were on fire. he wanted more

“more?” you asked, a quirk to your grin as you turned the machine up a notch. while this was your typical pace, the machine didn’t have to worry about stupid things like stamina. the higher settings were paces you would never dream to keep going for more than maybe a minute, at most

“yes - ah!” Bolin arched hard when you turned up the dial, the machine fucking into him faster, and his mouth fell open, plastering him to the bench, unable to do anything but take it - unable to even rock his hips in time, just assaulted by sensation. he felt like jelly, and he needed -

“more,” he moaned, and you could barely make his voice out. he was a mess - he was drunk on it, but he was clearly loving it, so you made the executive decision to do as he asked - and turned it up one more setting

“oh!” Bolin’s voice was knocked out of him as the machine pushed him harder into the bench, this setting not one that increased speed, but instead, power. Bolin moaned louder than you’d ever heard him, a cry that could have made you come just from how full of pure bliss it was.

Bolin saw stars - he was close already, but this setting had him coming untouched, pressing his face into the cushions of the bench as he painted it, his grip almost ripping the upholstery

you saw him arch hard, then go limp, his body convulsing as the machine kept fucking him, and you turned the settings down to something slower, something you hoped would help ease him through his orgasm. Bolin keened soft at it, looking at you with such love as he thanked you with his eyes for being so attentive, and knowing exactly what he needed

he opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a low whine as he nuzzled into the bench. you grinned, carefully stopping the machine so that the toy would still be inside him as you stood up - your own legs wobbly just at the sight of him, to pet through his hair, lean down to kiss his forehead, his cheeks

“how was it?” you asked, gentle. Bolin moaned in response, his entire body slack

“great,” he mumbled, his voice cracking, but you could tell he was sincere. you showered him in kisses, before you started your aftercare routine. oh, you were very glad you had taken the time to make this for him

#bolin x reader #asks #anon #mine #kinktober 2020 event #Anonymous

69 notes · View notes

atlafan · 5 years

Text

Take it Slow - Part One

a/n: okay this is my first shot at a harry:y/n fic, and it will be multiple parts. y/n had a bad experience with an ex over a year ago, and finally accepts her coworker and good friend Niall’s invitation to go on a blind date with his friend Harry. (There eventually be smut, but this part is mostly fluff.)

You had been seeing each other for about three weeks. You still couldn’t believe you had agreed to meeting someone on a blind date. But you were so sick of the online dating scene, so when your good friend Niall from work told you he had a single friend, you jumped at the chance.

He didn’t have any social media, there was an Instagram with his name, but no photos of him. Only pictures he had taken. He was a photographer, and a good one at that. Niall had roomed with him during their undergrad, and stayed mates after graduation. You had wondered why he never mentioned this single friend before.

“Well, after your last break up, I honestly didn’t think you’d ever want to look at another man.” He shyly told you in the break room one day.

It was true, your last break up was a really bad one. It was barely even a break up though because you two were barely dating. You had sex with him rather quick, and after him blowing you off two separate times, he ended things over a text. This sent you into a rather depressive episode. You vowed to not jump into bed with a guy quite so quickly ever again, even if you really wanted to.

You begged Niall to see a picture of him, but he said no. You tried to snoop around Niall’s Facebook page, but you couldn’t be certain of who he was. All you knew was his name: Harry Styles. Niall wouldn’t even give you his number to arrange the date.

“I’ll set everything up for the both of ya, and if it goes well then you can both take it from there.”

You were happy to have a best friend at work. Your days would be boring without each other. You and Niall were two of the younger people in your office, and you both felt it was necessary to stick together.

“What are you doing this Saturday night?” He asked you Wednesday morning, handing you a coffee. You each took turns buying coffee for the other. Today was his turn.

“Um, I think I was just going to binge watch something on Netflix. Why?”

“Harry was wondering if you’d be interested in dinner.”

“Oh he was?” You raise an eyebrow, and take a sip of your coffee.

“Yes, well I nudged him a little, but I’ve told him a lot about you and he’s very interested.” You blush at the thought.

“Well, I’m definitely free for dinner. Where was he thinking?”

“You’re both vegetarian, well, he’s a vegan actually, but he knows of this really great tapas place that has a lot of meatless options.”

“Wow, vegan. I like tapas so that works for me. What time?”

“Seven. I’ll text you the name of the place so you can look it up.”

“Thanks, this should be fun.” You smile at your friend.

