#but i loved the finale despite this snake-charmer

[geekynightowl1997]

Okay, okay. You all are probably ANNOYED about my Leverage posts- and I was on the fence about posting this one because I'm only on season 3. However, I just have SO many thoughts and I need to process them. So- here it goes;

*takes a deep breath*

Leverage is home. Like, I don't- I don't know to explain it. In another post I said the show was intoxicating and that's still true. But it's also- it's also home. Maybe I'm the only one, but when I watch it- I feel like I belong. Which is ridiculous. I'm not talented at all- but Leverage is almost like a security blanket. It's- it's safe and warm... it's home.

The only thing I can think of why it's home is because of them. Because they make it feel like home. They make feel safe and like your being cared for. Like your not alone. Even if you don't think your good at something- Leverage has your back. It gives you a sense of security. Which is weird because their criminals. But- like they said; Sometimes the bad guys are the only good guys you get.

I mean- you have Nate Ford who is always two to three spaces in front of the bad guy. Who sits there and listens to victims and gives them hope. Who talks to his team and bounces ideas off of them- instead of talking down to them. He's the kinda guy that watches from the background and sees all sorts of angles. Gets into the minds of both the victim and assailant. And if the con goes wrong- he has a second one ready to cover. Whose weakness is an empty bottle in an occupied barstool.

You have Sophie. A terrible actress whose good at acting. She can play any part. Be unseen- while being seen. Whose brave, kind, and gentle- but can kick butt when needed. She's not a damsel in distress- but she'll play the part. And the thing about that part is; it's so convincing- even she believes it too. Despite that- she's honest and sincere, she'll tell you what she thinks. Her heart is gold. Her trust is thin. She's like a snake- hypnotizing. Her weakness is the love she gave to a man who thinks too much and feels too little.

You have Eliot. A man that- if you just look at him- you'll just shrug him off. He's like any other brute. Big and brawny. And that's why you shouldn't ever judge a book by it's cover. He's so much more than that. Yes. He's brawn. A real southern charmer. But he has a brain and a heart. He's that big brother and gives you hugs and you can't help but melt into the security of that feeling. That feeling of safety that you just know has an ocean of anger underneath. But your not scared, you can't be scared. Not of him. He's the kinda guy you run towards- because you know he'll keep you safe. And yeah- maybe he'll use his brawn to keep you safe, but he'll also use his brain and his heart. He'll get you out of the situation in one piece with a grumble and a growl. His weakness is his kindness and that's why doesn't let it show.

You have Alec. The brainiac. The hacker- who isn't all that much to look at (compared to Eliot,) at least not at first glance. Yet, there's something about him that screams safe. Just as much as Eliot. He's outgoing and kind. Smart and funny. And the way that he's got everyone's back- even when it doesn't seem like it. He's your go to- to find any kind of internet mistakes and he's a good shoulder to cry on. He's that brother who is dorky, awkward, and nerdy- but he's honest and sincere. His weakness is not being able to be there when it really matters.

And- and you have Parker. The thief. The master thief- that didn't belong anywhere. Nimble and lean as she flips and slinks through vents. She's the little sister the family didn't know they even wanted. Until finally they realized she was what they needed. She's bright and cheerful despite how she grew up. Her life wasn't easy foster care and street living is a rough life- but she still believes in good things; Santa clause, Nate, Sophie, and Eliot. Most importantly she believed in Hardison. She was on her own until she was found and working with a team. Then she belonged to them. Everything she had done- was so that they knew she loved them. Her weakness is having the ability to not get caught.

To end this; Leverage is an amazing shoe- because it reminds us that no matter our background. No matter how many times we've messed up and haven't belonged- we are all human. It tells us that we will find our home, our tribe, our safety. That no matter our weakness- we'll always have somebody who can take our weakness and become our strength.

I'm only on season 3. I'll more than likely have more thoughts come by season 4/ season 5. (If you agree or disagree- don't hesitate to message me!

[magicaleggplant]

extremely belated montreal worlds impressions, part 2

part 1 (pairs and women recap)

finally finishing this a whole month after worlds... i'm traveling again over the next couple of weeks and i've barely recovered from montreal! anyways, here's the (very rushed) ice dance and men recap.

———————————–

ICE DANCE

...is a fake sport, but i enjoy the vibes? i don't know a lot about the technicalities of ice dance despite having watched it for many years, so it mostly comes down to whether i like a team or not. overall i enjoyed the event, the free dance more than the rhythm dance (there are only so many 80s RDs i can take...) there were a lot of enjoyable free dances, even in the early groups! i actually enjoyed them more than the final group, in a way. the podium in ice dance tends to be too predictable.

chock/bates: i've never had much of an opinion on this team. i liked them best when they were doing character pieces like the snake charmer fd, but i also found myself enjoying their rhythm dance at worlds. they skated it very well and it was fun and engaging. the free was a bit of a question mark... i thought they had a lot of interesting positions throughout, especially in the lifts and choreographic elements, but the whole program felt a bit disjointed to me. it was fine, it didn't leave much of an impression. the whole did not feel like more than the sum of the parts... their speed was also not the best.

gilles/poirier: i can't remember much from their rd except that piper's costume was amazing, i loved her holographic leggings. their free was a MOMENT, though. wuthering heights has been one of my favorite free dances all season, and it was so good to see it live in front of a home crowd. they are such good storytellers, and when their choreo hits, it really hits. i love when they do something unusual like this program - it doesn't always work, but in this case, it did. the placement of that curve lift was perfect. i will note, however, that they are also not particularly fast.

guignard/fabbri: nearly swore out loud when her dress caught on her skate right in front of me. that was a nerve-wracking few seconds until the end. their free dance was beautiful and suited them really well, i especially loved the choreo assisted jumps near the beginning. their skating skills are clean and precise. i just wish their rhythm dance didn't have such a godawful music cut. none of their RDs have suited them well in the last few seasons.

fear/gibson: no thoughts, head empty, vibes only. in all seriousness, i enjoyed their rhythm dance, it's fun and it's a great fit for them. i did not enjoy rocky. i would have loved it as an exhibition, but not as a competitive program. i can see how it's a crowd-pleaser, though. they were definitely popular with the audience.

lajoie/lagha: probably one of, if not the most popular team with the audience! they are one of the teams i'm most looking forward to seeing in the coming years. i became a fan when i saw them live at last season's skate canada. they skate big and fast, they have good skating skills and both programs were well-choreographed. their rd is a lot of fun - that's how you incorporate a theme and commit to it! i love how most of the dance moves are choreographed into the step sequences instead of stopping and posing. the fd music is a little one-note and i still prefer last season's white crow fd, but their skating quality makes up for it. i'm so glad they were still able to skate at worlds after marjorie's concussion earlier in the season.

carreira/ponomarenko: loved both of their programs, especially their fd. i never knew they could pull off drama so well. their growth in the last two seasons has been phenomenal. it was hilarious that the audience kept getting faked out by the music in the end and clapping before the program ended. i probably would've had them a place higher in the standings.

other notes:

i came out of worlds with an unexpected appreciation for lopareva/brissaud. i never paid much attention to them before, but their skating skills were impressive. i don't think the audience really "got" their rd, but props to them for choosing to do something different. the fd was a snooze, though.

i also enjoyed demougeot/le mercier's free dance. some really interesting choreo moments.

turkkila/versluis: enjoyed their free dance as well, it's a nice look on them.

lim/quan's fd was another Moment! i am super excited for this team and how far they've come in their first senior season. hannah's acting and expressions are god-tier... they need to work on speed and SS, but their fd was gorgeous and one of my favorites of the event.

felt so bad for the taschlers' fall in the rd. i think they were the fastest team in the whole ice dance event, it's so impressive how powerful their skating is. i have questions about their packaging sometimes but i really like this team, and i hope next season goes better for them.

orihara/pirinen's fd was another favorite of the event. they are both SO expressive and fun. in any other team, yuka would outshine her partner, but juho not only keeps up with her but complements her perfectly!

———————————–

MEN

this was the event i was most looking forward to at worlds, and it did not disappoint. as chaotic as i was expecting it to be, i did not anticipate that it would be quite that chaotic. men be menning, as always.

ilia: i wish it were otherwise, but his competitive performances were just not doing it for me. his weaker skating skills were very obvious live when compared to many other top men. i like his sp choreo but i feel like he's put less performance into it with every competition. it was disappointing to see how much he slowed down during the step sequence. (granted, he did have an undisclosed injury at worlds, so that could have been an exacerbating factor.) the free was...historic. i genuinely wish i felt something while watching it, because the audience was losing their shit with every jumping pass lol. and why shouldn't they! like...what the fuck! this is the most incredible jump drill the world has ever seen! who knows when or if he can replicate it again! ...but it's still a jump drill. (side note about how irrationally annoyed the choreo sequence makes me. it's just randomly tacked on the end, the music cut is so abrupt, it has nothing to do with the rest of the program, shae lynn why.) and then i watched him in the gala and he was like a completely different skater. complete 180. the difference was so stark, i could hardly believe it. he can perform! he was giving more in that teenage-angst-ridden exhibition than i've seen in all his competitive programs combined. i can only hope that he brings more of that energy to competition someday, because that's the kind of skating i want to see, that's a skater really connecting with the music and the audience.

yuma: i'm about to heap an embarrassing amount of superlatives on this kid. it was my first time seeing him live, and he was everything i'd hoped for. jumps light as a feather, running edges for days. (you should have heard my ungodly shriek when he landed his 4F in front of me! it looked so easy.) skating skills - sublime, every stroke effortless, excellent speed. but what i'm most impressed with is his artistic improvement this season. he's always been an incredible technician (and i have a lot of thoughts about how ilia is being branded as The Technician and yuma The Artist now, when in fact yuma's technique is just as good, only with lower base value, and his SS are far superior, but i digress) but he has really put in the work to become a better performer and fine-tune everything from his body movements to his interpretation of music. jokes about making me like imagine dragons aside, i think his sp helped him explore music and sharp movements that were out of his comfort zone. loved that step sequence. (the only criticism i have is that he needed more swagger. he needed some more of what adam was serving in his sp, a certain cockiness and suaveness. but yuma has always been a more introverted skater. i think that kind of expression is still difficult for him.) the free was simply glorious. i didn't think i would like yet another rain in your black eyes program, and i was side-eyeing lori nichol for giving yuma this music after she used it for sui/han. but yuma made it his own. there were so many beautiful moments perfectly timed to the music. (ina bauer! spiral! and the step sequence, ahhh) he was so close to being clean, there was an audible groan in the audience when he fell on the 3A, but then they cheered him on until the end, which was heartwarming. what an incredible comeback season from yuma. i'm so excited for his future, i think he has so much potential and many bright moments ahead. now i've written a goddamn novel already, but i haven't even mentioned werther yet. i'll just say that his exhibition is one of the most beautiful programs i've ever seen, competitive or otherwise, and it shows off everything good about yuma's skating. perfect. no notes.

adam: where the fuck do i even start. honestly...if i could only remember one moment from all of montreal worlds, it would be his free skate. it was THE skate of the event. the mounting excitement as he landed all his jumps. the way i said "oh my god" out loud as he set up for the backflip, then landed it in front of me. the audience in complete hysterics. i can't even describe what the arena was like after his free skate. it was. insane. it genuinely felt like there was electricity in the air. the screams were deafening. my heart was pounding. it took me an entire group of skaters to come down from that adrenaline high, lmao. meanwhile, adam sat there in the green room...for hours and hours...and then ended up getting bronze because why the fuck not lmao. it was kind of the perfect conclusion of a chaotic season and a chaotic worlds. yeah, that free skate was THE moment. on another note, i don't actually like his free that much from a choreo standpoint. i think he's one of the most expressive and unique skaters in the field today, and he can pull off a lot of benoit's weirdness, but this free just isn't one of my favorites. it's extremely memorable though, for sure. his sp, on the other hand, was a disaster, but i really appreciated how he kept performing despite the messy jumps. he skated the step sequence like the jump mistakes didn't even happen. that's the sign of a committed performer. i'm very excited to see what else adam has to bring in the future, though i hope he doesn't start throwing in backflips too often - they're only fun when they're infrequent and unexpected.

shoma: shoma has a particular way of moving that is so unique to him. where yuma's skating is springy and light, shoma's skating has weight. it's very difficult to describe, but i mean it in a good way. it's the way everything he does feels so deliberate. he has excellent upper body carriage and his movements really project out into the audience. his sp step sequence was a highlight. he has an innate musicality that is natural to him. truth be told, i haven't liked his programs as much since he moved to stephane, but it was good to see his skating live again. i don't know if shoma will retire soon or keep competing, but if that was his last competition, i'm glad to have seen it, jump issues aside. i first heard of him as a novice skater back when i was first becoming a skating fan. i've been through quite a few generations of skaters' retirements, at this point. still an odd feeling when it might be someone you first saw as a tiny child, though. i also enjoyed his exhibition, it was a different style for him.

i wrote way too much about the top 4, so i'm going to try to keep the rest of this short:

jason: i'm just glad he's still skating. the world needs more of him, for as long as he's willing to give it.

lukas: very fun, i enjoyed him quite a bit.

deniss: finally! a clean short! more of that and fewer quad attempts, please.

kao: ugh. the collective wince in the arena on those falls... i wanted him to skate a clean attack on titan so badly, i love that program for him. he's very talented and INSANELY fast (cannot stress this enough, his speed is mind-blowing) but still lacking in control, and his performance skills need work as well. i hope this worlds was a good learning experience for him.

nikolaj: he's...so tall lmao. amazing lines. good musicality. terrible spins. looking forward to his improvement.

junhwan: the way i put my hands to my face as he fell on the 3A right in front of me... i just hope next season is healthier for him. he's a very, very quality skater and he deserves better.

don't talk to me about boyang

last but not least, shoutout to donovan for those incredible personal best skates! he still needs a lot of work on his SS and speed, but i really hope his jump consistency keeps improving.

———————————–

all in all, worlds was just...a tornado of emotions. some bad, most good. it was my first time seeing the world championships live, and i'm really glad i had the experience. for anyone thinking of going to worlds in the future, please be aware that the days are LONG. i skipped all the practices and some earlier groups of the short programs in order to explore the city, and i was still completely wiped out after every day of competition. it took me several weeks to recover, lol. thanks montreal! i definitely won't forget that week.

[maychild]

spoilers for ep. 12 of Be Loved In House: I Do below, and a rant against the whole character of Yi Zi Tong

okay so yi tong might’ve helped shi lei/yu zhen get together but i still hate that smarmy arsehole. Like what was the point of him even?? gang could’ve just locked them in a closet together and not let them out until they communicated. did the show really have to go this route? i just—the more i think about the plot, the more my head hurts. (like he might have been confident in predicting how yu zhen would think & act but…what if yu zhen decided to step aside?? did he think it through if he failed??? or was he just so confident in himself that the idea of failure never crossed his mind??)

also unpopular opinion but… i def do not want a second season focused on zi tong (or his boyfriend Golden). like why is his character good or deserving to be the main focus in this hypothetical second season???

like he never apologized to yu zhen for just, apparently, packing up and leaving. and i know the coma thing wasn’t his fault and maybe he showed some concern when he heard about it, but his character reeks so much of self-centeredness that i can’t help but want to throw the whole character in the trash. like start over with a likeable character who doesn’t make me go ‘ughhh this guy again’. like how are u just going to leave that pure ray of sunshine and dorkiness and THEN HAVE THE AUDACITY TO SHOW UP SEVEN YEARS LATER as if nothing happened and with a new boyfriend in tow??? methinks zi tong didn’t take the relationship all that seriously which is the true reason i hate him. u don’t deserve that man and thankfully he has someone new to appreciate him, so u can just leave again, sir, preferably somewhere very far away, like maybe the Arctic.

are we supposed to like him??? why??? just bc he didn’t, in actuality, end up a homewrecker??? i’m sorry i’m gonna need more than the bare minimum. he isn’t all that fleshed out either which is the fault of the episodes themselves, so he can’t be fully blamed for that, unfortunately.

i just wish the show had the courage to make him a true villain. like someone who kicked puppies for fun and stole candy from little kids…just go all in on the evilness. don’t hold back, make him a true Bond villain, at least then it’d be entertaining, not whatever this was.

(look idek what it is about the character but he makes me irrationally angry…i can’t apologize for my feelings; they are what they are. if some ppl like the character, then they like him. i’m just baffled as to why.)

[butterbeerblurbs]

tired but never of you (f.w.)

💌 : when you look tired and fred can sense it, he does what he does best. stealing you away from the crowd and self-care freddie activates.