Friday night after work, you decide to do a little shopping. After researching the restaurant, you knew you needed something a little nicer to wear, and you didn’t feel like anything in your closet would make a lasting impression. You drove out to the mall, cursing at yourself for not just going Saturday morning. The parking was crazy, and it felt like everyone and their brother was there. You stumbled into the Macy’s and looked around at their cocktail dresses. You wanted something to accentuate your best features, but also wanted to leave a little mystery. You settle on a basic, black dress. It was form fitting, and hugged just above the midpoint of your thighs. It had short, capped sleeves, and the neckline came just high enough to cover most of your cleavage. It was perfect. You knew you had shoes to match at home, so you didn’t waste any more time at the mall.

Saturday morning, you scrolled through countless hair and makeup tutorials on YouTube trying to find the one that suited you most. After getting frustrated, you settled on your go to hair style. You curled your hair, and waited a couple of hours to brush it out. You then had perfect waves, which almost looked natural. About an hour before you needed to leave, you put your makeup on. You decided to go with a subtle purple to make your green eyes pop, and swept some liquid eye liner over it. You contoured your face (something you had gotten quite good at), and then put your new black dress on. Happy with your appearance, you slide on some purple some nude, strappy heels, and headed out.

As you got closer to the restaurant, you grew nervous. You texted Niall to tell him it was silly you’d be walking into a place, looking for someone you had never met. He asked you what you were wearing, and he would tell Harry to look for you. But what if you got there first? What if he never shows up? How dare he! You thought. You shook the thought from your head and drove up to the restaurant. You circled around back where the parking was. You smoothed out your dress, praying it hadn’t wrinkled, before you walked in. Taking a deep breath, you looked around.

The place was even nicer in person. There was a really big bar, and the dining area looked so elegant. He must do well for himself if he likes this place. Before the hostess could greet you, you saw a somewhat familiar face walking towards you, but you couldn’t place where you had seen him before.

“(y/n)?” He asked.

“Um, yeah, are you Harry?”

“Yes, it’s nice to meet you.” He puts an awkward hand out to shake, and you take it just as awkwardly. “That was weird.” He says in a laugh. “I didn’t know if it would be appropriate to hug you.” You runs a hand through his hair.

“No, no, it was very polite. It’s nice to meet you too. You found me pretty quick.” You smiled at him.

“Niall had just texted me explaining what you were wearing. I happened to look up, and there you were.” He smiled back. That smile…you just remembered him.

“Did you happen to go to Niall’s holiday party last year?” You furrowed your eyebrows.

“Um, yeah. Were you there too?”

“Yes, I was gonna say you looked familiar. I don’t think we properly spoke to each other there.”

“Definitely not, I would’ve remembered you if we had.” You feel your cheeks flush and let out a simple laugh. “Well, our table should be ready. Let me check with the hostess.”

Harry walks over to the woman, who hands two menus to one of the waiters. He says you can follow him. Harry gestures to let you go first. You wondered if it was so he could check you out, but he didn’t seem like the type. He looked so handsome. His hair was short, but not too short that you couldn’t make out his curls. His eyes were green like yours, and he was wearing a pair of blue dress pants with a white button up shirt.

As you both sat down at your table for two, you noticed his nails were painted. How you didn’t notice earlier when you shook his hand, you weren’t sure. Every other nail was this deep orange, and the other a navy blue. You smiled at it. At least he was the type of guy to take care of his nails. He had a few rings on as well, and you could see a couple of tattoos. You assumed he had a sleeve since you couldn’t see the rest of the anchor on his wrist. After a moment you heard him couch, and you realized you were staring. Your eyes darted up to his.

“Sorry, I was just admiring your, um, rings.” Pointing to the H and S.

“Oh, thanks, they were a gift from my mum a few years back.” His accent was already so intoxicating. Now you figured out how him and Niall got roomed together, they both must’ve been international students. “You were looking at my nails too?” Your face feels hot, and you feel yourself sweat a little. “It’s alright, a lot of people stare.”

“No, it wasn’t staring, necessarily. I was admiring it as well. I think more men should get their nails done. It looks nice. I love getting mine done, see?” You put your hand out, and show him your black nails. “I get the shellac so they last longer, totally worth it.” He smiles at you. “How long have you been painting them for?”

“Oh god, years. I mostly started out with black, but then I got bored with it. I felt like I was only doing that color because it ‘masculine’.” He holds up air quotes at the word. “Then I started experimenting with more vibrant colors. I like doing pink and blue a lot, but this also suits me. Then I started getting creative with the placement of the colors.”

“I’ll do an accent nail once in a while myself, but I do like the style of every other color. Maybe I’ll try it some time.”

“I know it doesn’t look super professional, but since I’m not in an office I can kind of do what I want.” He shrugs.

“Right, you’re a photographer?”