📝 word count: 2,618 words / fred weasley x reader / 🌸 a fluffy mess

💬: just... live with me thru this guys 🤡

after numerous hours of studying and days of all-nighters, you finally had room to breathe again. It was nearly a couple more days before christmas break and boy oh boy you were excited to get a long week full of rest ahead. (though, you doubt you’d be able to squeeze in a week, maybe a day or two. mindful that you’d be spending christmas with fred and his family back in the burrow)

as you decide what to wear for a night out, there’s a knock on your door. angelina announces she’ll go answer and you reply with a mindless thank you as you stare yourself in the mirror, debating between two outfits on hangers over your body. with a small pout, unsure of which to choose, you hear the door closing and you call out to-”angelina, could you help me choose?”

you remain looking at your reflection, and when it feels longer than the usual time angelina takes to rush to you, you’re greeted with-”would freddie be alright?” you flinch at the pair of arms that sneak around your waist and you gasp as fred pops his head over your shoulder, grinning at you through the mirror.

your elbow nudges him playfully, getting him to move but he refuses, only squeezing you tighter, “you cheeky prat,” you huff at him, only to literally have heart eyes sparkling at him as he smiles at you with such warmth it’s making your heart full.

“hey there, beautiful,” fred murmurs, pressing a kiss to your lips, earning himself a satisfied smile from you. he pecks your lips a couple more times until he’s satisfied, moving himself away to sit on your bed as he watches you get dressed. you turn around to face him, now making him decide since he probably shooed angelina out of her shared dorm with you (as fred weasley would).

“help me choose, freddie? which one looks better?”

the boy snorts, “neither. maybe consider your pajamas?”

your brows knit together, face scrunching in confusion, “love, we’re going to the three broomsticks,”

“yeah,” he nods, leaning back into your pillow as he stares at you, “but you should be going to bed,”

he watches as you take a couple of seconds to process his words, before you groan and roll your eyes at him. you decide to go with your first option - a black velvet turtleneck dress paired with a white wool duffle jacket, shoving the other into the closet. fred makes himself known as he pulls your shirt off your body, staring at you through the mirror.

“c’mon, love, you know i think you look gorgeous everyday, anytime - even now! but you look like you got hit by a train,”

you nod a couple of times, a little preoccupied with getting dressed, half-ignoring him, “yeah? do i?”

he nods firmly, arms crossed in front of his chest, “absolutely. like the train dragged you for a few rounds to reach hogwarts and decided to keep going, too,”

“you’re quite the charmer, aren’t you, weasley?” you huff at him, blowing your fringe from your face as you grab ahold of your shedded clothes and shove them into the laundry basket. as you gather your hair to the side, fred smirks at your back exposed in front of him. but when you frown at him at the mirror at his lack of helpfulness, he decides to play later and helps to zip you up.

before you can reach for your jacket, he smoothen his palms on your waist, reeling you in as you make grabby hands at-”i want my jacket, freddie!”

“and i want you to stay in with me,” he tuts, spinning you around and locking you in front of him, not letting you budge even when you hit his chest playfully.

“y/n, you hadn’t had proper sleep the past few days. you promised you’d sleep as soon as christmas break rolls around,” he frowns, swaying you back and forth and he watches as the small movement is already driving you to sleep. yet, you keep your feet grounded, snaking your arms around his neck and pulling him down so you can kiss him. he’s a little surprised, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy it as he reciprocates the kiss, pressing his lips deeper against yours and relishes in the soft mewl he swallows from your lips.

before he can go any further, you push him back enough for you to have space to snatch your jacket, rushing out the door in a hurry; not bothering to check if fred is coming after you. but the rummaging from behind you, followed by loud thuds, already indicate fred is running.

“hey! at least change into your boots first! your feet are going to be ice before we even get there!”

//

“it’s not too late to back out now, y/n,” fred whispers into your ear as the whole lot of you make your way together. george and angelina were taking lead in the front, followed by katie, jordan and oliver in the middle and the pair of you were in the back. you squeeze fred’s hand in his pocket, hissing at him, “you can’t be serious! i got dressed for this!”

he presses a kiss to your temple, swinging your hand back and forth as much as he can despite being confined in his pocket, almost child-like it’s making you giggle, “and you look absolutely gorgeous! but you would also look much better if you had some sleep,”

“why do i feel like you don’t want me to have fun?” you pout at him, and he huffs, “hey, that’s not fair and you know it. you know how much fun we can have together,-”yep, no lie there. sometimes, you and fred alone caused more havoc than fred and his twin. that statement is a lot coming from most people-”-it’s just, you know, love. i’d want to have fun with you when i know you’re enjoying it too,”

“but it feels wrong to miss this,” you whisper this time, and fred leans down a little so you wouldn’t need to reach him with much effort, “we won’t see them in a bit and i promised i’d come. didn’t want to be a downer,”

“love,” he calls out, earning a huh as you look up to him. he sneaks in a kiss to your lips, grinning at how you blink at him profusely before you register what he had done the thing he’s done countless of times before, “you can never be a downer. have you seen yourself?”

your mouth opens to respond and you swear you see fred about to lean in to shut you up but-“oi! lovebirds! try to keep up, yeah?” george hollers as they’re a good distance away, seeing there’s already enough snow to cast between you and your friends. you yank your hand along with fred’s out of said boy’s jacket, pulling him to follow your lead, “coming!” you only laugh as you hear him yelp, trying to keep up at your sudden spurt of energy. 

//

the place was already packed with people but it wasn’t a surprise to any of you. of course it would be, nearing a time like christmas and all friends would be on their different ways (except a couple), but the vast majority would be. so it wasn’t a surprise a lot of friend groups would try to sneak in one last meet up like the ones you had with your friends (and boyfriend, and boyfriend’s brother).

drinks were poured and downed, a couple of bites here and there but a shared feeling of comfort and belonging. secrets being exchanged, chatters of what happens within the castle, out of the castle - the works. it’s a cogwheel of how the group functions - all in good fun, mutual excitement and trust that what is said here would stay here.

it’s been a little over an hour and a half since the group started getting loose and shaking off the nerves of the semester ending, buzzing for the holiday soon arriving. fred would enjoy it without a thought as well but seeing how the light alcohol is getting the best of you, lulling a bit here and there in the midst of loud chatter, leaning against him for support, he decides to call it a night. especially when there’s a lack of response coming from you.

it captures the group’s attention as they watch how your cheek is pressed to fred’s arm, though, seeming like you’re trying your hardest. fred has puppy eyes as he stares at your sleeping figure against him and he can’t help but allow his heart to swell at the sight.

“i’m always fascinated by this,” katie snorts, earning a nod of approval from oliver, “i’d say. truly, the only person who can tame the wild fred weasley,”

fred exhales deeply and as he wiggles his brows to your group of friends, they already know what’s to come. “well, we’ll be taking our leave now,”

“just make sure you don’t lock me out,” angelina chastises, remembering the night fred did that by “accident” and she had to snooze off in the common room. “you’re welcome to join me, if he does!” george calls out, earning a fake look of disgust from angelina before she decides to laugh it off.

the short yet loud interaction between george and angelina jolts you awake with a yes?, snapping out of your slumber almost instantly. your lips quickly zip shut as you notice how all eyes are now on you, and fred is like your shield, willing to bat away any takers to tease you. before they can, however, fred is reminded of the many reasons why he loves you. a joke, is something you can take, never making it an awkward situation on anyone. (unless necessary)

“good morning, your highness,” george coos, and you grin sheepishly, rubbing the back of your neck, “good day, sire!”

“had a good rest?” katie chuckles, reaching out to playfully mess with your hair. you managed a small yawn, covering your mouth with your hand, shaking your head, “could’ve been better. this place is too loud for a nap,”

the group erupts with a small round of laughter before fred pulls you up with him, preparing yourselves to exit. it’s not after a quick moment for you to say goodbye to everyone and wish them a good break (including george, who he reminds you he’ll be with you during the break because you’re going to stay at his house, as a matter of fact his room too with freddie that it makes you blush before laughing it off). once that is done, fred quickly snatches you away and the pair of you make your way back to the dorms.

fred keeps your hand warm together with his in the pocket of his jacket, idly humming the walk back. it’s peaceful, being in fred’s presence and the way he checks on you every now and then to make sure you’re still walking, doing his best in creating conversations with you so it actively keeps you up. your heart feels all sorts of things, mainly love as you stare at fred’s side profile.

when he catches you staring, he can’t help but tease.

“enjoying the view there? might want to look where you’re going, love,” he says quietly, yet, seeing there’s no affect on you as he effectively dodges anything that’s coming your way, guiding you to a safe path. when he sees your eyes aren’t shifting from him, he’s full on laughing, enjoying the attention he’s receiving.

“hello? is my girlfriend still awake? may i ask the reason why she’s staring at me and not saying a word?”

“she’s... enjoying the view,” fred swears he feels his heart almost leaping out of his chest when he glances to see her smiling so wide, her eyes dissolve to mini crescents. he stops walking and it grants her to do the same. he grabs onto her shoulders and gives her a light shake, “woman, you can’t be this adorable even when you’re sleepy. choose one,”

this was a coded question for: “are we going to have fun tonight? or sleep?” (though, you know fred already knows the answer as they line the under of your eyes, another yawn escaping softly).

“sleep, please,”

“yes, ma’am.”

//

you think in your past life, you must’ve saved an entire kingdom to be with fred. (no doubt, he’d say the same thing about you, if not double up and say two kingdoms but these are your thoughts and he can’t possibly argue with you in your mind). still, you think it’s very much true when fred patiently undresses you and redresses you in your sleeping clothes - a loose sweater and joggers, followed by a t-shirt underneath because it gets a bit more chilly as the night transcends.

now bundled up in the covers, in his arms, his warmth, scent and his voice is the perfect recipe to lull you to sleep.

before you do, though, you’re staring at him and that’s when fred says: “you’ve done so well, y/n. get some sleep, hm?”

“this is so unfair,” you whisper under your breath, staring at the way he adores and is amused at the same time. he decides not to show it as much, only squeezing you around him as he stares down at you, allowing you to let your train of thought escape your mouth as you fall into deep slumber. “you can’t be that handsome, that clever and love me that much... you’re...” there’s a small yawn that captures fred’s heart even more “...absolutely... bonkers...”

fred only snorts quietly, watching as your eyelids flutter shut and you’re dozing off pretty quick from all the all-nighters and lost sleep due to papers and assignments. not only were you trying to be on top of your grades, he recollects how you’ve helped him as well, which he was very grateful for. his eyes remain on you as you get the rest you truly deserve, his hand coming up to brush your hair from your face and he stares at you lovingly.

you were unfair, too, he thinks. you, the person who accepted him fully for who he is and encourages him to chase for his dreams, willing to be by his side regardless of what happened. you, who was insanely patient with him, yet, took no bull and gave him the honest pill he needed from time to time. you, who came into his life like the light he’d been searching for in the dark, only to get blinded once he was within reach. when he was in your heart, however, his days have been warm ever since.

as you snuggle up against him, arms gingerly wrapped by his torso and resting your face to his chest, fred smiles at the thought he’s able to return the gesture you’ve done to him. his eyes close after a while, hoping to see you in his dreams as well.

as he's halfway drifting into sleep, he hears a soft murmur of freddie... that makes him smile, certain his smile would still be there when he wakes.

[iloveyou3thousand]

Tony stark is a famous mob boss in new york and he fancied peter, a beautiful violinist that regularly plays in a fancy restaurant.

I can’t believe I’ve only written like, one mob boss au? I love these kinda aus??

————————————————————————

Every Friday night, seven P.M. sharp, every time like clockwork.

Tony looks down at his watch to observe the seconds ticking by, pushing the two hands closer and closer toward the twelve and the seven respectively.

He likes the finer things in life, despite the kind of day-to-day business he runs, contrasting his hobbies sharply. He knows how to appreciate art, and music, and good food. Sometimes he reckons that that’s actually what’s keeping him sane in his line of work. For every body he puts six feet under, he wants something good to offset the bad.

And Peter is so, so good.

Tony only comes to the restaurant for the music. The food isn’t bad, necessarily, but it isn’t up to his standards entirely either. That doesn’t stop him from going every Friday night though, and sometimes Saturdays, and leave behind a big tip for the waiters and an even bigger tip for the violinist providing the entire restaurant with melodies that could liquify Tony’s kneecaps and send him sinking toward the carpeted floor.

He’s never approached the young man, but they have shared glances from across the room before, and Tony loves seeing the way Peter looks away when their eye contact lasts too long to be polite, the way the restaurant’s dim light catches on the new, vibrant color that inhabits Peter’s cheeks when he does avert his eyes. Tony knows they share a connection, although he’s not exactly sure what kind of connection that is.

It’s alluring though. Everything about the young man is.

He moves so fluidly to the music he plays, swaying along to the way he strokes the bow over his instrument. It’s like a seductive dance that, however often Tony’s seen it, he can never look away from. Like he’s a snake, and Peter is his snake charmer. It draws him.

One night, Tony decides that enough is enough, and with a badly made up excuse he pulls himself to his feet to finally approach his enchanter, and offers his hand to the stunning young man. The other looks a bit taken aback, surprised by Tony’s sudden closeness, but takes the hand regardless – and before he can pull it back from the quick shake that follows, Tony pulls the hand up and brushes a kiss to Peter’s knuckles.

“I’ve admired you from a distance for too long,” he says when Peter seems at a loss for words, that same beautiful tinge of flustered scarlet on his cheeks, “May I be so rude as to request you come play for me some time, personally. Alone. I’ll pay you handsomely for the inconvenience.”

Peter takes a moment to gather himself together again, and snaps the locks on his violin case shut, still blushing fiercely even if he looks at Tony head-on. “It wouldn’t be an inconvenience at all, Mr. Stark.”

Tony feels a thrill when Peter boldly lets him know that he knows who he is. It immediately makes him wonder when Peter has asked about him, and who he asked, and why. It makes him want to know more about Peter. It makes him want to know everything about him.

“Fantastic,” Tony purrs, “That’s what I like to hear. Let me help you with your case.” Before Peter can protest, Tony picks the violin case up, and gestures for Peter to lead the way outside. Tony trusts that one of his associates will make sure that tonight’s bill is settled. And if they don’t leave a generous tip, then he might have to reconsider who he takes with him to arguably one of the most important restaurants he likes to dine at.

Peter leads the two of them outside. “When would you like me to come play for you, Mr. Stark?” He asks.

“Please,” Tony drawls with a smile, “Call me Tony. And I wonder… would tonight be too soon?”

Tony’s car slides up along the sidewalk and stops in front of them, courtesy of Tony’s driver. The back door opens to reveal the empty backseat, and Peter looks between it and Tony for a moment, considering. Then he gives Tony a smile, and lays a hand over the man’s heart.

“It wouldn’t be soon enough,” he teases, before sliding elegantly into the backseat.

Tony closes the door, and lets out a slow breath. He’s looking forward to enjoying Peter’s music for ass long as the young man will allow him to.

And if he’s lucky, Peter will let him enjoy much more of him, and for much longer.

[tomionefinds]

any fics where hermione starts dating another death eater/knight

Hey Anon,

So I got a lot of responses to this one big thanks to @tzubaccadog and the discord folks for their help with this list. -JD

Bad Romance by uchiha.s

M | WIP | 206k

She loved him first.

The Manipulation of Time and Matter by Ciule

E/Ma | Complete | 61k

“You might have something else I need,” he said slowly, a strange glitter in his eyes that she was sure didn’t bode well for herself.

“What might that be? “ she asked shakily.

“Are you a virgin, Miss?"

The Snake Charmer by midnightweeds

M | Complete | 315k

Hermione Granger travels to the past to learn the Dark Lord's secrets. During her stay, she finds herself in a precarious situation. Will she return to the world she left behind? Or will her stay with Tom Riddle alter her future forever?

Dealing in Temptation by ElizabethLeFay

M | WIP | 134k

Tom Riddle has surprised the entire Wizarding world by taking a position at Borgin & Burkes. Hermione Granger, however, is not fooled. When a business deal causes Tom and Hermione to cross paths in 1948, they must find a way to navigate obstacles of pureblood society, dark magic, even darker secrets, and temptation. It is up to them to decide if these challenges are better to overcome together, or apart.

Filthy Little Mudblood by Lupinswolfie

M | Complete | 111k

Hermione was taken by Death Eaters and given to Lucius as a slave. What will become of her as she dabbles in the dark arts and Lord Voldemort as well? Will she save the world? Will she even want to? HermioneLucius and HermioneTom 

Pendulum by Bowl_of_Face

M | WIP | 87k

Post War, Hermione has returned for her final year at Hogwarts. After an odd request opens the Room of Requirement, Hermione finds herself back in the year 1944 in Tom Riddle's final year of school. Despite trying to stay out of his way, she managed to capture the budding Dark Lord's interest.

Remorse by Thoronris

E/Ma | WIP | 118k

Time travel fanfiction, in which Hermione finds herself in the year 1944, the last year of Voldemort's time at Hogwarts. Not knowing how she got there and for what purpose, she joins force with Dumbledore to find a way back to the future, back to the battle of Hogwarts. During her stay she gets close to people she has always thought of as evil, only to discover that even monsters can have many layers. Will she be able to save the future in the past?

Exitus Acta Probat by JellyBellys

M | WIP | 352k

After a series of catastrophic events, Hermione decides to go to the past to stop Tom Riddle. Story includes timetravel, Slytherins that aren't evil, romance, betrayal, death, angst, and some comedy thrown in. AU after OoTP.

[raziroo]

Riddle Me This - James Potter x Reader

Pairing : James Potter x reader

Genre : Angst

Warnings : Mentions of injuries, reader-inflicted torture, hair pulling, reader-inflicted injuries, mentions of death.

Word count : 5,298

~~~~~

It’s hard being the daughter of the Darkest wizard of all time, of the one they all fear, of Lord Voldemort. Harder than you can imagine.

Because there’s always expectations, and opinions. Expectations have of you, and opinions people have about you. And it’s not good for your own self-esteem when you know that you will never be able to be all that they want you to be. And by ‘they’, I mean my father.

See, contrary to popular belief, Lord Voldemort is capable of caring. Yes, he can never love, and neither can I, but we can care. And for me, that’s enough. Being conceived under the effects of a love potion, my father was doomed to never be able to love; but that didn’t mean he wasn’t capacitated with sympathizing, empathizing, caring. Yes, he would never in a million years be able to experience the joy of being able to love, of being in love, and neither could I, but that was only for the best.

That was one lesson, along with several others, that had been taught to me from the start by my father, and his followers. I could never, ever, ever love. And I should never want to. Because love is for the weak, love is for inferiors. Love itself is weak, and all it does is make bounds for you.

And thus far, I had been successful. I didn’t want love; I didn’t need it. I was capable enough as it is.

Another lesson I’d been taught, was being ambitious, having ambitions. Striving to be the best, being the best, and reveling in the satisfaction of winning, it was a value instilled in me from quite a young age.

And ambitious I was. I reveled in the satisfaction of proving myself right and others wrong; I basked in the glorious feeling of victory, of exceeding expectations.

Being homeschooled since a young age, and that too, with the occasional inputs of the Dark Lord himself, I was a trained witch, and a good one at that. Having Death Eaters as competition, and the constant expectations of being better than each of them, it wasn’t an exaggeration when I say, you do not wish to cross me. I usually came out triumphant in duels, all except when I was ill, or exerted, or when me and father dueled. He was the obvious champion.

But then came along Bellatrix LeStrange. The female, who previously belonged to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, was related to two blood traitors. One was her sister who, despite having such a rich and reputed heritage, eloped with a Hufflepuff. A Hufflepuff. The other was her first cousin, Sirius Black. And in the latter’s case, what surprised me wasn’t the fact that the boy had managed to escape and betray the Blacks, no. It was the fact that he had escaped Walburga Black. The woman was a tyrant, a hurricane, with a pitch high enough to rupture your ears, and fury blinding enough to make you cower back in fear.

I aren’t going to lie, I had severely underestimated the woman. Bellatrix, she was deranged, she was unhinged. Her eyes were maddening and crazy, and her skills beyond average. Her ruthlessness and un-sympathizing nature was what made her all the more an even terrible foe to have. She reveled in screams, hearing people scream and cry and writhe and shout in anguish pleasured her. She wasn’t sick. That made it sound like what she had, had a cure; when in truth, she was insane, off her rocker, and so, so dangerous.

So, as you might have understood, I lost in the duel against Bellatrix. And I had lost bad. Father had refused to speak to me for 6 straight weeks after that, he had been so disappointed. And it hurt me, because all he had ever asked of me to be the best, to strive for perfection, to outdo even the greatest of rivals. And I had failed him that day.

So when father asked me to go attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, for the sole purpose of being able to keep an eye on Dumbledore, I had packed my bags without a sound of protest, as much as I dreaded going to the school. I wasn’t thick, I understood the fact that father could have very easily asked any one of his Death Eaters to-be to spy on Dumbledore; he had given me a chance. Something that he didn’t give everyone, and I was grateful.

. . . . .

I hated this place. Students swarming everywhere, so much noise, so many people, it was unbearable. I’d always been one to find solace in loneliness; this place was the exact opposite. I couldn’t fathom how you were meant to actually study in Hogwarts; sounds and voices and whispers and chatters were unescapable, anywhere and everywhere you went. Even the classrooms and the library weren’t spared – the former and latter, both, due to the courtesy of the Marauders.

Oh, the Marauders. They were a whole entire issue separately. A group of rambunctious, untamable, and obnoxious boys, and that too all Gryffindor, whose sole purpose was to create chaos and play pranks, and who went by the name, ‘The Marauders.’ A marauder, typically, means a person who roams around, looking to steal. Sweet Salazar, why would you decide to call yourselves that? And then be proud of it?

The group consisted of four ‘pupils’, if you could even call them that (they were just troublemakers, in my opinion), namely Remus Lupin, the only tolerable one, Peter Pettigrew, the rat-like one, Sirius Black, the blood traitor by choice, and James Potter, blood traitor by family. How very nice.

Now, me, being the live and let live sort of person that I am, didn’t care too much about those four, as long as they kept their noses out of my business. They didn’t. They were all overly curious about my background, my family, why I joined mid-year, et cetera, et cetera. Their curiosity was low-key harassment, in all truth. Merlin, leave me alone. But no, those blood traitors and half-breeds all wanted to invade my privacy, annoy me, make my life hell. So, I returned the favors.

See, father had sent Nagini along, just for a piece of home to be with me. And my snake not only spied on them and contributed in the ‘Trouble the marauders’ project in the day, she contributed during the night as well. And so, I’d ended up here, in an abandoned classroom after curfew, wand pointed at the Marauders after a particularly irritating day.

We Slytherins, every Wednesday morning, shared double potions with the Gryffindors. And as if that wasn’t torturous enough already, Slughorn had fixed seats, because “Some students have been disrupting the decorum of the classroom,” and so now I was seated beside Lily Evans, a “particularly bright muggleborn witch,” as Slughorn said. She was just a pathetic know-it-all, and a mudblood to top it off, in my opinion. The girl was sickeningly sweet, and was all chirpy-chirp when I had been assigned as her partner. She was ecstatic, probably to meet a new person. I was disgusted, probably to meet a new person.

And above that, Pettigrew and Black sat behind us, Lupin and a Slytherin named Severus Snape on a bench on my right, and in the front was Potter, sitting alone. And I know, I know, it seems exaggerated because a real life situation possibly cannot be this bad, but it’s true, trust me. Potter was reciting cheesy pickup lines to the Mudblood, all while she grew angrier, his friends suppressed their laughter, Snape turned green from envy, and I refrained from

 committing bloody murder.

“Hey Evans, why don’t you play Quidditch, you look to be a keeper.”

“Shut up, Potter.”

“Oi Evans, are you a dement-“

“-Sod off-“

“-Or, because I’d die if you kissed me.”

“You don’t die after a dementor’s kiss, Potter, your soul gets sucked.”

“Evans, we may not be-“

“-Godric, no-“

“-In Flitwick’s class, but you sure-“

“-Are a charmer? Potter, you’ve used this.”

“Did you use the stupefy charm, Evans-“

“-Potter, I swear to Morgana I’ll-“

“-Because you sure are a stunner.”

Merlin, this blasphemy was giving me a headache, and making it harder by the second to not kill someone. I was in the process of stirring the cauldron, and Evans was just adding a bit of snakeskin, when Potter abruptly turned around and started speaking, and so, out of shock (or it could be because she was mad), Evans dropped the snakeskin too early, and the potion suddenly became a brilliant blue, instead of a mellow violet, and exploded, covering me and mudblood and potter and Black in goo. On top of that, my hand got burned due to the jump I made on Potter’s suddenness.

As the entire class fell silent after the burst, I slowly brought up my right hand, which was shaking, and wiped off the slimy substance off of my face; the slime made splattering noises as it hit the floor. When I finally opened my eyes, my hands still shaking, I was met with a red-faced mudblood, probably with anger, red-faced Pettigrew and Black, probably with suppressed laughs, and a pale faced Potter.

And trust me, I tried so hard to contain the magic threatening to erupt from inside me; I’d bit my lip the hardest I could, clenched my shaking fists, and closed my eyes, hoping against hope that my magic didn’t lose control. No such luck, however.

Potter and friends were suggested to bedrest for 5 days after that.

Of course, they’d tried to escape out of the hospital win the very same night, and unfortunately, right at the moment I was on my way to the Owlery, so that Celine, my eagle owl, could deliver the letter to father. I was on the fifth floor corridor in the west wing of the castle, when those troublesome Marauders an into me. Literally, straight into me, for they had an invisibility cloak draped around them. How they had managed to escape the nurse even with the cloak was a mystery to me, because there were constant hisses and whispers and mutters coming from the direction in which, occasionally, a pair of feet came into view.

As I bumped into them, their cloak fell off, and I swiftly picked up the letter of mine that had dropped to the floor. “What are you idiots doing here, in the middle of the night?” I asked, brow raised.

They looked stricken for a moment, then sounded Lupin’s voice. “We could ask you the same question,” the scar-faced boy said, still a tad out of breath.

“Yeah, Riddle, what are you doing out here?” Black enquired further.

“That is none of your business, blood traitor,” I said, my tone sharp, eyes cold. Black looked a bit hurt, Lupin pursed his lips in what seemed to be disappointment, Pettigrew whimpered, and Potter looked angry.

“What, did you say to him?” he asked in a tone that would be menacing for some, but not for me. “I merely reminded your friend of what he is , Potter, what he’s become, what he’ll forever be. A blood traitor,” I said in a calm and cool voice, which seemed to irk the raven-haired boy even more.

“It’s alrig-“ Potter, however, cut his friend’s sentence off midway.

“Don’t call him that, you filthy snake,” he snarled.

“Seem to hit a nerve, have I, Potter?”

“You bloody-!”

“WHO’S THERE?” screeched a scratchy, gravelly voice. Filch.

All five of us gave each other a glance, and the next second, we were inside the nearest room, which just so happened to be an abandoned classroom that was priorly used for History of Magic. We all held our breath, until the steps and meows and purrs and grunts faded off into the distance.

“Now, back to what we were-“

“We weren’t doing anything, Potter. You took the truth a little too to the heart, when even your friend didn’t seem so bothered by it.” Potter was going redder in the face by the second. “Now, if you Gryffindors don’t mind, I should get going. I,” I waved my letter-holding hand, “have a letter to deliver.” Just as I turned around, Potter snatched the letter right from my hand. Oh, Merlin, no.

“Let’s see what we have here, hm?” as Potter said that, even Black’s troubled look evaporated from his face. They were back to their bully nature.

“Yes, Prongs, let’s.”

“No!” all four looked up from the half-torn envelope. “I- don’t open that.”

“Why? Why,” Potter waved the now half-torn envelope in a much similar fashion in which I had, “would I return this? Or not open this?”

“It’s a letter containing… things that I would share with people who’re… close to me,” I said, my stance cautious, manipulative mannerisms in progress. Although it would be hard to talk my way out of this one, and that was considering if I even could.

“Close to you, hm? Well then, it’s even more precious,” Black said this time, both dark-haired boys sharing devilish grins, as their friends behind them looked sheepish, but said nothing.

“Black, Potter, please. Don’t be immature,” I tried to reason, but the boys were having none of it, and tore open the envelope fully, and begun reading the letter aloud. “Dear father, I hope you are doing well. You will be pleased to know that Dumbl-“

“Accio letter!” I exclaimed. The letter didn't come into my hand, Black had anticipated this. The boys, having read and heard part of Dumbledore’s name in my letter, had now shed their teasing demeanor and their eyes furiously roamed the piece of parchment, as Lupin cast a Protego so that I wouldn’t be able to Accio anything again. “-that Dumbledore has been unsuccessful in finding out your location. I hope it will continue to be so, seeing that Malfoy and Avery can’t seem to keep their mouths close in presence of Gryffindors. I am sure you can take care of that.

As for the elder Black boy, chances of him joining your ranks seem to be as good as none, considering his constant company is half-breeds, blood traitors, and mudbloods, and he seems keen on troubling each and every Slytherin; he gets into routinely brawls with LeStrange, Crabbe, Goyle, the likes. His friend, the blood traitor Potter, his mother has caught the Dragon Pox,” Potter’s voice broke, “so it is assured that she will not survive. As for his father, Fleamont Potter, the auror, he seems determined to find the cure and weed out each and every member of your ranks; the man is livid. As for the werewolf, his company is same as Black’s; it is highly unlikely he will join your ranks.

My education here is going as expected, the Professors teach me nothing that I don’t already know.

I hope all the information I have been able to convey in this letter will be efficient for you. As always, Nagini has been an absolute darling.

Yours truly.” Potter finished, looking stricken and sad and livid, all at the same time. His friends all were furious, too.

He, however, was angrier than any of them; the mention of his mother’s name, and the fact that he now knew that father’s followers were the cause of his mother’s ailment, only added fuel to the fire.

Although I hadn’t once mentioned father’s name in the letter, it was clear that these four boys, whom I’d just assumed were naïve teenagers, knew more than they let on. And suddenly, it was clear why they bothered me so much, specifically, why I’d become their main target: these boys knew something fishy was up; something that wasn’t just related to a new transfer student.

With trembling hands, and a quivering lip, Potter looked up, eyes ablaze with fear-inducing fury. “You. It was… you, you were involved with… this, all along,” the boy declared more than asked. “You-!”

“OI! Who’s there?!” a scratchy voice asked, from not very far away. Merlin, Filch. I glanced at the boys, panic settling inside me. I couldn’t afford getting caught in an abandoned classroom with four of the most troublesome people I had ever met. My record, up till this day, had been perfectly clean. No failed tests, no late assignments, no detentions. If I got caught today, there would be a huge, ugly, black spot on my school records, as well as my reputation – because one thing I’d learned at Hogwarts was that news travels fast. Faster than I’d like.

In a panic-stricken haze, I made what was possibly the most impulsive decision in the entirety of my life. I pointed my wand, muttered a spell, snatched the letter, disillusioned myself, and fled the classroom as fast as I could. The letter could wait.

. . . . .

As I sat on the Slytherin table the next day, I chewed on my omelette with well-masked anxiety. If the boys came in, and started pointing fingers and started shooting spells at me, I would most certainly be in trouble, and the public humiliation would come hand-in-hand. However, if they’d decided to tell Dumbledore, then my trouble would be doubled. And if, if, by chance, by Salazar’s most divine blessing, my spell had worked, then I could seek refuge here in the castle for more time.

Lost in my thoughts and the chatter surrounding me, I completely missed on the theatrical but yet, routine and typical, entrance of the Marauders. Their flailing hands, arrogant smirks, loud banter and even louder chatter gained a couple students’ attention, though said students went back to what they were doing almost immediately.

As I looked up, the four Gryffindors appeared and behaved as they usually did – without a care in the world. No visible anxiety, no frown, no scowl, and definitely no pointed fingers. I was relieved, and my short sigh indicated so. Just as I was about to really go back to eating my food, I caught the mischievous eyes of one James Potter, and by the look in his eyes for that split-second, I knew something was definitely wrong.

. . . . .

Salazar, I hadn’t expected things to go this wrong.

See, the spell I’d used on the Marauders that night was a simple ‘Obliviate’, and then a bit of memory-modification; the boys were planning a prank to make everyone drowsy, and while they planned, they started messing about, used the spell on each other, and fell asleep. Simple enough, yes?

No.

In my hurry, I’d done something wrong, I don’t know what, and had made James Potter think that he was infatuated with me. And yes, I know, the odds of someone believing that were pretty not in my favour, but James Potter could be pretty persuasive, and the fact that the male had finally moved on and given up after so much time, was… expected.

But such a drastic change wouldn’t be believed. His first choice was the golden girl of Hogwarts, the redheaded muggleborn genius Gryffindor, the one who had a warm aura radiating off of her, whose emerald eyes were sharp yet so affable; and then there was me, the brooding Slytherin with green tips in her hair, a stare so pointed people would turn away if they were walking in my direction, and a resting bitch face so effective no one, not even purebloods, wanted to talk to me.

But that was just the beginning. The number of unwanted gifts I received was horrendous – roses in black, white, red, Merlin, even green color; poetry so bad it was tragic; pickup lines so bad I swear my ears would start bleeding if I heard more of them; and extravagant confessions of love that were embarrassing beyond comparison.

But I knew it wasn’t love; love can’t be created. Yes, it was infatuation, but it was just that. The effects the messed-up memory-altering spell were quite similar to those of Amortentia, the only difference was that I didn’t intend that.

. . . . .

A month had passed already, and we were all growing nearer to graduation. The workload was crumbling; seventh-years, such as myself, spent their days and nights in the libraries, the gardens, abandoned classrooms, dormitories, anywhere they got, just studying and learning and practicing. And the three essays we were doomed to get each day didn’t help either.

So now, Jam- sorry, Potter’s unwanted public displays of affection only added to my stress. The constant nagging, shouting, pickup lines, rejections – ugh.

I put up with it only until I snapped.