“Mhm. Mostly for, like, outdoors type of things. I really like taking pictures at night. But I’ll also do a little freelance work for people who want a photoshoot. I usually clean up good during the wedding season.”

You got so lost in conversation, you nearly forgot you were at a restaurant. A waitress comes over, frantically, and out of breath.

“Hi folks, so sorry for the wait. We got slammed all at once.”

“Oh, that’s no problem.” You beamed at her. Remembering your time in the food service industry.

“Can I start you two off with any drinks?” You look at each other, and he gestures for you to go first.

“Um, could I please have a vodka tonic, with titos, and lime?” He gives you a surprised smirk, probably expecting you to have just ordered a glass of wine.

“Sure thing, and for you sir?”

“I’ll have the same as her, please.” The waitress nods, and walks away.

“I take it that’s your drink?”

“Yeah, I’m not really a wine with dinner kind of gal.” The strange thing was, any time you had wine with dinner, you always got drunk. Vodka, however, you didn’t feel as much. You felt sager having that. “You like vodka too?”

“Once in a while, it tastes good with whatever you eat.”

“We should look at the menu and figure out what dishes we want so it’s easier for her when she comes back. I feel bad she was so out of breath coming over here.”

“Good idea.”

The waitress comes back with your drinks, and takes your order. You both had decides on some flat bread with arugula and goat cheese. It wasn’t vegan, but Harry didn’t mind. You also ordered some roasted cauliflower that came with a dipping sauce.

“How long have you been a vegetarian for?” He asks you, taking a sip of his drink.

“Um, a little over a year. I wouldn’t necessarily call it being a vegetarian, I just don’t eat meat.”

“What made you want to stop eating meat?”

“Well, it just didn’t make me feel good. My doctor also told me to straight up lay off the red meat. I got sick of eating chicken and fish, and if I’m being honest the thought of eating it just started to make me not feel good. I do still enjoy the smell of a fresh steak on the grill.”

“So you did it out of health instead of ethics?”

“Yup. I don’t have much dairy either. I love cheese so I keep that in my diet, but I have up milk a long time ago. I stick to coconut milk mostly if I need my fix. What made you go vegan?”

“Health benefits, I suppose. I was also taking a lot of pictures of animals for this one magazine and it just made it hard to even eat fish. I think it’s been five years now.”

“Good for you, that’s incredible.” You take sip of your drink, and notice the bar tender was a little heavy handed with the vodka.

“So, you met Niall at work right?”

“Mhm.”

“I know what he does there, but what do you do?”

“I’m on our marketing team, with him. He and I tag team a lot of projects. I work more with our digital pieces. I photopshop images, and edit video.”

“What made you go into that?”

“Well, when I was younger I wanted to be a film maker, but I fell in love with marketing, and put the film making on the back burner. I still write now and then for fun.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone say they loved marketing before.”

“Well, it’s not so much the marketing, it’s more how creating the right content can change someone’s point of view.”

A food runner brings your food to your table. You both put your napkins in your laps, and dig in.

“Mmm.” You lick your lips after taking a bit of the flatbread. “This is delicious. Great choice.”

“Thanks, I like coming here, there are just so many options.” You see him pick off most of the goat cheese, and feel a little guilty.

“We didn’t need to get this type of flatbread. I feel terrible you can’t fully enjoy it.”

“It’s no big deal really, I can eat everything else on it.” He gives you a reassuring smile.

The waitress comes over to check on you.

“Can I get you both another drink?”

“I’ll have another, yeah. (y/n)?”

“Um, sure, that would be great.” You promised yourself you’d nurse the next one.

“Tell me about Niall in college, I’m dying to know what he was like.”

“Oh, he was rambunctious. Lad never had any clothes on, then again, neither did I.” You nearly choke on your drink. “I think that’s why we got on so well, neither of us liked wearing more than our trousers.”

“Were you both international students?”

“Yup, but we didn’t room together until our second year. We had met at one of the international student events, and we clicked. They made us room with other students from the states to get a more well-rounded experience.” He shrugs. “I remember this one time he came with me to get a tattoo, and he nearly pissed himself.” He lets out a laugh.

“Niall doesn’t have any tattoos.” You furrow your eyebrows and smile.

“No, he definitely does not. He was being a good mate and came with me when I got my first really big one. I have a butterfly here.” He puts his palm flat just under his breast plate.

“What made you want to get a butterfly?”

“Don’t know, I just like the way they look. They have an odd beauty to them.” You felt like you could listen to him talk all night. But your trance was broken when your waitress brought the check over. She told you no rush, but you knew how these things went. You knew she probably needed to get the table turned soon.

You both reached for the check, but Harry snatched it away. He gave you a “get real” kind of look, took his wallet out, and set his credit card inside the small plastic flap, leaving the check on the edge of the table.

“At least let me pay the tip.”

“Sorry, can’t letcha do that, love. Wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me would it?” Did he just call you love? It was something Niall did too, but not until he really got to know you. Maybe Harry’s alcohol was starting to hit him, the way it was hitting you. Maybe he just felt relaxed around you.

“I thought you were more progressive than that?” You said jokingly.

“Oh, I am. But I also abide by the rules that whoever asked who out should pay.”

“Okay, that’s a pretty respectable rule, I’ll give you that.”

The waitress sweeps by the table to grab the credit card, and is back in minutes. Harry takes out some cash from his wallet, and signs the slip of paper.

“Thank you.” You say to him.

“Don’t mention it.” He smiles back. “Shall we?” He gets up first, and extends a hand to you to help you up. “Did you park out back?”

“Yup.” You really didn’t want the night to end yet. You look at your watch and it’s only almost nine.

“Great, so did I.”

He walks closely next to you on your wat to the parking lot.

“That’s me.” You point to your car. He walks you over to it, and you lean against your door. “I had a really nice time tonight.” You say looking down at your shoes, then back up at him.

“Me too.” He looks away for second, and runs a hand through his hair. He looks at you again. “Would it be alright to ask for your number?”

“Sure.” You reach into your purse and grab your cell phone. You hand it to him. “Feel free to just text yourself.” He smiles, and takes your phone, putting his number in.

“So, I take it you’d like to do this again?”

“Definitely.” He hands you back your phone, and put it back in your purse. In a bold move, you lean forward and give him a slight peck on the cheek. “Talk to you soon.”

You both blush, he smiles and lets out a nervous laugh. He opens your car door for you.

“Have a good rest of your evening.” He says to you.

“Same to you.”

You drive off, feeling your heart flutter. It was the perfect date. You were proud of yourself. Normally would have tried to make out with a man that attractive, but you showed wonderful restraint. You couldn’t wait for him to get in touch with you again.

#harry styles #hs #hs1 #hs2 #harry styles fic #harry styles y/n #harry styles fluff #fic #hope yall like it #niall horan #niall #harry styles y/n fic #harry styles imagine

842 notes · View notes

mypresentelegances · 4 years

Text

Best Wuthering Heights adaptation? Character comparison

Wuthering Heights is one of my favourite books, but the screen adaptations are... not very good. From adapting only half a book to completely changing the ending they continue to make odd odd choices in adapting this book. I can’t blame them though since the book is basically unfilmable. I did my best trying to rank these adaptations, but none of them can really be called a “winner”.

1939: Oberon is too whiny. I'll never forget her "Heathcliiifff!!" when the dog bites her leg. Not awful, but definitely not Cathy either. After marrying Edgar she is far too composed and regal. Oberon does portray some arrogance and gets angry once in a while, but doesn't really show Cathy's unstable nature.

1992: She is not fierce enough to be Cathy, and her giggling in the beginning is enough to drive one mad. She makes the emotional and "softer" scenes work well and with Ralph Fiennes they capture the more pleasant moments of the relationship but definitely miss out on the "passionate" and "eternal". Overall I like some aspects of her performance and she shows the growth of the character with less than stellar direction. She just misses out a big time on passion and fierceness, but makes up for it with kind of lunacy so her Cathy is unstable, just in a different way.

2009: Charlotte Riley's Cathy is probably least Cathy-like out of the four I've watched. She is kind and caring, scolds Heathcliff for being mean, gives food to poor, is instantly friends with Isabella.. She shows all her emotions to Heathcliff and instead of the twisted games and hate-passion they have in the book, this Cathy is just a simple woman in love with Heathcliff, who is playing with her. Instead of knowing that they are everything to each other, that they are each other, they just have common jealousy. This is just bad.

2011: The younger version of Cathy is maybe not spicy enough but she is good and her bond with Heathcliff is shown well. Kaya Scoledario on the other hand is about as interesting as watching that nth shot of the muddy moor. This version of Cathy also has a weird interest in drinking blood.

1939: Laurence Olivier has absolutely zero Heathcliff in him. His Heathcliff is romantic, talkative and calm. Heathcliff as a romance novel hero. Also Olivier is as wooden as the giant block of wood he throws in to the fire in the beginning.

1992: Ralph Fiennes starts out as a bit too sophisticated for Heathcliff, but his performance definitely gets better after Heathcliff returns. He is cruel underneath his somewhat gentlemanly facade that he doesn't really work to upheld once he gets what he wants. I actually rather like his performance, even though it doesn't reach his book heights of cruelty.