It was two months later, three days until our first exam, History of Magic, when it happened. I was roaming the dungeons, muttering spells under my breath and practicing wand movements, when I heard noise. I immediately knew. And even though if I’d been saner, I’d probably just ignore it and leave those Marauders and their shenanigans alone. But at that time, I was past the point of sanity, and my fingers were itching to do some actual magic – real magic, not the amateur spells this pathetic excuse of a school was teaching me. You would think that learning advanced stuff would make the basic spells and hexes and potions easier; it was quite the opposite. Having learned what first years learn at age four or five, and reaching seventh-year level by twelve, I was so ahead that I’d forgotten the basics.

So I whipped around, wand pointed, the boys’ cloak blowing off by a nonverbal spell, as they all stared at me. Potter spoke up first.

“Hey, Dahlia, how’re you holdi-?”

“Shut up, Potter,” I snapped. Dahlia was short for black dahlia, the name he used for me in his “poetry”.

“Aw, someone’s i-“

“Shut up, Potter!”

“Love, you shouldn’t preten-“

“Shut. Up,” I sneered, taking two quick strides and jabbing my wand at his throat. “I’m not pretending. I don’t have to. I loathe you, you imbecile! Stop bothering me, because I have work to do, and chapters to study, and spells to practice, and write letters to my parents, unlike you, who would much rather just roam around bullying people, and whose mother is on her death bed and father is half-mad, and whose entire family are filthy bloodtraitors!” I was heaving for air at that point, and once oxygen reached my brain and lungs, only then did I really comprehend what I’d said.

The hazel eyes of the boy in front of me had lost their glint, and had suddenly become too dull, even for me. His friends were standing stunned behind him, eyes flitting from my – as I then realized – guilty expression, and his heartbroken one.

It took him a few seconds and shaky breaths, but the Potter boy finally spoke up. “If… i-if what I say and, uh, do, g- gives you such a headache, then I’ll just, um, stop,” he said in a voice that was uncharacteristically quiet. I gulped, uncomfortable due to the pit that seemed to be settled in the bottom of my belly, and gave a stiff, curt nod.

He nodded again, gaze constantly on the floor, and then trotted away, his friends trailing behind him, now giving me angry glares, having come out of their stunned stages.

And although I should have felt relieved, because I somehow knew that Potter wouldn’t be back to his old ways, I instead had a strange tightness blooming in my chest, slightly constricting my breathing. Shaking my head, I went back to the dormitories, because I couldn’t possibly have gone back to sleep then.

. . . . .

Two days until the day all seventh-years would graduate, say goodbye to the castle, probably forever, but instead of feeling sadness or nostalgia or sadness on leaving the castle, I just had that constricting feeling in my chest growing every day, because I didn’t have even one happy memory in the castle.

My letters to father were sent occasionally, because honestly, except recruiting the seventh-year Gryffindors, and one Hufflepuff, to the Order, Dumbledore had done honestly nothing.

Potter had once again slipped back into his old routine, but his eyes never seemed to had that sparkle anymore. He flited with Evans, she flirted back, seemingly suddenly not liking the lack of attention she got when his affections had been aimed towards me, and each time I saw them that way, I would tighten my jaw, and grip my wand, or books, or even the hem of my sweater if I didn’t have anything, a little tighter.

The feeling was so foreign, and I didn’t like it one bit. Perhaps Evans’ case was what I was suffering with; but I had never liked the attention.

So…why?

. . . . .

During autumn 1979, Lily and James Potter had decided to get married, only at the supple age of 18. And I didn’t know why it bothered me, but it did. That’s why I had been the one to plan the attack on the same day as their wedding.

At 4 pm, the Death Eaters all broke in to the Potters’ mansion; an anonymous source had informed us of the location. I was part of the crew that was attacking – so were Bellatrix, the LeStranges, Malfoy, Pucey, Nott, Rosier, Selwyn, Regulus, the Carrows, Dolohov, Greyback, and Snape – we were father’s most ruthless and dangerous pawns, in the midst of the useless ones. Except me and Bellatrix, clad in hooded robes, the rest all wore their masks.

The wards around the Potter mansion had been taken down by someone inside, and so, there were little to no obstacles in our path.

As we all apparated in, it took the guests a hot second to even realize what had happened; once they did, there was a full-on battle.

The first person to attack me was Professor McGonagall, who was, as expected, one heck of an opponent. It was fun, going back and forth with a person who was suppose to have power over me, and that too in a dangerous duel. And yes, she caught me off-guard a couple times, but that was that. Confringo’s, stupefy’s, crucio’s, expulso’s, reducto’s, spells that melted your insides, jinxes that turned your heart to metal, hexes that made your wand obey your opponent, curses that blasted you apart; there was everything included, because I had lethal intent. It was a Sectumsempra, however, that finally took down my Professor, for she was growing out of breath, and when cuts and gashes made way into her arm and shoulder, she finally dropped to her knees, wand still not forgotten.

Trusting Nagini to take care of her, I went off, assisting Snape in a duel against a certain redhead that he was going way too easy on. And it was easy to take her down, because with a carefully aimed Crucio, the bride had dropped down, screaming and writhing; my companion turned to me just as I heard a scream of “LILY!”, and I just knew he was grimacing underneath. Shrugging my shoulders, I then left Snape to engage in a duel against Dorcas Meadowes, who was fighting beside a heavily breathing redhead whose wand had been blasted off to who knows where. I needed to see the captured.

As I entered the mansion, I was impressed; I didn’t remember any attack in which we’d done this well. But then again, I’d been ready to kill whoever didn’t immerse themselves into pure torture of these people. Most guests had already escaped; only the groom, his father, his friends and colleagues, a couple Professors of whom Dumbledore wasn’t part of, and the bride who was soon brought in, we had mostly all the important ones in our grasp.

I locked eyes with Pettigrew, on his knees beside Potter, and was quivering. He seemed to know what I wanted to tell him – good job.

“Lily!”

“Dorcas, are you okay?”

“What happened?!”

“Lily, love-“

“SHUT UP!” exclaimed Bellatrix, just at the right time. She then proceeded to cackle madly, which I rolled my eyes at. Lucius hissed something about “embarrassing women”.

“Let her go, please,” uttered Potter, and only then did I turn to see Snape holding his wand at Evans’ back. Holding, not jabbing. Striding towards him, pulling her forward with her left arm, and forcefully making her sit on her knees directly in front of Potter as I held her in place with her hair, the girl couldn’t hide her quivering lip from me.    I didn’t blame her; I’d successfully destroyed her wedding, and would probably kill her. But I couldn’t help chuckling when Potter started pleading to let her go, because she was bleeding. And the twisted pleasure I derived from that sickened me, but I couldn’t stop it.

Tugging at her hair harder, I muttered a stinging spell under my breath, and the girl’s shoulder began burning more. She yelped and hissed, and I could make out the clenched fists of my fellow Death Eater from the peripherals of my vision. He had to get over her.

And that was the reason, I convinced myself, why I Crucio-ed the girl on her knees.

Her friends screamed at me to stop it, she screamed at me to stop it, Potter screamed at me to stop it, but I didn’t. Amongst the shouts, Black screamed at me to reveal my face, as his cousin already had. I didn’t. And the billow of wind that went past me, temporarily stopping me, and lowered my hood, I knew it wasn’t just nature’s wrath.

As Rabastan tortured Black for lowering my hood, McKinnon taunted, “Oh, your friend can’t defend herself, is it?”

I was flattered, honestly, with the uproar that caused among the Death Eaters. Chuckling, and then asking them to stop it, I wandered to McKinnon, and crouched to her eye level, looking head-straight into her blue eyes. I was aware of the tense gazes of the wedding guests on me, and I couldn’t help but smirk. Quickly suppressing it, I ran my hands along the girl’s face – her nose, jaw, lips, and then threaded them through her hair.

Pulling her head back with her hair, I tilted my head to the side. “You’re the half blood, hm? Gryffindor, like your mother. Your father was Ravenclaw.” She seemed creeped out a tad, at me knowing her family so well. I raised my voice, no longer muttering. “Dolohov, take this one back home. Don’t touch her, or her family. Kill them off, make it hurt. Once you’re done, come back here.”

And so the screams started again, protests and thrashing and writhing. Dolohov did as he was instructed, and everyone watched, horrified.

“Anyone else, have any problem?” I raised my brows. Silence.

I then worked efficiently. Meadowes, Black, Pettigrew and Lupin were taken to the headquarters, meant to be attended to by Father. Bellatrix was allowed to torture whoever she pleased. Once she was done, I dragged the mudblood by her lover, and both of them were tied together. The professors were sent back to Hogwarts as a message, and once those two, as well as Auror Potter were the only ones left, me and the Death Eaters trudged out. Standing at the door, I pointed my wand. “Fiendfyre.”

The doors were closed, and the screams inside would haunt the area forever. The Potters had been murdered, along with all the most valuable assets of the Order of the Phoenix, and Neville Longbottom, two years later, had been marked with a lightning scar.

No one messes with the Riddles and gets away.

No one is worthy of our jealousy.

[halloween-ki11s]

Abby was having a remarkably shitty day.

Plans to go vacationing during semester break? cancelled. And why had that vacation been cancelled? Why it was all thanks to the wonderful Canadian snow of course. A storm had rolled in during the night and had pelted enough snow to practically barricade Abby in the house. All the doors were a no go and the windows were all frozen shut. The news made it crystal clear that there was no going anywhere even if the snow wasn’t enough to do that already. She was practically seething.

Not only was she frozen inside, but she was also utterly alone. The rest of the girls had already left days before to travel home to their own families. It was Abby’s own bad luck that she was only able to get a bus ticket for today’s date. So much for that.

She spent all morning barricading the windows and every crack she could find with blankets, sheets, and some old shirts that she hoped her sisters wouldn’t miss too much. With all that said and done, Abby collapsed into the living room couch with an, “oof.” And let her eyes slide closed, allowing sleep to take her.

That is, until the phone rang.

‘No, not him again.’ Abby thought to herself.

With a huff, she forced her tired limbs to lift her from the couch and up toward the phone. A sigh escaped her lips as she picked it up. As soon as her ear met the receiver, she could hear pig grunts along with moans and other such lovely noises.

“What do you want?” Her tone was irritated, but not outright hostile.

There were several more seconds of grunting before the man on the other end finally spoke something coherent.

“Want you to suck my f-f-fat juicy cock.”

Not beating around the bush today, was he? He must be pretty excited to be stuttering like that, too.

“Hey buddy, unless you can do something to warm me up, I’m not interested. It’s been a shitty day and I’d like to get a moment of peace.” Abby absentmindedly twirled the cord around her finger as she set her back against the wall. Despite the man’s words it was all so casual, routine.

Silence fell on the other end, but not for long. It never lasted with The Moaner.

“Billy can make it better. Billy can make you warm. Going to lick that pretty p-p-pink pussy and make you warm all over. Would you like that, pretty piggy? Like my tongue in your wet, warm cunt?”

Ever the charmer, and yet...Abby had heard plenty of these phone calls along with her sisters, and as much as she’d gotten used to this ‘Billy’ and his filthy tongue, she couldn’t deny that his words still had an effect on her. Of course, she’d never actually admit that to him, especially not during a call.

“Tempting offer, but I was thinking more like cuddles or hot cocoa. Now if you’ll ex-“

“Pretty piggy’s all alonnnneeee. Needs naughty, dirty Billy to come and make her moaaaannnn~”

Abby’s words died in her throat at the singsong.

How did he know she was alone? Surely he was a neighbor or something that had seen the girls leave earlier...right? Yeah, of course. Just some peeping Tom like she and the others always suspected. That’s all this was. And yet, why was it so hard to try and convince herself of that?

On the other end of the line, Billy’s pig noises now turned into nervous chittering. He was working himself up to something, and if Abby had the presence of mind at the moment, she would have heard the thumps coming from the floorboards just above her. Billy stayed on the phone long enough for Abby to come back to her senses. She tried to keep her voice even and firm, but she couldn’t suppress the hint of fear.

“How did you know?” It’s the only thing she can manage to get out.

There’s a long, uncomfortable pause that stretches into what feels like minutes. An occasional shuddering breath comes from the other end as Abby’s mind continues to reel. In the back of her mind, it occurs to her that among The Moaner’s many noises, there had also been the chattering of teeth. He was freezing.

“Wait for me. Wait for Billy, pretty little Abby.” The line went dead.

Abby slammed the phone back on the receiver, and as she did so, she finally heard it; the shuffling, thumping of footsteps in the attic. That was all she needed to put two and two together.

He’d been here the whole time, living in the attic.

“Fuck!” She mumbled to herself, immediately turning on her heel looking for somewhere to hide. There was always the kitchen table, but that’d be too obvious. Maybe run to her room? No, that was up the stairs toward him. There’d be no way she could reach her door in the time it took him to climb down the ladder. She was running out of time and options, having realized she hadn’t taken a step in the moments since hanging up, and he was getting closer.

Abby took a long, anxious breath, stealing her nerves to the best of her ability as she closed her eyes. She listened for the footfalls racing down the stairs. Abby counted to herself one, two, three as he got closer and closer. Finally forcing her eyes open, she saw him standing there, arms slightly outstretched towards her at the bottom stair step, his features partially silhouetted in the darkness of the living room.

It was him; the infamous Moaner.

Both of them stood there frozen in place, not daring to make a move. Abby took in his features, noting his considerable height and long, spindly limbs. He looked about one hundred pounds soaking wet. He wore a green turtleneck around his thin frame, his fair fluffy and all over the place. What kept her in place though were his dilated, wild eyes that took in every inch of her form just as she was doing to him. There was unmistakable surprise in his eyes, like he didn’t quite believe that she had actually waited by the phone for him. He slowly retracted his arms back to his sides, twitching all the while.

“P-p-pretty Abby.” He said in that all too familiar voice.

Abby swallowed thickly, considering her next words very carefully as the stare down continued.

“I take it you’re Billy then?”

He shook his head sheepishly, taking a few baby steps forward as he brought his arms back up to twiddle with his fingers. He was violently shivering. For all his bluster on the phone, being surprised in such a way left the man deflated. If it weren’t for the shock of it all, Abby might even find it endearing. Still, this could go south fast if she wasn’t careful and she was painfully aware of that.

Abby carefully took a few steps forward as Billy had done which garnered no reaction from him. So far so good. As Abby got closer, she cautiously reached one of her hands out to take one of his. The Moaner recoiled from the offer as if she had a snake in her hand and took a step back.

Shit

“Hey shhhh. It’s okay. You just...you look like you’re freezing. It must be awful up in the attic right now. I’m surprised you don’t have hypothermia for God’s sake! So let’s just both calm down and I’ll help you, okay?”

This was the man making obscene phone calls to her and her sisters and living in their attic like a creep, and yet here Abby was making an offer of help. She couldn’t help it, though. Looking at him now, freezing and shaking and likely haven’t had a good meal in a long time, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Surely if his only crime was making weird phone calls, he couldn’t be that bad...right? She was desperately trying to rationalize all of this to herself and she was ever so grateful that she was home alone so she didn’t have to try to explain this.

It looked like Billy was going through a similar dilemma as well. His wild eyes darted from Abby’s hand to her face and back again. Whether he thought this was some sort of trick or not, Abby couldn’t tell, but Billy, ever so slowly and through incoherent mumbling, reached one of his hands out and slipped it into Abby’s.

She immediately flinched when she felt just how cold his fingers felt. She had meant it as a joke earlier, but now she really wasn’t sure how he hadn’t succumbed to the elements up there.

“Abby so nice, so warm…” She heard him say between more of his ramblings.

The wild look had died in his eyes to something more calm. He just continued to stare at their intertwined hands with the most adoration she’d seen from a person. Despite the extremely strange circumstances, she had to admit there was something oddly adorable about this stranger from the attic. Maybe he was-

And then he tried to guide her hand to his crotch.

“Hey! No!”

The once quiet Billy now lit up with a wide smile and snickered at her reaction, still trying to get her to grab his cock.

Abby lightly slapped his shoulder and let out another “No!” Which earned a low growl from Billy.

“Billy wants to make you warm all over with his fat, juicy fucking c-“

Abby pressed a finger to his lips to silence him only for Billy to almost immediately start sucking on it with a contented hum. Abby made a disgusted face, but didn’t take her finger out of his mouth.

“You’re freezing! Come on, at least get under the covers on the couch! Now’s not the time to fuck.”

Billy only shook his head dramatically like a giant child, the smile not fading from his mouth as he continued to suck on Abby’s finger. He grew bolder, taking a shivering hand and groping at one of her sides. Abby let out an involuntary squeak at the sensation as the smugness practically radiated off Billy.

No, she had to shut this shit down now. She freed the finger from his mouth with a long string of drool following it and grasped the hand roaming all over her side. With her now free hand, she slapped her head and sighed.

“Listen...I’ll give you a handy later if you just cuddle under the blankets so you don’t die. Deal?”