2009: Tom Hardy makes for a chatty Heathcliff. He is a bit evil, sure, but also way too social. He doesn't seem to hide any kind of dark feelings behind his quippy exterior. If he's happy, he is, if he's angry, he is. Change in his three years away is nonexistent since he was already so at home around everyone. I'm also confused how after 18 years he just decides to blow his brains out. Ok.

2011: Again young Heathcliff is portrayed well Solomon Glave but the older one.. less so. Boring is really the only way to describe James Howson's performance. He seems like he is not interested at all in Cathy or anything really. He is just floating around the screen. He sounds curiously like Jon Snow and that is not a good thing.

1939: There is not much to say about his Hindley really. He is utterly forgettable.

1992: Unfortunately the curse of forgettableness follows Hindleys. Jeremy Northam beats Heathcliff up once but is really reduced to nothing in this film. Around the middle he then just dies off.

2009: Gorman's Hindley is weirdly happy and loving before Frances' death, but turns out to be a passable drunk afterwards. I especially like him meantioning his plans to kill Heathcliff. The Hidnley-Heathcliff dynamic in the beginning paints Heathcliff as a victim, so Hindley being a passable person for a while is an odd choice. However I remember him so that’s a bonus.

2011: Well he is racist for sure. I guess the skinhead look is some very very clever social commentary.

1939: David Niven as Edgar was... an interesting choice. He doesn't get much to do, mostly standing around and frowning at Heathcliff.

1992: I'm well aware of being very biased here, but Simon Shepherd truly looks like I've always imagined Edgar Linton looking like. He is just the perfect Edgar to me no contest. I think he captures Edgar from the book very nicely.

2009: Andrew Lincoln is far too manly and dark to be the light-coloured, bloodeless Edgar. He is also too mean in this version.

2011: I really don't have anything to say about this man. Edgar is on-screen for maybe half a minute and that is the less interesting half so I may have missed it.

1939: Isabella doesn't come off as such a fool since Heathcliff is 10000x more pleasant than he really is. Fitzgerald plays Isabella fine enough. She looks way too much like Cathy tho.

1992: I just hate how they cut out the scene of Isabella running away, as it is one of my favourite scenes and really makes Isabella's character into something more than a lovesick fool. Without that Sophie Ward doesn't really have much to do.

2009: Isabella gets some "development" in this series, we are seen her looking for suitors at Cathy's wedding and she explains some of her reasons for being interested in Heathcliff. Rest of the movie she looks sadly around eyes wide. They had Isabella leaving Heathcliff and completly butchered that. I'm Angry >.<

2011: Cmon Isabella. This Heathcliff is in no way interesting. He doesn't even have any "dark sexual attraction". We never see what might make Isabella interested in Heathcliff and I mean, who really cares anyway? If you're paying attention at this point I salute you. Okay I'm back since I noticed the movie is ending. They had the scene where Isabella and Hindley shut Heathcliff out so that's fun.

1939: Best thing about Flora Robson is that she vaguely resembles Jane McTeer. She doesn't really have a large role. What she has she does well enough.

1992: Janet McTeer is my love and joy. She is too old in the beginning, sure, and for the rest of the movie looks like she is in her 40s, but she is so so lovely as Nelly. I love her acting in "I am Heathcliff" scene and in her scenes with Heathcliff. She is the reason I like this movie so much despite its many failings.

2009: Nelly is way too old, which changes her relationship with all the characters. The actress does her grandma-role fine, giving shocked looks underneath her biddy bonnet.

2011: Ummm... Congrats for being the right age? This Nelly really doesn't have a role.

It was rather hard to rate the second generation since the 1992 movie was the only one to actually properly include it.

#wuthering heights #bronte #emily bronte #perioddrama #period drama #tom hardy #charlotte riley #juliette binoche #ralph fiennes #jane austen

27 notes · View notes

kanene-yaaay-o-retorno · 3 years

Text

Caffeinated drinks, black dots and I should’ve stayed at home

Kanene’s Notes: Heya, heya awesome beans! Howz you are all doing?!

I am very glad that I finally finished this idea dfghjkderty. Shinsou was the second character that my mind screamed that I NEEDED to put in a cat cafe and kjhgtrertyu I think that one is a litol more funny and fluff than hurt/comfort, like the one with Midoriya, but worry not! In the end of the day one more kid is adopted :D

Warnings, fun facts, random things and stuff:

* That fanfic has Dadzawa and Yamadad and their relatonship can be seen as romantic, if you wish.