That seems to placate him given the second she finished her sentence, Billy wraps both his arms around her waist, earning a surprised yelp from Abby, and hauling both of them over to the couch. He quickly covers both of them in the pile of blankets Abby had assembled earlier and rested his chin on her head once cocooned. He continued to have both of his arms wrapped around her middle, still slightly trembling but becoming steadier as the warmth he so desperately needed set in.

“Good Abby. Good girl.” He practically purred.

As Abby settled into his grasp and allowed herself to get comfortable, she struggled to understand how she’d gotten here. However, sleep began to take hold of her, the added warmth from Billy being exactly what she needed as much as she might hate to admit it. Her eyes slipping shut for the second time that day, there was only one thought on her mind:

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

[lepus-arcticus]

37.

“Why a snake?” 

Outside, a cacophony of cicadas shriek, their shrill melodic cries lacerating the thick Tennessee dusk. 

“Hmm,” she grunts into the pillow, her wet hair curling around her earlobes. The door connecting their rooms is ajar, creaking against the air-con. She’s sprawled naked on her belly across the cheap paisley comforter, towel abandoned to the sticky carpet, and her ouroboros leers at him from above the refined slopes of her sweet little ass. 

She lifts her chin and fixes him with a look that says ‘leave it alone, Mulder’. Instead, he moves from the desk to the bed and sinks down beside her, covering the tattoo with his palm, getting close to her skin and inhaling the lingering scent of motel bar soap. There is a subtle ripple of scar tissue distorting the snake’s twisty scales, a souvenir from that awful afternoon in the office. Surely, he thinks, still sick with shame, it’s been longer than three years. Surely he’s not the same man he once was. 

The serpent observes him from between his fingers, and he finds he can’t look away. “I mean, from a purely Abrahamic perspective, snakes are the ultimate in baddie symbology. They’re practically reviled in your religion. Why… why choose to mark yourself with such a symbol?” 

Scully nuzzles the pillowcase and pouts, sinking back into that place she goes. Mulder bides his time, thinking of the temptation of Eve, of original sin, of the swath of papery snakeskin nailed to the doorbeam of the Church of Signs and Wonders. He thinks of Minoan goddesses glazed with quartz paste, of Osiris and Ra. He thinks about how the span of his fingers nearly encompasses the width of Scully’s waist. 

“I don’t know,” she says, finally, but he knows it’s bullshit. There’s nothing that Scully doesn’t know, doesn’t turn over in her head until every thought is as clean and hard as a freshwater pearl. He hums in disapproval, and she pops her ass up into the warm air, rolling it towards him, trying to change the subject. 

“Was it the alchemical connection that stirred you?” he murmurs dramatically, allowing himself to be hypnotized by the suggestive pulses she’s making with her hips, by the way she looks at him from under her eyelashes. “Surely it’s not an ode to organic chemistry.” At this, she snorts, and he smiles through a tremor of lust, dipping his head to bite her soundly on one peachy cheek. 

She jerks but then purrs his name, and he keeps his head low, getting hard at the thought of all the paganish and sin-soaked things he suddenly wants to do to her. Maybe it’s the case and its stink of religious zeal that’s getting to him, but he wants it dirty this time, wants to shock her a little, wants things from her that the professionals in his videotapes charge extra to do. 

He roots closer to the seam of her rump, tasting her downy skin, letting his tongue dip into the divot below her tattoo. There’s a dumb joke rattling around his brain about eating tail, but there isn’t enough blood left in his head to make it clever. Instead, he moves behind her, strategizing, salivating. 

He grips her hips and hauls her up so that she’s on her knees, spread wide before him, and she’s so slim that there’s no flesh to move out of the way--the view is already downright pornographic. She stretches her arms towards the pine headboard and sighs happily as he wrestles his stiffening cock out of his jeans one-handed, sliding the fingers of his free hand through the searing hot basin of her cunt; her beautiful, beautiful cunt that is already so wet for him, because, thank whatever snake-scorning gods hold dominion over the earth, his Scully nearly always wants it just as bad as he does. 

“You’ve got the prettiest asshole,” he croons, and it’s indisputably true, especially when he drags his fingers up to glaze it with her arousal. 

She’s quiet, and he knows from experience that she’s waiting to see what he’ll say next, what he’ll do. He’s not sure if it’s a dare, but he decides to take it as one anyway, because there’s a hot pang at the base of his spine and it’s spreading to his balls and he’s not in the mood to be anything resembling circumspect. He swipes his thumb over that tight, sweet bud, his dick throbbing painfully at the way it clenches a little against him, at how she doesn’t retreat, but instead pushes back. 

Jesus Christ. 

He rubs and rubs with the meditative concentration of a Jaipur snake charmer until she finally makes a small, desperate sound, and then he’s lost. Without even bothering with a warning, he’s got two fingers deep in the velvety clutch of her pussy, and he’s diving face-first into that forbidden place, tonguing the pucker of it viciously, already drunk on the earthy tang that’s at once thrilling in its novelty but still so essentially Scully that he almost comes into his fist. 

But he holds off and makes her come instead, begging to fuck her ass while she’s pliant and pleased with him, promising to go slow, groaning good-naturedly when she shuts him down and then amends her rebuffs with a sly maybe some other time, Mulder, because despite what your videos might advertise, that kind of thing requires careful preparation. 

He enjoys fucking her hard from behind anyway, enjoys watching the ripple of her body as it slams against his hips, enjoys sliding a cheeky thumb into the pink, puckered darling of his fantasies as she’s coming a second time, enjoys earning her dazed, delighted mewl. 

“At least tell me about the tattoo,” he says afterwards, when they’re sweaty and exhausted and starting to talk about finding a diner. “We’re in snake country, Scully. It’s only right.” Even as he’s saying it, he realizes he’s not serious, that he doesn’t care, that he likes that she won’t give him all of herself, even when he asks nicely. 

“C’mon, Mulder, you love a good mystery,” she smiles. “Maybe if you figure it out, I’ll let you fuck me in the ass sometime.” -

Incrementum

[fatecantstopme]

The Serpent Queen (FP Jones x Reader)

Summary: The reader in this story is named ‘Piper’, but feel free to insert your name when reading! Simple FP Jones One Shot. Don’t worry, she’s 26 (perfectly legal!)

Warnings: Smut, cursing

(GIF Credit to @mona-stay)

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

You were exhausted as you opened the door to your trailer and stumbled inside. It had been a horrendously long day and all you wanted to do was shower and crawl into bed. You peeled your leather jacket off and tossed it onto the couch. You continued removing articles of clothing while walking toward the bathroom, leaving the clothes where they fell. You were about to step into the shower when your phone buzzed. You walked out to the kitchen and picked it up to see who was calling. The name on the screen made your stomach do summersaults. You knew you couldn’t ignore it no matter how tired you were. 

“Hello?”

“Hey Pipes. I need you to come in.”

You sighed. “I’m exhausted, boss. Could it wait until the morning?”

The man’s voice was gentle, but firm. “It’s important. I need you to come in. I called in Mustang and Tall Boy too.”

You knew that meant that something big was going down...and you couldn’t say no to the King. “Alright. I’ll be there in 15.”

You hung up and sighed. You loved your life, but sometimes being the best really sucked. You decided to take a quick shower before getting dressed and heading down to the Wyrm.

After your shower, you threw on a pair of distressed black jeans, a white v-neck, and combat boots. You threw your leather jacket on as you headed out the door. You hopped on your bike, started the engine, and sped off in the direction of the White Wyrm. The trip only took about 5 minutes, but when you arrived, you noticed that Mustang’s and Tall Boy’s bikes were already parked out front. You parked and headed inside, your thoughts evenly split between wondering what this was about and focusing on keeping your shit together. The King always had a certain effect on you and with the events of the last few months, this was even more true. The last thing you needed was for Mustang or Tall Boy to realize how you felt about your leader. You took a deep breath and walked through the door.

“There she is!” A voice boomed.

You grinned. “Hey, Tall Boy.” You fist bumped the giant man and did the same to Mustang.

“Hey, Piper. Thanks for joining us.” You turned around to face the owner of the voice and felt your heart skip a beat. The man standing in front of you was absurdly attractive. The epitome of ‘tall, dark, and handsome’. His dark hair was tousled slightly, like he’d been running his hands through it, and his brown eyes were tired, but you could see the spark in them when he looked at you. He was wearing his typical uniform: fitted jeans, t-shirt under an unbuttoned flannel, combat boots, and of course, his Serpent jacket. It was the one thing that all of you had in common. Despite the layers, you could see the lean muscles of his strong body and you felt an intense desire to run your hands over his chest. You managed to keep your cool and shot your leader a smirk. “Anything for you, FP,” you said with a dramatic curtsey.

The other two men snickered and FP rolled his eyes. “Alright, people. We’ve got important business to discuss.” FP’s tone sobered the room. The three of you waited to hear what he had to say. 

“We’ve got a problem that needs to be taken care of...and the three of you are the best I’ve got.”

“What kind of problem, boss?” Tall Boy asked.

“The Snake Charmer kind.”

You flinched. It was no secret that you and Penny Peabody hated each other. Even hearing her nickname made your blood boil. “What’d the bitch do now?” you asked through gritted teeth.

FP raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t admonish you. “She’s blackmailing us. Either we run drugs for her, or she takes it out on my son.”

Your breath caught in your chest. The Serpent kids were your purview. You were only 26, so the teens related to you. You protected them and mentored them. As far as you were concerned, a threat against one of your kids was a threat against you personally. 

FP noticed your anger flaring. “Easy, Pipes,” he said gently.

“She threatened one of my kids. How did you think I was going to react?” You snapped.

“I know. He’s my son. How do you think I feel?” He snapped back.

You pursed your lips and stayed silent. After all, he had a point.

“So what are we gonna do?” Mustang asked, trying to ease the tension.

“Until further notice, the Serpents will be drug mules.”

Your face drained of color and you could sense the unease in the two men beside you. None of you said a word though, because FP’s voice had a tone of finality to it. When the King made a decree, there was no arguing it.

“So what do you need us to do?” You asked.

“The four of us are going to take the lead on this. I need you, Piper, to pick four kids to team up with us.”

You gasp audibly. “FP, you can’t put kids into this. It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s less suspicious to have an adult and a kid team than having two adult men.”

“But they’re just kids,” you protested.

His expression hardened. “They’re Serpents. Pair four kids with the four of us. That’s an order.”

You could feel the anger bubbling under your skin and it took all of your self-control to not fight back. What he just ordered you to do went against everything you believed in...and who you were as a person. 

Mustang could see your anger and he put a hand on your back. “Take a deep breath, P.” He gently rubbed your back as you took a couple deep breaths. You noticed FP’s entire body tense up as he watched you. His breathing was shaky and you knew he was struggling to keep his cool. You felt some satisfaction at seeing his discomfort, but you didn’t need him to flip out in front of witnesses. “Thanks, Mustang,” you said with a smile. He returned it and stepped back. 

You turned your attention back to FP. “I’ll ask for volunteers tomorrow. You’ll get your teams. Sir.” You added the ‘sir’ with a little more venom than was necessary.

He nodded, ignoring your attitude. “Good. Then you’re all dismissed.”

You glared at him before turning toward the exit. 

“Aww, come on, Pipes. You’re not gonna stay for a drink?” Tall Boy called after you.

“Sorry boys, not tonight. I’m exhausted.”

“Alright. See you tomorrow, then.”

You left with a wave and climbed onto your bike. The ride home was quick and you couldn’t wait to crawl into your bed. You were hurt and angry, which had pushed your exhaustion to the side. You changed into comfy clothes and sat on your bed. You were thinking about what had transpired tonight, as well as the events that had occurred over the past year. 

It had been about 10 months ago when everything blew the hell up. FP Jones had gone to prison for the murder of Jason Blossom. When you’d heard the news, you’d been shocked. There was no way that FP would hurt a kid, let alone murder one. You got the sense that Tall Boy knew more than he was letting on, but he wouldn’t tell you anything. So you went directly to the source. Seeing FP shuffle in in an orange jumpsuit and cuffs broke your heart. His face lit up in surprise when he saw you sitting on the other side of the glass. From that moment on, something had changed between the two of you. You visited him every week and worked with Jughead to try and get him free. 

The day that FP got out of prison was one of the happiest you’d ever experienced. That night, he’d knocked on your door in the middle of the night because he couldn’t sleep. You sat on the couch and he laid down with his head in your lap. The two of you had talked for hours and you’d gently run your fingers through his hair. Eventually, you both fell asleep and when you woke up, you were surprised to see him still there...cooking you breakfast. That day began a growing relationship between you and the Serpent King. You’d been together for the past four months, but no one knew. Not because FP wanted to keep it a secret, but because you did. You didn’t want other Serpents to think you were sleeping with the boss to get special treatment or some bullshit. And you certainly didn’t want to upset Jughead in any way. So you asked him to keep it a secret and he agreed. He’d asked you just last week if he could officially announce it, but you were too nervous. He respected you enough to honor your wishes. 

You sighed audibly. The memories of the past few months normally made you happy...but right now, all you could think about was how foolish you’d been to get involved with the older man. You’d developed real feelings for him and you thought he’d felt the same. Tonight’s events, however, made you question that. His orders showed a lack of respect for your morals...a lack of respect for you. Maybe it shouldn't bother you so much, after all those kids had voluntarily joined a gang. But they were still kids. And the Serpents weren’t that kind of gang. They looked out for their own; protected them. Now they were going to run drugs and force the kids to participate. It was just wrong.

You were jostled from your thoughts by a knock at your door. When you opened the door, you were surprised to find a solemn-faced FP standing on the steps. “FP, I don’t really want to see you right now.”

His frown deepened. “Pipes, can we please just talk?”

You looked him over and noticed that he looked older and more weary. This whole thing was clearly weighing on him, and it lowered your resolve. You simply stood back, allowing him to enter. He sat on the end of the couch and you sat on the other, pulling your legs up and turning to face him. You sat in silence for a few minutes before he finally spoke. “You’re upset with me.”

“Perceptive.”

He looked over at you. “It had to be this way, Piper. It’s the safest option for all of us.”

You just stared at him, waiting for him to go on. When he remained silent, you spoke up, “So that’s it? You’re not here to apologize?”

He furrowed his brow. “No offense, Piper, but I’m the King. I have nothing to apologize for.”

Your eyes widened in hurt and surprise. You blinked rapidly to keep the tears from falling. “Then you can leave.” You stood up and gestured towards the door.

He looked up at you in confusion. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“FP, if you don’t understand why I’m upset, then this conversation is over. Now, please leave.” So I can cry in peace, you added silently. 

He stood up and looked at you sadly. “Did I just screw this up?”

“Honestly, FP, I don’t know.”

He winced as if you’d slapped him and he turned and walked out without another word. 

You collapsed onto the floor with your back against the couch and let the tears fall.

***FP’s POV***

I stomped into my trailer and slammed the door. What the hell have I done? I run my fingers through my hair and sigh. I sit down on the couch with a thud. I am such an idiot. I finally have a great relationship with an amazing woman and I let my ego fuck it up. I put my face in my hands and shake my head. I tell myself that it had to be done, that this was a good plan, but the words feel hollow.

“Dad? Are you okay?” Jughead tentatively steps out of his room. I can see the worry on his face and I want to reassure him, but I can’t bring myself to do it. 

“Not really, Jug.”

He came into the living room and sat in the chair across from me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s not something I should be discussing with my son.”

“Come on, Dad. Who else are you going to talk to?” He gestured around to the empty room.

The kid had a point, as much as I hated to admit it. “I messed up. I made a decision and I hurt someone that I care about.”

“One of the guys?”

I shook my head. “I, uh, haven’t been completely honest with you, Jughead. I’ve been seeing someone. She wanted to keep it a secret--”

“Piper?” he asked with a small smile.

I looked up at him in surprise. “You know?”

He laughed. “Of course I know! I’m not an idiot, Dad. I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

I can feel my face heat up. I’d tried to keep it professional around her, but she made me feel things that I never thought I’d feel again. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“I get it. Some people might judge.”

I simply nodded.

“So what did you do?

I sigh and fill him in on the events of the evening. Jughead was quiet for a few minutes after I’d finished. I knew he had a lot to work through...especially since this whole business with Penny started with him. “This is my fault,” he began.

“No, Jug, it’s not, okay? I’m taking care of it, so don’t worry about that part.”

“By turning the Serpents into drug mules? Dad, that’s not who we are.”

“You think I don’t know that, kid? I hate this as much as you do, but it’s the only option.”

“But sending kids to do it? Come on, Dad. You’re telling me that you can’t see why Piper is upset?”

“It’s a good plan,” I say defensively.

“That may be true, but think about it from her perspective. Piper loves us like we’re her younger siblings. She would die to protect a Serpent kid without a second thought. But you’re forcing her to do something that puts those very kids in danger. It goes against who she is a person. Hell, you ordered her to do it. Imagine how that would feel.”