* This happens in the same universe as This Fanfic Here and you can also find it on AO3.

* There is passing out due exhaustion, sleep deprivation and cursing, but besides that i don’t think that there are any more warnings. This is more funny and fluff.

* This characters do not belongs to me. They all belongs to the amazing the manga/anime Boku no Hero.

* Something around 2.500 words. -w-)b.

* Sorry for any spelling, pontuation and grammar mistakes! Any advice is very very welcome!

* Tô com preguiça de postar a versão em português brasileiro aaaa! Oh!! If you have an idea for another scenario in this universe, hmu! I would love to hear it !!Thankys so much for reading this. Take care! Drink water! Eat well!! Pet a cute animal today!! And please sleep a bit, okie? <3 Byeioo!~

[~*~]

Shinsou blinked for what it felt the fifth time on the last minutes, which was probably the same amount a normal human being was supposed to blink but right now it just felt wrong. He rubbed his stinging eyes again, suppressing another yawn, firm on his purpose to concentrate his brain enough on the task of remembering his order, an almost impossible action by the way a growing headache involved his mind since he woke up.

The teenager focused again on the colorful, full of doodles of paws and whiskers menu, wishing for the first time in nearly two months attending the place that the drinks’ names were objective and direct, and not awful cat puns that made his braincells prefer to combust themselves instead of gathering the necessary information to remind him of the beverage he should ask.

He squinted his eyes, dots appearing in the air. Hm. Definitely not a good sign. Maybe he should order two of the most caffeinated drinks instead of just one? He stared the menu again, frustration flaming on his veins as the words blurred and lost their signification, dancing together with the café’s lights.

And it was only 7 AM.

Perhaps he should have stayed home, on the safety of his bed and the darkness of his room. He knew he should have cancelled his training.

And yet, even thinking about that possibility made Hitoshi’s stomach be consumed by anxious tugs and knots, leaving an unpleasant taste of displeasure on his mouth. His trainings were one of the best moments on his entire week. They were events he would catch himself smiling as he thought about a newest move he learned or how his body seemed to recover quicker from the lessons. Or even how good, how right and free he felt on the gym, tired and sore, in the moment that his mentor nodded, proudness flicking in his eyes.

… How amazing it felt to look at the mirror and see that same feeling reflected on his own gaze.

He couldn’t deprive himself of that sensation, even if dealing with the painful consequences of his sleep deprivation and probably a lecture if his mentor caught him was the only other options.

“Just one more. Just one more person and then I can ask for the strongest caffeinated shit here.” Yeah. This time those cups would be enough to make him endure at least his afternoon classes, he repeated to himself in mumbles. Two cups. Two cups and some minutes petting a cat and he would be ready. He would be ready for the world and society and the whole being a functional human being thing. And then he would get on the metro and nap until he gets home where he would have the real opportunity to properly sleep. Almost there. Just two cups. Two. Two cups.

Gosh, he probably sounded like Midoriya, mumbling non stop like this. A mental image of the energetic teen looking as tired as Shinsou and drinking coffee as if his life depended on it popped on his brain, leading to a sudden urge to giggle manically take over the purple haired boy, and for the way some other customers eyed him warily he possible vocalized that impulse as well, limbs feeling at the same time too much heavy and too much light.

He was so fucking tired.

“Next one!” Loud. So loud. Shinsou obligated his body to step closer, opening his eyes enough to realize that dark spots still painted his vision. Huh. When did he close his eyes, again? “Good morning, little customer! How can I help you today?”

Hitoshi stared at the figure in front of him, senses slow like he was under water, trying to understand the distorted sentences being directed at him, the dots growing and twinkling. Black dots were supposed to be able to do that?

The world swayed a bit under his feet. He tried to move his lips but they didn’t obey him.

“Little customer?” The voice sounded worried, and maybe that is what compelled the boy to take a deep breath, putting all his will in forming word after word when a nauseating wave of tiredness hit him, leading his conscience’s grip in reality weaken.

“I am going to pass out.”

And then the world got completely black, his senses disappearing together with a background screech.

Well, fuck.

[…]

Yamada had seen a lot of crazy, strange things while working at the cat café.

As example that one shift when an adult of blue hair, strict pose and clear exhaustion dripping in waterfalls from his form was convinced that he was in a library and fiercely tried to return a book to them, doesn’t taking a ‘no’ as answer until the blond was left stupefied with a book of “The Secrets Hidden in The Bottom of The Ocean” on his arms.