I hung my head, realizing that my son was right. “Shit,” I mumbled. 

“Dad?”

I looked up at him.

“Do you love her?”

I froze. The word ‘love’ always made me nervous. I hated using it and I hated hearing it. But Piper was different...everything about her was different. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine living the rest of my life without Piper. I realized with a pang that I couldn’t do it. Losing her might very well be the death of me. I made eye contact with my son and said softly, “With all my heart.”

He smiled. “Then you have to get her back. You might want to start with an apology.”

I nodded, knowing he was right. “When the hell did you get to be so wise?”

He leaned back in his chair and shrugged. “I was born this way.”

I rolled my eyes and stood up. “Go back to bed, oh wise one.”

Jughead smiled and headed back to his room.

“Hey, Jug.” He turned back around to look at me. “Thanks.”

He nodded. “Anytime, Dad.”

I changed my clothes and collapsed on my bed. The weight of the day exhausted me. My heart ached, but I knew that Piper would need time before she’d see me again. I hoped that I could see her before tomorrow’s meeting so we could clear the air. I fell asleep thinking about what I was going to say to get my girl back.

***Your POV***

You’d fallen asleep after crying it out for a little while. You felt no better today and your eyes were red and puffy. You knew you’d need to try and remedy that before heading to the Wyrm. You didn’t want people to know that you’d been crying, least of all FP. You took a long, hot shower, then put a face mask on and some under eye masks too. You laid on your bed, naked, and tried to relax your mind. After 20 minutes, you got up and washed your face. You smiled when you saw that your skin wasn’t blotchy and your eyes weren’t puffy. They were still a little red, but that was as good as it was gonna get. You took your time getting ready...you were in no hurry to see FP. Hell, if you were a different person, you would have made up some excuse to not go today. But you weren’t a quitter, so you pulled yourself together and headed to the Wyrm. 

When you walked into the bar, you were surprised by how crowded it was. It was only 9:30am on a Saturday. One of your kids was the first to notice you enter. “Hey, Piper!”

“Hey, Sweet Pea,” you said with a smile. “What are y'all doing here here so early on a Saturday?”

Sweet Pea shrugged. “The boss texted us to come in.”

You hadn’t gotten that message, but maybe it was because you were already planning on coming in. You perched yourself on the barstool between Sweet Pea and Fangs. “I wonder what this is about,” you muttered.

“No one seems to have any idea,” Fangs replied.

A loud wolf whistle brought everyone’s attention to the other side of the room. FP was standing up on the stage so that everyone could see and hear him. Seeing him sent a shockwave of emotions through your body...not all of them good. You couldn’t believe that he’d called a meeting without including you. You were wondering what the hell he was gonna say when he began to speak.

“Sorry for calling you all in so early on a Saturday.” Laughter and boos spilled out around the room. “But what I have to say is so important that it couldn’t wait.” He took a deep breath. “The Serpents are going to have to do something that I’m really not happy about, but it has to be done in order to protect our youngest members. I met with three of our best yesterday to discuss our next moves. I made a decision during that meeting that I have now come to regret. I neglected to take other people’s opinions into account and for that, I am truly sorry. So today, I am announcing my new decision. A few of us will have to risk everything for the good of this family. So, as of today, myself, Tall Boy, Mustang, and Levi will become drug runners for Penny Peabody.”

His voice was drowned out by angry shouts from almost every person in the room. You simply sat in stunned silence, unable to form a single coherent thought. FP raised his voice, fighting for dominance. Finally, he whistled again and everyone fell silent. “I know you’re angry and so am I, but we don’t have a choice. She threatened some of our youngest Serpents and I will not stand for that. So we’re going to do what she wants, even if it costs us.” 

FP scanned the room until his eyes found you. “There’s a person here that means the world to me...and I hurt her in ways I didn’t truly understand until now. And for that, I am incredibly sorry. I’m going to do everything I can to make it right...no matter how long it takes.” The room stood in stunned silence. FP had just admitted that he loved a woman in this room and publicly apologized for hurting her.

Your whole body was frozen. His words hit you deep and spurred something inside of you. You stood up and looked your King in the eyes. “In unity, there is strength,” you said, your voice strong and firm.

Everyone turned to look at you, but your eyes never left FP’s. Seconds passed, then the entire room responded in kind, “In unity, there is strength!”

FP nodded and jumped off the stage, effectively ending the meeting. Everyone started chatting and a voice behind you said, “Holy shit. He was talking about you.” You turned to see Toni Topaz staring at you in shock. You nodded slowly, “Yes...he was.”

The rest of the group that surrounded you gasped audibly and started asking all kinds of questions. A deep voice from behind saved you from having to answer any of them. “Do you kids mind if I steal Piper for a while?” FP asked.

A chorus of “yeahs” and “go aheads” resounded. You rolled your eyes at their expressions and followed the King upstairs to his office. The moment he closed the door, you spoke, “Well that was very public.”

He blushed. “I’m so sorry, Pipes. For all of it. I didn’t realize what I’d done until I talked it over with Jughead.” 

Your eyes widened. “You told Jughead?!”

He shrugged. “He already knew. All I did was confirm it. He said--and I quote-- ‘I’ve seen the way you look at her.’”

You were quiet for a moment. “Was he okay with it?”

“More than okay. He wanted me to fix things with you.”

Now it was your turn to blush. “I can see that that emboldened you.”

“Maybe a little bit.” He smiled. “Which is also why I changed the plan. It’s more dangerous, but you were right. We can’t do that to the kids.”

“I’m glad that you agree, but why take me out of it?”

“To protect you. I realized last night that I can’t bear to lose you.”

You looked at him affectionately. “FP...”

“Let me finish or I’ll never get this out.” You nod and he continues. “You have changed my life, Pipes. You make it better in every possible way...and you make me better. How can I not love you? I meant what I said earlier, you mean the world to me. It scares the shit out of me, but I love you, Piper Coronado. I love you with all my heart.”

You stood there frozen in shock. FP wasn’t a particularly open man when it came to his feelings and it was well known how he felt about the ‘L word’, so his revelation had you reeling. 

“Pipes...please, say something.”

You realized you’d been silent for too long. “I’m sorry. I’m just shocked.”

“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same. I --”

“Shut up,” you say, cutting him off. You close the space between you and pull his face down to yours, your lips crashing together. After a few moments, you pull away breathless. You look up at him and say softly, “I love you, too, FP Jones. I always have.”

His face lit up and he grinned. He grabbed you and pulled you into him, kissing you passionately. He gripped your thighs and pulled you up so your legs were wrapped around his waist. He carried you over to the desk and sat you on top of it, clearing everything off with a sweep of his arm. Everything crashed to the ground and you winced. “FP! They’ll hear us downstairs.”

He grinned. “Don’t worry, baby. It’s sound-proofed.”

You returned his grin and pulled him closer with your legs. “Well in that case...” You tugged at the bottom hem of his shirt and he got the message and pulled it off over his head. You reached for him and he leaned back in to kiss you. Your body reacted to his touch and you let out a soft moan as he trailed kisses down your neck. “Lose the jacket,” he murmured against your neck. You wiggled your arms out of your jacket and tossed it on the floor. His hands immediately slid up under your shirt and you pulled it off over your head to give him better access. 

You could see the massive bulge through his jeans and you slowly ran your hand across it, sending a shiver up his spine. “Lose the pants, handsome.” He grinned and quickly yanked them off. You licked your lips and murmured, “Boxers too.”

“How is that fair? You’re almost fully dressed!” He protested.

You smiled and slid off the desk as you slowly unclasped your bra and tossed it to the side. FP watched your every move, the hunger in his eyes spurring you on. You turned around so your back was to him and slowly slid your jeans down your legs. You leaned forward, giving him a great view of your lace-covered ass. He let out a low groan and the instant your pants were out of the way, he was right up behind you, pressed against your back. He peppered kisses down your neck and shoulder while his hands explored your breasts. You let out a low moan and leaned back into him.

“Turn around, baby.”

You obliged, turning to face him. He pushes against you until you hit the desk. He gently slipped his hands under your ass and lifted you onto the desk. He immediately drops to his knees and spreads your legs wide. He nuzzles against the lace of your panties, causing you to gasp. He takes his time, gently kissing your inner thighs, sending sweet sensations through your body. The more he teased you, the more you needed him. “FP,” you groaned, “quit teasing me.”

“Do you not like it?” He asked softly.

“You know I do, but it’s cruel.”

He chuckled softly and grabbed your hips. “Lift up.” You did as you were told and he quickly slid the lace bits off your body and discarded them on the floor. He looked you over, his eyes filled with desire. “You’re so gorgeous, Piper.”

You smiled and beckoned him towards you. He leaned over you and planted a soft kiss on your lips before getting down on his knees again. He placed his hands on your inner thighs and slid his tongue between your folds. Your head fell back and you moaned as he began licking and sucking with fervor. You tanged your fingers in his hair and he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer to his mouth. Waves of pleasure radiated through your body and you felt the familiar knot tightening in your stomach. You lifted your hips to meet him and begged him not to stop. His grip on you tightened and he sped up, sliding two fingers inside of you, gently stroking your g-spot. Within seconds, an intense orgasm racked your body and you cried out in pleasure. FP rode the waves as your body bucked beneath, not stopping until you gently tugged on his hair. He lifted his head and looked at you with a grin. You pulled him up to you and kissed him, tasting yourself on his lips.

He pulled away and whispered, “I want you, baby.” You smiled and reached for him. He pulled you close and you wrapped your legs around his waist so that he could pick you up. He carried you to the couch and gently laid you down before crawling on top of you. He kissed you and you ran your hands down his hard body, appreciating the toned muscles. He let out a soft groan against your lips, clearly appreciating your touch. He began moving down your body, kissing your neck, nibbling at your collar bone, and gently licking at your nipples before leaning back and grabbing his cock. You bit your lip and lifted your hips slightly, indicating to him that you wanted him. He slowly rubbed his cock against your entrance and you moaned breathlessly. “I want you, FP,” you said. 

“How badly?”

“More than you can imagine. Give me what I want,” you demanded.

“As you wish, my Queen.” And with that, he slid inside of you, filling you up in ways only he could. 

You were surprised by his choice of words, but all thoughts quickly left your mind as he started to move. You moaned softly and dug your nails into his back. He leaned forward and nipped at your neck as he increased his pace. “Shit, Pipes. You feel so good,” he groaned. 

He shifted your body so that he hit your g-spot with each thrust. You gasped and clung to him as he began to pump faster, slamming into you, pleasuring you as only he could. “Fuck, FP. I’m so close.”

“Not yet, baby. You cum when I tell you to.”

You nod and he continues his glorious assault on your body. His movements become more erratic and his body tenses up. You know that he’s close too. Just when you think that you can’t take it anymore, he murmurs, “Cum for me baby.”

You feel your body completely give in to him and a second orgasm sends you into spasms of pleasure. You feel him spill into you, moaning loudly as your walls milk everything from his cock. Eventually, he slows and collapses on top of you. “That was incredible,” he whispers into your neck.

“You’re incredible,” you say back.

He kisses your neck and pulls himself to his feet. He starts to get dressed and you do the same. It dawns on you that you have something you need to ask him. “FP?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“What did you mean when you called me your Queen?”

He eyed you carefully. “I want you to be my Queen,” he said softly. “But only if that’s what you want.”

You smile at him and pull him in for a kiss. “Of course that’s what I want.”

He grins at you and takes your hand to lead you downstairs...he had another important announcement to share with the rest of the Serpents. 

[ominousunflower]

Lucky Pick

Written for Day 14 (Lost) of @lukadrien-june​

Summary: Luka is running late for a gig, but he won't leave until he finds his lucky guitar pick. (Aged-up characters, established relationship.)

Word count: 1976

Read on AO3

__________________________________________

Luka should have left the apartment five minutes ago.

His partner Camille is already backstage at the venue, and she’d texted him two minutes ago asking him if he was on his way yet. And normally, Luka is prompt. Normally, Luka would be on his way.

Except he can’t find his lucky pick.

Tonight is their first big music gig. In all honesty, they’re indie artists opening for a slightly bigger indie artist, so it’s not as if they’re a music sensation. But it’s a good opportunity, and it pays, far better than the occasional gigs Luka used to play with Kitty Section back in high school, where they usually got compensated with food or free merchandise.

(When Luka finally moved out of the houseboat and into an apartment with Adrien, he’d had to throw out countless free t-shirts that he didn’t need—with the exception of a garish red one that says WE ARE THE CHAMPIGNONS and features Freddie Mercury holding a mushroom like a microphone, which Adrien had insisted that Luka keep. Luka hates the shirt, but he loves the way Adrien smiles whenever Luka wears it.)

Long ago, Luka’s lucky pick was a present from Adrien. Actually, it’s technically not even a present, but it was the first thing that Adrien ever gave Luka, and Luka has kept it all these years because he’s stupid and romantic like that. Never mind that they’re engaged now, and Adrien has given Luka a ring; Luka needs his pick for this gig.

Luka has no idea how he managed to lose it. Usually, he keeps the pick in a tiny box of special belongings. He’d taken it out this morning to practice for the gig, though, and sometime between then and now, it disappeared.

It’s strange, when he’s usually so organized and careful with his possessions. Adrien is the one who can never manage to find matching socks, not even when Luka rolls them together in pairs for him. (To be fair, Luka suspects that Plagg might be the culprit behind that.)

No, Luka is supposed to be the organized one—but, well, they do say that you turn into your parents.

Oh, god. Luka always swore he’d be less chaotic than his mother.

Luka wrenches open the top nightstand drawer and combs through the contents a third time, wondering if he somehow missed the pick. Then he kneels, moving through the other two drawers just as frantically, and comes up equally emptyhanded.

As he stands, he bangs his head off the lampshade looming over the nightstand. It doesn’t hurt much, but the shock of the collision makes him mutter a curse.

“Luka?” Adrien asks. He’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with that languid ease of his: the kind that comes from teenage years split between modeling famous designs and moonlighting as a cat superhero. “Are you ready to go?”

“No.” Luka sighs and sits on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t find something.”

“What is it?” Adrien asks. “I’ll help.”

“It’s…a pick,” Luka says slowly.

He’s almost embarrassed to admit that he’s kept the cheap guitar pick all these years, especially when Adrien has given him nicer picks since then.

“Which one?” Adrien asks.

“The…” Luka sighs. “The lucky one.”

Adrien frowns. “A lucky pick? I didn’t know you had one.”

“I’ve never really used it,” Luka says.

It’s strange, when Luka and Adrien have given each other so many gifts and love confessions over the years, that Luka has never told Adrien about the pick. He supposes that deep down, he’s worried that Adrien will think it’s weird or stupid—despite the fact that Adrien loves him, and thinks the world of him, and would never actually find Luka dumb.

But, well—maybe Luka’s still a little haunted by his first girlfriend, who accused him of trying too hard to make everything romantic.

“Well, then,” Adrien says, “how do you know it’s lucky?”

Luka twists his engagement ring around his finger, watching it sparkle in the light. The band holds two tiny green gems, which Adrien has jokingly called snake eyes. “Because you gave it to me.”

“Oh!” Adrien says. “So it’s one of the picks I’ve given you.” He wanders over to the chest where Luka keeps his pants and opens one of the drawers. “Maybe you left it in a pants pocket. Which one are we looking for? And, wait—why is one of them lucky, and not the others?”

Luka laughs. “It’s the first one you gave me. The white one with the black music store logo.”

“That pick?” Adrien says, turning one of Luka’s jean pockets inside out. “But that was a free sample from some store we went to.” He frowns at the pants. “Wait, when did I even give that to you? Weren’t we in lycée?”

Luka smiles awkwardly. “Yeah. We were.”

Adrien drops the pants into the drawer, not bothering to fold them back up, then walks over to the bed and sits next to Luka. “You kept that?”

“I know it technically wasn’t a gift,” Luka says.

“Right,” Adrien says, nodding slowly. “I remember now. You came over to play music with me, but you forgot to bring a pick, and I gave you that one because I had it lying around.” A disbelieving smile tugs at his lips. “You kept that?”

Luka nods. “It’s the first thing you ever gave me. Before we were dating, even. I know it’s hokey and stupid—”

“No!” Adrien says. He reaches down and interlaces his fingers with Luka’s. “I don’t think it’s stupid at all. It’s so sweet that you kept that.” One of his teeth digs into his lip, and he glances away. “I still have the pack of strings you gave me.”

“Wait, like—guitar strings?”

Adrien grins sheepishly and nods. “Yeah.”

Luka laughs. “Adrien, those were for your guitar.”

“Yeah, but then I found out Nathalie had already ordered me some, and I figured if I couldn’t have you as my boyfriend, I could at least have your guitar strings.”

Luka’s heart flutters in his chest, and he runs a finger across Adrien’s hand, feeling the cold metal of Adrien’s Miraculous—which, in a few months, will be replaced by a wedding ring. “You did get to have me as your boyfriend, though.”