Or that occasion when a boy with a blank expression wearing Victorian clothes and completely surrounded by crows opened their door, looked from a side to another, stared at the deepest parts of Yamada’s soul, analyzing all his dark fears and secrets before slowly blink and say “Wrong store, my apologies” walking back and calmly ignoring the hissing and battle yowling of dozens of cats and crows.

Or the day a green haired woman with a kind, calm aura just walked behind the counter completely unphazed by Hizashi and Aizawa’s unbelieved looks, made two healthy snacks, patted their cheeks saying ‘You two need to eat more, dears’ and then disappeared as if nothing had happened.

However, none of those events ever prepared him for the moment which purple eyes would stare his in an unfocused state, not really looking at anything and a wobbly smirk – if he wasn’t accustomed with Shouta’s grin, he would easily call it ‘creepy’ – would paint his customer’s pale face, the silence ringing alarmingly on his ears.

“Are you okay, little listener? Do you want to sit for a minute? You look extremely tired.”

As the words came out of his lips, a spell seemed to break, the other’s face getting even paler, smile falling and eyes widening leaded his body to stumble forward instinctively, something on his guts screaming for him to get ready. A few other customers on the line grumbled in impatience, looking at their watch and protesting. Somewhere, in the deep part of his brain, Yamada wondered why those things only happened when Aizawa was out and no procedures for those kinds of situations were previously discussed on their contract.

“Hey, guy,” a blonde teenager behind the paralyzed one said, tipping forward in an attempt to catch the other’s expression, his kimono following each move, “are you… here with us?”

“Little listener?”

A hesitant poke on his cheeks, two pair of eyes warily watching a third.

His mouth finally moved.

“I am going to pass out.” His voice was light, stitched together by certain. His legs trembled under his own weight, body collapsing.

“You WHAT?” A terrified shriek mixed itself between Hizashi’s words, flying across the whole store.

“Oh, shi-”

His blonde client didn’t waste a second before holding the other, arms locking under his armpits in a strange kind of hug, knees weakening with the sudden, unexpected effort, the limp teenager not even flinching with the touch, laying there completely motionless.

Hizashi blinked, gulping, adrenaline exploding on each one of his fibers, color slightly draining from his own face, a piece of his conscience wishing with all its strength for this to be only a dream. When his eyes opened, everything would be the same.

He blinked, the deafening silence still crushing the room, one set of black eyes staring at him in confusion and growing panic, another set closed, heavy, dark circles under it.

Right. He didn’t have time for this.

So, he blinked again, finding himself in front of them both, pushing his feelings under a mask of a calm, an easy reassuring smile already slipping on his face, crouching to get the legs of his customer, catching the gaze the other and winking, “let’s get him on a more comfortable position, right?”

A determined nod, quick, careful steps as they both laid the purple haired one on a small couch placed under some shelves, having to gently dislodge three sleeping cats, who hissed in irritation. The voice of Nemuri, attending the rest of the line filling the space and being acknowledged in the back of his mind, serving as a firm ground and helping his muscles to relax, even if just a little bit.

Hizashi stared the young boy in front of him, looking somewhat peaceful, a bit of color having already returned to his face, soft snores coming out from him.

… Hitoshi. That is his name, right? He wasn’t a new client, always coming at every fifteen days, always by morning and always caffeinated drinks that only Yamada - on his most delirious moments - ever thought in trying, quick to go to play with any feline who appeared in front of him. Although, he never stayed more than ten minutes, the quiets ‘bye’s he gave to the felines never failing to melt Yamada’s weak, bleeding heart.

A childish voice pulled him right out of his thoughts.

“Mom, is he dead?”

A snort escaped his lips before he could help it. Kids.

“Sir?” The teenager shook a small device with a shiny screen in front of him, the logo of a new rock band he hadn’t a chance to listen to yet on the background “I found his phone, I think we should call his emergency contact…?”

“Of course! Thank you, little helper!” He ruffles his hair, flashing a smile and thumbs up as his finger quickly clicked on the call button, listening, not trying to show his impatience as it ringed.

“You’re late.” A tired voice answered him, and Hizashi felt his entire body relax completely, right before the surprise shook its frame, too much pieces clicking together in a puzzle he didn’t even know he was solving.

“SHOU?”

[~*~]

“I am sorry.”

“You will be writing a formal letter apologizing to Hizashi, Nemuri and to me, our classes will be cancelled for this week and, if I notice you didn’t recover properly on this free time, for the next week as well. I am not going to stand by and watch you running yourself to the ground, damaging your potential because you lack of some sense of self preservation, do I make myself clear?” Shinsou tried to not visibly flinch at his sensei’s words. He almost forgot how much intimidating Aizawa could be when totally serious. They stopped by the Cat Café’s door, the black eyes staring at him.

“Yes, sir.” He answered, lowering his gaze. Shouta sighed, his worry stopping to come out as harsh and necessary words to materialize itself in the form of him patting the boy’s head, messing his hair for a few seconds before opening the door and getting into the establishment.

“Good. Now come in, Hizashi has been worried and he won’t stop pestering me until he sees with his own eyes how you are.”

Hitoshi didn’t had time to question how someone that he just met – if you consider passing out in front of him a proper meeting – could be worried about his well-being when, as the door clicked behind him, an excited screech filled the room, forging the realization that maybe that weird high sound before his faint wasn’t just the ring of his ears.

“SHINSOU!!” And, in a blink of eyes, the blonde was in front of him, hands on his face, turning it from a side to another, up and downwards, “You look so much better with some color on your face! I am glad that you finally took some necessary rest, huh? Your eyeshadows even got lighter, which, phew, is such a relief! For a very terrifying moment there I almost thought you would be as bad as this guy right here.” Yamada locked his arms around Aizawa’s shoulder, using the time to take a breather and smile, gladly giving the younger some time to process the flow of words thrown at him. “You gave us both quite a scare, kiddo.”

“I am deeply sorry for inconveniencing you and interrupting your work, Yamada-san.” He bowed, a slight embarrassed blush dusting his cheeks.

“Just please don’t do that again and you will be fine, little customer.” Hizashi then squinted his eyes on his direction as Hioshi brought himself back to his previous position, shoulders tense and straightened back, much different from his previous more slouched pose. Yamada’s eyes got a few inches wider. “You gave him The Talk!” He turned himself to Shouta, his excited sentence, loud enough to probably making his friend deaf, if the black haired adult wasn’t already used with the other’s attics, previously covering his ears before the outburst.

His response was a grunt, Aizawa dislodging himself from his touch with scoff and half heartedly mumbles, ignoring the confusion on his pupil’s gaze. “Maybe he looks like that because of your total disregarding of personal space.”

“Don’t worry,” Hizashi put his hand at the side of his mouth, as if he was confiding Shinsou’s a secret. “He only does that because he is worried about you, too. Don’t let yourself to be fooled by his grumpy façade. He is a mother hen at heart.”

“I am going to lock you outside and give all your CD’s to the kittens a their new toys.” The other threatened, going behind the balcony and turning the coffee machines on, preparing the store to open. The few cats who were already wandering around the place yowled and meowed in despair, as if the blonde hadn’t feed them fifteen minutes ago and they were starving under the hands of such unloving and uncaring creature. Aizawa crouched and distributed the treats hidden on his pockets for everyone of them, nevertheless. His friend used the distraction to mouth a ‘see?’ at the younger’s direction, eliciting a snicker from him, his body language more relaxed.

“Feel free to do whatever,” Aizawa proclaimed, not staring at the boy, who felt a flower of warmth blossom on his chest. “Just be sure that all your homework is completed by lunch time or the moment you decide to go. Sushi is probably napping now, but when she wakes up, I will warn you.”

“But first,” Hizashi clapped, capturing the attention as he walked with a dance on his step to the bakeries, taking two plate on his way. “breakfast! For you both. And that means something substantial and not just a cup of coffee.”

Shinsou startled from the table he decided to place himself, shaking his head. “Yamada-san, it’s okay, you don’t need to-”

“Nonsense, nonsense! I want to. Eating breakfast alone is just sooo boring, you know?” Hizashi spun on the place, almost throwing the muffins and breads around as Ochaco used his distraction to attack his shoelaces. “Uravity, stop, I need those.”

“Her name isn’t Uravity.” Shouta appeared again, bringing drinks and yawning, his focus changed to the boy’s. “Better give up. I’ve been fighting against him for years now.”

“Also, her name is Ochaco Uravity Fluffy Second and you just refuse to call her that because you’re just jealous of how much genius I am.”

“I refuse to call her that because I care for her sanity.”

“Lies, lies.”

Hitoshi snorted, hiding his smirk behind his hand. “I prefer his name better, sensei.”

Aizawa watched them high five between the cheers of the blonde with an unimpressed expression. “Cheeky brat.”

“You’re just grumpy because he has a good taste. Friendship ended with Shouta, now Shinsou is my new best friend.”

"I am truly devasted." Aizawa deadpanned, taking a long sip of his beverage, hiding his smirk as Shinsou snorted, Yamada's dramatic wailing in the background.

And, as the playful bickering engulfed them between the warm food and purrs, Hitoshi decided that maybe losing his weekly training wasn’t so bad if that was what waited for him.

8 notes · View notes