“Eventually,” Adrien murmurs. “But it seemed impossible back then.”

Luka raises an eyebrow. “You couldn’t tell that I was madly in love with you?”

“No!” Adrien says. “I’d barely had any guy friends back then, so I thought that was just normal friendship. And my feelings for you started out a lot more subtly than my feelings for Ladybug. Honestly, when I kept those guitar strings, I don’t think I was actually thinking about being your boyfriend.” He groans and leans forward, letting his forehead fall against Luka’s shoulder. “I’m lucky you like stupid guys.”

“You weren’t stupid,” Luka says. He reaches behind Adrien’s head and plays with one of the stray hairs peeking out from his ponytail. “And I don’t care how long it took us. I’m just glad we’re here now.”

“Me too,” Adrien says. He sighs, then leans back. “So, let’s find this lucky pick of yours?”

“I guess I don’t really need it, if you’re going to be there.”

“Charmer.” Adrien pecks Luka on the lips. “We don’t have much time, so let’s get looking.”  

For the next few minutes, the two search the bedroom for any sign of Luka’s pick. (Luka takes over looking through pants pockets, because unlike Adrien, he actually folds the pants back up when he’s done.) Even after they’ve scoured the whole room, though, they still can’t find it.

Adrien sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “Are you sure it’s in here?”

“Well, it’s not in any of these dirty socks,” Plagg says.

Luka snorts when he sees the pile of socks on the ground, all extracted from the hamper in the closet. “Thanks, Plagg.”

“Oh!” Adrien says. “The laundry basket.” He kneels on the ground and tugs it toward himself. “Maybe you left it in…ah!” Grinning, he stands up with the pick pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “Your pick, my love.”

Sighing, Luka takes the pick from Adrien and slips it into his pocket. “Thanks. I forgot I changed out of those pants earlier.”

Adrien winks. “Happy to help.”

Luka scans the room, turned upside-down from Adrien’s search methods—that is, if dump everything on the bed can be considered a method. “You realize we’re going to have to clear off the bed when we get back, right?”

“I can clean it up before we leave,” Adrien says.

Luka raises an eyebrow. “Sure you can.” He checks his phone and groans. There’s another text from Camille, asking him again if he’s on his way. “I’m really late.”

“I’ll take you,” Adrien says, closing the closet door. “Quicker than taking the metro.”

“I need to be there in fifteen minutes,” Luka says. “I don’t think you can drive me there that quickly.”

Adrien smirks. “I wasn’t talking about driving.”

“You mean as Chat Noir?” Luka asks. He considers—it’s been a while since Chat Noir escorted Luka somewhere, and he’s certainly never done it as a way to beat traffic. “I guess we don’t really have another choice.”

“Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?” Adrien asks. He saunters up to Luka and loops his arms around his neck. “Don’t you like seeing your fiancé in a hot leather catsuit? Being carried in my big, strong superhero arms?”  

“Yes,” Luka says, smiling as Adrien kisses his jaw. “But…” He trails off when Adrien presses another kiss against his throat, and another against his shoulder. “Hey, where do you think you’re going?”

Adrien glances up at Luka, eyes glinting. “I figured we could celebrate finding your lucky pick.”

“Later tonight,” Luka says. “Fifteen minutes, remember?”

“You know I love math,” Adrien says. His lips trail back up Luka’s throat, and then, breath warm against Luka’s ear, he adds, “Three minutes, tops, to get you to the venue. That means we have ten minutes, leaving two to make ourselves presentable.”

Luka groans. “Is two minutes really enough time to apply the amount of concealer I’m going to need?”

“You can always put on some more once you’re there.”

“Camille is going to think we had sex in the metro bathroom or something.”

Adrien pulls back, a scowl wrinkling his nose. “No, thanks. Those are hard enough to transform in.” He wraps his fingers in the front of Luka’s shirt and tugs, taking a step back toward the bed. “Maybe somewhere a bit more comfortable?”

“Great idea,” Luka says. “If only there was a bed we could actually use.”

“What do you…” Adrien turns around and glances at the bed, which is covered with the entire contents of their drawers, plus several jackets and assorted belongings. Snorting, Luka notes that at least the necessary supplies are already out. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well.” Adrien turns back to Luka with a devilish grin. “Isn’t that what walls are for?”

“The last time we tried that, I almost got a concussion.”

“But you’ve got your lucky pick with you.”

“I don’t think it prevents head injuries.”

Adrien pouts. “Fine. At least let me give you a good luck kiss, to go with your lucky pick?”

“That,” Luka says, leaning close, “I think we can handle.”

Luka doesn’t need his pick to know that he’s lucky, though; in the end, being with Adrien, knowing that Adrien picked him over everyone else, is more than enough.

(He does, however, end up needing an ice pack—because as it turns out, a lucky pick doesn’t prevent Luka's overzealous fiancé from banging his head off the wall.)

[etlunainmorte]

❄❄❄

***

June 12, 1898, (L/N) Mansion

"Charades, Daniella." You repeated for the third time that day as you waited for Roselle and Maria to finish doing your hair. "Charades."

"I know!" Your best friend, Daniella, answered playfully as she picked up the lace veil from your vanity table.

"Why am I the bride, again?"

Your fair friend shrugged her shoulders and raised her eyebrows. "Victor is the groom. Naturally, you must be the bride."

"It doesn't make any sense! We're just playing charades."

"Exactly!" She exclaimed as she took a closer look at you. "You look gorgeous."

"Wait, is there any other way to - ?"

"No!" She cut you off, grabbing your hand and dragging you out of the room. "The poet is waiting, let's go!"

You had no choice but to let your friend lead you towards the living room where the others were waiting. Dressed in an exquisite white dress made of frills, and lace, and silk, and your hair in the most exquisite style that was all the rage as of late, you nervously went down the staircase, thinking about what Victor would say when he saw you like this.

Ah, yes, Victor,...

The moment you merely thought of his name, your mind went in total shambles.

The man has been acting,... not so normal these past few days. You would always catch him staring at you at the corner of your eye. He spent more and more time with you than with the others. The poems he read to you during the last few weeks were all about love and nothing else. Even the letters he sent you were longer than usual. And when you do look into each other, he would look at you as if you're the only person that mattered, and no one else.

It's as if,... you have somehow become the apple of his eye.

Of course, you didn't want to jump into conclusions and assume that he loves you, no. What if you're wrong? Then, you'll be the one who'll end up hurt and embarrassed.

However, despite all that, you felt cold and empty without his company. You felt so sad every time he bade you farewell for the night. And you felt so, so happy when you're spending time with him.

Yes. You were completely magnetized by the man, and you didn't know how to stop yourself from falling for him any deeper. He, like the rest of your father's guests, would leave after the summer festivities. He would go back to London where he lives. And there, he would find another woman he would love and would love him in return. Then, he would forget about you.

The thought of him loving another woman hurt you so much, like something heavy was crushing your heart.

As much as you hated it, you must end this. Victor must know about this,...

You were brought back to reality when you heard the cheers of the guests who've been waiting for you. You looked up, saw their happy faces, and felt nervous all over again.

But, what did make you even more nervous was the presence of the handsome man waiting for you next to the makeshift altar comprised of one small table and some chairs in the middle of the vast room.

His emerald eyes gleaming, his smile ever so enchanting, you felt yourself melting like ice under his warm gaze filled with pride and adoration.

Ah, there it was again, that strange sensation in your chest and stomach every time he looked at you,...

"Here you go." Daniella whispered as she carefully placed the lace veil on top of your head. Then, she linked her arm with yours and with gentle steps, she led you towards the altar where Victor was waiting.

Strange, you thought. It really felt like a true wedding.

And the man you came to love was waiting for you there,...

Ah, charades,...

The moment Victor took your hand in his, you two were made to stand, by your giggling friends, led by Daniella, of course, on some makeshift platform made of pillows and cushions.

And then, the ceremony began.

Turning the pages of an old Encyclopedia on herbal medicines, one of your friends, who was playing as minister for this special event, cleared his throat and started uttering the vows.

"Do you, Lord Victor Blake, take Lady (Y/N) (L/N) as your wife? Do you promise to love and to cherish her above all else, to care for her, to support her through thick and thin, for richer or for poorer, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, 'till death do you part?"

Victor turned his eyes towards you. Gently holding both of your hands in his, he recited the words that seemed to ring clearly like a bell all over the place.

"I do," He began. " ... take Lady (Y/N) (L/N) as my wife. This fool will love and cherish her above all else in the world. I promise to care for her, to support her through thick and through thin." 

For a moment, you thought he forgot the rest of the words. However, when his grip on your hands tightened a bit and his gaze on you seemed to intensify, he spoke once more.

And his words,... made you truly emotional.

It's as if,...

... this was all real, and not just charades.

"If falling for you is a sin, then I refuse to repent." He said, his deep voice making you feel warm all over. "Like a river that flows to the sea, or a fool rushing in, I have fallen deeply in love with you. I cannot help myself from falling in love with you, my dear darling (Y/N). I will stay with you, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health. And I shall never stop from loving you, even after my death. My soul shall seek yours, and we will be together again,... in our next lifetime. And the next. I will always love you, my dear, beloved (Y/N). Until the end of time."

For a moment, you felt your eyes burning at those incredibly breathtaking words.

You wanted to ask him, are those words true? Will you really love me despite everything? Will we be together again in our next lifetime? 

Will you really love me until the end of time?

You were brought back from your reverie when you realized that the minister was done asking you the same question as Victor's. It seemed that your mind has gone elsewhere as he spoke. And who could blame you?

With a slightly audible hum, you answered, "I do,... take Lord Victor Blake as my husband. I promise to love and cherish him above all else. I will take care of him and support him. Through thick and thin, for richer or for poorer, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health." 

You gulped and forced yourself to look into the beautiful eyes of the man before you despite feeling the heat crawl up your cheeks, giving you a strange and giddy sensation. Then, he gave you the most devilish smirk you have ever seen him make. Oh, he must've seen you blushing so badly, the charming devil! You cleared your throat, tried to get over your embarrassment, and went on with your vows.

"If your soul shall seek mine after death, then I shall wait for you in the next lifetime. Then, the next. I will wait for you, for as long as it takes. J - just,... don't forget about me, alright?"

He chuckled and shook his head, that devilish smirk of his never leaving his handsome face. "Why would I forget my sweet, little lady?"

The minister cleared his throat, fished out something from his pocket, and produced two simple rings made of silver. He offered the smaller one to Victor and gave the larger one to you. And after overseeing the two of you as you exchanged rings, wearing them on each other's finger, he spoke with such loudness and clarity that set the whole atmosphere in a festive mood.

And as the minister pronounced you man and wife, Victor ever so gently laid his hands on your cheeks and gave you your very first kiss.

Your very first kiss!

And it felt,... oh, so good! His lips were so soft and smooth, his movements oh so hypnotic. You even felt your knees giving up on you that you have to cling onto the lapels of his white coat for support. Your hands travelled from his lapels to his black undershirt, his jet - black silk cravat, then to his high collar. And when your hands finally went around his neck, his arms went around your tiny waist, pulling you closer to his warmth, carrying you and twirling you around in happiness.

And then, Daniella started singing with all of her out of tune might! "For he's a jolly good fellow! For he's a jolly good fellow! For he's a jolly good fe - llow!"

"Hey, isn't that the wrong song?!" You heard one of your friends ask.

"I don't care! Victor is a jolly good fellow now!" Daniella, being a really stubborn girl, retorted.

Then, Maria and Roselle, your two most faithful maidservants, joined in the singing as they started throwing rose petals at you and Victor.

"For he's a jolly good fellow! For he's a jolly good fellow! For he's a jolly good fe - llow! Which nobody can deny!"

"Congratulations, (Y/N)!" Daniella told you as she handed you a single stem of a deep red rose.

"Thanks, I guess?" You answered sheepishly as you received the flower from your friend. Since when did charades become so realistic?!

"Alright, stop moving for a while so I could take the goddamn photograph!" The minister barked his orders like a general, making all of you laugh. He was already waiting for all of you to settle down for a nice group photograph but, everyone just couldn't stop laughing because Daniella kept singing the out of tune song for Victor. And Victor? Well, he refused to let go of you from that day onward. Like a real husband to his beloved wife.

It was,... simply one of the happiest days of your life,...

***

❄ Three Wishes ❄

***

XII

***

December 31, 2019, Fleminger Estate

Your eyes just couldn't help but scan the sea of faces right before you. Nico has already left you alone, saying she has some important things do. Well, you don't want to bother her or anything but, being left with these total strangers? And without her by your side? It kind of made you feel sick.

And now, your discomfort has only heightened the moment Christopher waltzed in with his very gorgeous and voluptuous date who looked very much like Audrey Hepburn. He was a real charmer, that evil snake. In a span of only a few seconds, he managed to catch the eyes of all the ladies in the room, and his smart attire of white vintage ensemble that resembled that of a Victorian era Doctor's gained the respect of all the men. Well, maybe not all men,...

For there, in the middle of the dance floor, was another man dressed entirely different compared to the other guests. And he, like Christopher, was gaining a lot of attention. But in a really bad way. He was dressed as a cowboy, and he was busting out some Michael Jackson moves that looked so embarrassing and cheesy as hell. And you were ashamed to say that you perfectly knew who that man was,...

"Sorry about that." A stunning blonde dressed entirely in black satin suddenly apologized. Apparently, she, just like you, was watching the whole spectacle from the safest corner of the massive room. And she was just quietly standing next to you the whole time.

"I'm s - sorry?" You stuttered, looking up at her and feeling a bit insecure that a very lovely - looking and absolutely tall woman was speaking with the likes of you.

"My partner." She answered as she pointed at the dancing cowboy, who was now confidently doing the moonwalk. "He is making a huge spectacle of himself. He really wants to win the title of King." With a haughty smile and a slight chuckle, she crossed her arms and shook her head. "As if that would pay all of his debt."

"Would you like to be the Queen, then?"

"Me? Oh, not really, no. But, I think," The blonde mused, then pointed at the woman in Christopher's arm. " ... she does."

"Do you know her?"

"I do. Her name is Lady. She's a fellow Devil Hunter like myself."

That name! "Oh, so that's Lady!" You exclaimed as you observed the brunette's prim and proper movements. She really was a perfect partner for a man such as Christopher, if you're being honest. "I've heard her from V. Wait, if that's Lady, then you're,..."

"Trish." The blonde said, offering a hand to you. "Call me Trish."

"I'm (Y/N)." You replied, taking her hand.

"Ah, yes, (Y/N)! So, I've heard from Vergil. You're V's girlfriend."

"I, ahh," You looked away, your worry for the man going back to plague your mind. " ... not exactly. No."

"Aww, why?" Trish asked with a concerned look. “You see, V is actually really - "

"(Y/N), dear! How delightful of you to come!"

A very obnoxious voice came booming in, and you absolutely despised it uttering your name. Christopher and Lady came towards you and Trish like the royal couple that they were, making you even more embarrassed and uncomfortable. And the moment you laid eyes on him, you felt so sick and heavy, as if something invisible was strangling you and forcing the air out of your lungs. His eyes looking so vengeful, and his smile as sardonic as ever, he looked exactly like the villain that he was.

And it made you despise yourself even more for ever falling head over heels with the likes of him.

"Trish?!" The woman named Lady spoke, startled upon seeing the blonde next to you. "I thought you're not coming!"

Ugh, and his partner sounded so equally loathsome,...

"But, here I' am." Trish answered nonchalantly.

"Wait, don't tell me you're here to snag the title of Queen?!" Lady asked with a forced smile, as if she was feeling threatened of her fellow Devil Hunter.

And this amused Trish. "Oh! Am I?"

"You must be." Lady replied.

"Are you sure about that?" Trish sassed back.

"Ladies!" Christopher interrupted the two before they could grab each other's throats. "You're both Queens to me alright?"

"Thanks, Chris." Lady pouted, crossing her arms as Trish rolled her eyes.

"And speaking of Queen," Christopher began, fully focusing his eyes on you. " ... where is your King? I mean, he's not hiding here somewhere like a shy, domesticated, elementary kid, is he?"

The way he emphasized those words,...

It felt like,... !

"He's not!" You couldn't help but raise your own voice. You just couldn't stand his pride and arrogance.

"Aww, then where is he?"

He,... knows what's going on! "He's,... only gonna be a bit late."

Christopher laughed boisterously at the top of his lungs, making the other guests look at him. And at the same time, you heard some familiar voices whispering not far from where the four of you were.

"I told you I'm not sick, granny!" A male voice argued almost irritably.

"Oh, learn how to play along for once, will you?!" A shriveled - sounding female voice retorted. "Those cops were about to give me a ticket for real!"

"Well, that's because you were speeding past the allowable limit. You're worse than Nico!"

"Oh, shut the trap up and ready that guitar of yours!"

"He's gonna be a bit late? Are you sure about that?" Christopher boomed, making his voice even louder.

And honestly? You were so close to punching that narcissistic smile off his freaking face!

"Oh, maybe he's not gonna show up!" And he went on with his insults. "Maybe, he's - !"

"Ahem!" That man from earlier cleared his throat, successfully gaining everyone's attention, including yours, Trish's, Lady's, and Christopher's. Yes, especially Christopher's. You turned around,...

... and saw Kyrie's boyfriend Nero, not in vintage clothing but in his casual attire, standing a few feet away from you and holding a guitar of all things! And he was actually looking intently at you!

Christopher raised his eyebrow at Nero and was about to re - launch his tirade regarding V's tardiness when the young Devil Hunter started skillfully plucking the strings of his guitar.

"What in the actual,...?" Christopher could do nothing as basically everyone in the room stopped what they're doing and turned to see what was going on.

And the moment a deep, velvety, and clear voice started singing, everything stopped. Even time, itself.

***

❄ @la-vita , @dreaming-gamer , @birdgirl69 , @clevermentalitybeliever , and @v-vic . ❄

***

"Wise men say only fools rush in.

But I can't help falling in love with you.

Oh, shall I stay, would it be a sin?

Oh, if I can't help falling in love with you."

Lady and Trish both gasped. Christopher's eyes widened. Even Dante stumbled on his steps.

For there, just behind Nero, was the man, himself,...

And now, he was actually walking towards you as he was singing the song!

"Like a river flows, surely to the sea,

Darling, so it goes, some things are meant to be.

Take my hand, take my whole life too.

Oh, for I can't help falling in love with you."

"This is,... the most curious thing!" Lord Fleminger, who organized the New Year's Ball, exclaimed as he spied on the newcomer from his place on one of the balconies.

"What is?" His balding secretary, who was standing right next to him, asked.

"There!" Fleminger answered, excitedly pointing at the singing man dressed entirely in Victorian era high fashion, who was already making a huge impression on his guests. "Elvis Presley! In the flesh!"

The secretary narrowed his eyes, looking closely at the singer, and gasped. "My God! It is! A Victorian Elvis Presley!"

"Yes." Fleminger nodded in agreement. "We now have,... a potential King!"

"Oh, like a river flows, surely to the sea.

Darling, so it goes, some things are meant to be.

Oh, take my hand, take my whole life too.

For I can't help falling in love with you."

You couldn't help but smile as the man tenderly sang the sweet song for you. Who knew he could sing really well?! Who knew he was planning this all along?!

Who knew this would feel oh so familiar to you?!

Those lyrics,...

That song,...

"If falling for you is a sin, then I refuse to repent. Like a river that flows to the sea, or a fool rushing in, I have fallen deeply in love with you. I cannot help myself from falling in love with you, my dear darling (Y/N). I will stay with you, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health. And I shall never stop from loving you, even after my death. My soul shall seek yours, and we will be together again,... in our next lifetime. And the next. I will always love you, my dear, beloved (Y/N). Until the end of time."

It's as if,...

... you've heard something so similar before!

Everything about him, his white coat and pants, his black undershirt, his jet - black cravat, even his metal cane which he always carried around!

Him looking like that, and you listening to those words like you were in a wedding,...

You,... have seen this exact moment before!

But, when,...?

"Oh, for I can't help falling in love with you,..."

***

❄❄❄

***

[abdifarah]

Snake Charmer

I grabbed my sneakers and ball from the backseat of my car. As I stepped onto the basketball court, the palm of a stranger’s hand suddenly hit my chest before my foot crossed the threshold of the out-of-bounds line, as if to protect me from stepping into molten lava. It was in fact hallowed ground he was preparing me to enter. “I don’t want to mess up your day, but Kobe Bryant died.” The words did not register. He must have meant to say Bill Russell or Magic Johnson or some other retired player, up in years or immunocompromised. My heart sank as the words did. Seemingly coordinated with the stranger’s preparatory address, my phone began to shriek. I shared basketball, above most else, with my closest friends, and for those of my friends “not into sports,” they knew I was and that I was probably the one person in their lives that could explain why their instagram and twitter timelines had been commandeered by the news of Bryant’s death. I sat on the court and texted friends I hadn’t spoken with in years. I mentally ran through all of the Lakers fans in my life, like someone tallying loved ones near the epicenter of an earthquake or tsunami. 

The surprises continued. My uncle Kenny called me. Kenny, like most of the men in my life, does not make calls. When I see Kenny during the holidays we do not hug or catch up with small talk. Me and Kenny speak solely in sports. “How are the Cowboys doing?” translates to how are you doing? On this occasion Kenny did not resort to code. “Are you okay?” Kenny asked with a tone of genuine concern in his voice. Strangely, I was not. Stepping out of my body momentarily, I watched myself frantically text friends and scour the internet for updates with large tears welling up in my eyes. Importantly, next to me, five or so other guys on the basketball court were doing the exact same thing. I was dumbfounded, and even a little amused that it was Kobe Bryant, of all people, that elicited this reaction from me. As a basketball fan I loved Kobe Bryant as a player, but I didn’t love him. I loved Kobe the way the world loves the Dalai Lama. Kobe was that inhuman child/god/king we watched grow up, do great exploits, and whose often trite proverbs of ostensible wisdom we warily entertained. His sudden and violent death brought into swift focus that, while famous for almost my entire life, I took Kobe for granted.

Kobe Bryant was the first of us to realize: the camera is always on. In the days and weeks following Kobe’s death I found myself pulling up old games on youtube and having them on in the background while I worked. I was surprised how many of the beats–a certain sequence of plays, a specific call by an announcer–I remembered, like I was watching reruns or listening to a throwback radio station. As much as The Fresh Prince or Martin or Seinfeld, Kobe Bryant was TV. Mostly to my frustration, as someone who ineffectually rooted against the Lakers, Kobe Bryant was always on my screen. Undoubtedly, a cloud hangs over everything related to Bryant now in light of his death, but rewatching games from the 2000 finals, in which Bryant’s Lakers bested the Reggie Miller/Jalen Rose led Pacers, I was reminded of how much uneasiness and sadness I felt for Kobe Bryant watching him even as a teenage admirer. After every exceptional defensive play, flashy pass, or difficult made shot, Bryant made sure the camera saw the fiery glint in his eyes, the licking of his lips, the exaggerated clinching of his jaw. 

Even more so than the NBA’s previous generation of celebrities–Bird, Magic, Jordan–Kobe Bryant seemed to be the first superstar to internalize that basketball was a performance: a movie backed by a John Tesh score, or more specifically, a loosely scripted 24-7 reality show complete with story arcs, heroes, villains, close-ups, and backstabbing confessions. Bryant perpetually signalled: to the camera, to the fans, to his haters, to his teammates, that he possessed the most passion, that he outworked everyone, and that he would stop at nothing to be the best. By all accounts this was all true. But we knew it less because it was true and more because Kobe wanted us to know. Even as a youngster I found his thirst obnoxious. 

Kobe was desperate, but he was also just ahead of the curve. Kobe Bryant proudly admitted to not having a social life, and almost a decade before Russell Westbrook said it, Bryant proclaimed that “Spalding was his only friend;” a both sad and sobering admission for any would-be competitors tasked with defeating Bryant on the court. Bryant’s performative work, that now permeates and characterizes most of millennial culture, predated social media. The author Touré in his book, I Would Die 4U, contends that despite being a baby boomer, Prince was the quintessential GenX celebrity, whose music perfectly tapped into that younger generation’s disaffected, countercultural ethos. Born in 1978, Bryant technically resides in GenX. The intense outpouring from all corners of the digital world over Bryant’s death stems from the fact that he was truly the first millennial celebrity. 

For Bryant, fame came before success. As the photogenic rookie for the Lakers, Bryant had cameos on sitcoms, graced the cover of every teen magazine, took Brandy to the prom, put out a rap album, and pitched every soda and sneaker Madison Avenue could throw at him. But like an inflated college application, Bryant’s extracurriculars read as contrivances. Bryant was named a starter in the 1998 All-Star game, an honor voted on by the fans, meanwhile he wasn’t even a starter on his own team. To suspicious observers, Bryant was an industry plant; the antidote to the fearful influx of hyper-black, hip hop culture embodied in players like Allen Iverson or Latrell Spreewell; a basketball and marketing robot with a pearly white smile, that spoke multiple languages, and would pick up where Michael Jordan left off; ushering the NBA to unprecedented commercial heights.

Despite his superficial charm, Kobe Bryant’s lack of genuine personality proved off-putting, almost creepy. Although possessing a similarly shimmering smile, everyone knew that the real Michael Jordan chomped on cigars, pounded tequila, gambled through the night, and did not actually hang out with Bugs Bunny while wearing Hanes tighty-whities. We acknowledged humanity, healthiness even, in this contradiction. For Bryant’s generation of sports superstars, the public and private arrived flattened. A sports prodigy, a la Tiger Woods, Bryant’s lone-gun, misanthropic persona emerged as a defense against the alienation he felt from his teammates and colleagues around the league, those that did not share his cloistered upbringing. Bryant’s longtime teammate and consummate foil, Shaquille O’Neal, had the nickname, Superman. Despite his titanic presence and supernatural physical gifts, O’Neal epitomized the terrestrial; always joking, dancing; embedded in pop culture; a true man of the people. The true Kryptonian was always Bryant.

As an ignorant seventeen year-old, my initial reaction in 2004 to the accusations of rape against Bryant was amused shock. “Kobe Bryant has sex?!” In 2004, I, like many, put Kobe on the shelf. Less out of a desire to proactively make any bold gestures on behalf of women, but more out of petty schadenfreude. As stated before, I respected the talent, but I was not really a Kobe fan. I always rooted for the underdog, and Bryant was anything but. To the contrary, everything about Bryant was an assault on the concept of the underdog, the diamond in the rough, the idea that anyone, despite their humble or downright degraded beginnings, could rise to excellence. Bryant was born and bread to be great. Sadly, I took grim pleasure in seeing the NBA’s posterboy–the prototype of black celebrity respectability–revealed as the actual embodiment of the entitled, toxically masculine, and sexually predatory stereotype of the black athlete. 

Bryant lost endorsements. Nike released the Huarache 2K4, an all-time great basketball shoe originally designed to be Bryant’s first signature release with the brand, as simply a stand-alone product. The Lakers shopped Bryant around for possible trades. Like Sampson sheared and stripped of his powers, Bryant’s hairline appeared to recede, he cut off his signature fro, and he began shaving his head closer and closer. Bryant changed his number from 8 to 24 as one now changes their Instagram or Twitter handle to represent a break from the past. Like a biblical character after a traumatic or transformative event, like Abram becoming Abraham, or Saul becoming Paul, Bryant adopted the moniker of the Black Mamba. He resigned to allow the sorting hat to place him in his rightful house of Slytherin, and embraced the duplicitous snake that many already viewed him to be. Somewhat strangely, the Black Mamba was the assassin code name of the main character in Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill, who in the film is left for dead, and out for revenge. Did Bryant see himself as this woman wronged, or as the titular character, Bill, contently awaiting his deserved day of judgement. Knowing Bryant, he probably saw himself as both.    

In the myth of Hercules (not the Disney version) the famous god-man kills his wife and kids in a fit of hysteria inflicted by a vengeful Hera. If we imagine that the mythical figures of today were really just the celebrities and aristocrats of past millennia who had control over the pen of history and whose carnal tales swelled into sacred gospel; the fits of rage and mania brought on by the devil or hades or a poison arrow, were really the Chappaquiddicks, Vegas hotel rooms, and dog fighting compounds of their time; times when our heroes unequivocally and inexcusably committed evil. If Hercules was in fact a real man of some importance to his time–the son of a dignitary–that unfathomably killed his wife and kids, it follows that instead of being sentenced to death or some other fate reserved for the criminal commoner, that he would be given some lesser sentence and a chance–albeit slim–of redemption. Hercules is banished by the gods to serve an insignificant king and accomplish the arduous good works assigned to him as a means of atonement; the great works–slaying the nine-headed hydra, retrieving cerberus –that ultimately generate his immortal legend.  

Bryant’s post rape case/post Shaquille O’Neal years with the Lakers mirror this herculean restitution. Despite years on center stage, the Lakers, like Bryant, were similarly in their nadir, and would spend the middle of the aughts in basketball purgatory. Bryant was no longer primetime television. What happens to a pop-star when no one is watching? Surprisingly, Kobe Bryant kept performing, and at higher heights. Bryant was doing his best work while no one was watching. I remember walking through the door of my college dorm on a non-descript spring day. My roommate, Bryun, yelled at me with no context, “8 1  P O I N T S !” Kobe Bryant’s 81 point game may lay claim as the first social media sports moment. Less because no other great sports moments had occurred between 2004, when facebook emerged, and his scoring explosion in 2006, but because very few people watched that midseason contest between two mediocre teams live. It arrived to everyone, like myself, after the fact.

During a recent lecture, artist Dave McKenzie, when answering a very banal question during a post lecture q&a, about his long term goals as an artist, answered soberingly, “I’m just trying to get through this life and do the least amount of harm.” While we all hope to navigate this life without hurting others, most, if not all of us, will in some way. While we can and must continue to  interrogate why powerful (or at least useful to the actual powerful) men like Kobe Bryant seemingly evade the full reckoning of their actions, we must acknowledge that Bryant became something of a patron saint to those who for whatever reason found themselves on the wrong side of right. Maybe they were the underprivileged black and brown boys and girls in over-policed neighborhoods of LA where Bryant played for 20 years. Perhaps they were not pure victims but made some questionable choices and found themselves caught in the system. Or maybe it was the newly divorced father attempting to win back the respect of his kids after breaking apart his family due to his own indiscretions. Kobe Bryant in this second half of his career, culminating in back to back championships, provided a picture of how one climbs back from the depths of hell, even if they were the one that put themself there. This explains the irrationality of Kobe fans, who defended him in everything, and straight-faced spoke his name in the same breath as Michael Jordan, despite honestly being in a class below. For them, Kobe was bigger than basketball, and while many fans share a vicarious relationship with their sports heroes or teams, Bryant’s winning was more profoundly linked to his fans’ sense of self-worth.

Precocity embodied, Bryant arrived in the NBA a generation too soon. As the son of a former player, singularly focused on professionalizing at a young age, even foregoing college at a time when that was still a rarity, Bryant was an alien compared to most players of his generation. The trajectory of players today more resembles Bryant’s. Gone are the days of Dennis Rodman or Scottie Pippen or Steve Nash picking up basketball late, or being undiscovered and surreptitiously landing on a small college team, eventually catching the eye of the larger basketball world. Now, professional basketball starts disturbingly early. Prospects like Zion Williamson have millions of Instagram followers in high school. Second generation pros are commonplace – Steph, Klay, Kyrie, Devin Booker, Andrew Wiggins, Domantas Sabonis, Austin Rivers, Tim Hardaway Jr., Glenn Robinson III, and so on. Bryant was the cautionary tale, a sage mentor, and ultimately an icon to the generation of players succeeding Bryant, who like him, entered the spotlight and scrutiny of an increasingly voracious sports machine as children. Thanks in part to witnessing the triumphs and travails of Bryant, today’s young superstars arrive to the league encoded with the understanding that the fans, the media, the sports industry writ large, wait with baited breath for them to fuck up off the court as much as they do a spectacular play in the game. To these various stakeholders, it’s all good entertainment.

[A bit of a tangent] As the coronavirus began to ravage New Orleans, in particular the homeless and already vulnerable of the city, I had a group of friends, more acquaintances, who took it upon themselves to collect donations, buy groceries, prepare and ultimately hand out meals to the large number of homeless people mostly living under the I-10 overpass downtown. As a naturally cynical person, I immediately questioned the motivations. All of those same homeless people were living under the overpass before coronavirus, where was this energy then? One friend involved with this effort confided that she was incredibly anxiety stricken in all of this, and that this “project” was taking her mind off things. I chafed at the phrasing of feeding the homeless as a “project.” Additionally, daily I would scroll through the Instagram feeds of those helping and see pics of cute hipsters in masks and gloves and in grungy, rugged, but still impossibly chic outfits posing in Power Ranger formations in front of their rusted Ford Ranger filled with grocery bags to distribute. A masterclass in virtue signalling, the narcissism of it all polluted the entire endeavor for me. When I asked a trusted voice why this all rubbed me the wrong way, this person replied curtly, “What does it matter why or how they do it? They’re doing a good thing.” 

Kobe did not simply embrace this role of elder-statesman to the succeeding generation, he courted it, campaigned for this mantle as aggressively as he once sought championships. Lacking confidence in the intellect of the public to make their own conjectures of how Bryant resurrected his career, he rebranded himself a self-improvement life-couch, and proselytized his “Mamba Mentality,” even staging a parody Tony Robbins style conference as a Nike commercial. He collected young promising players to mentor like Leonardo DiCaprio collects young blonde models to date. Gossipy whispers swirled every offseason, “Kobes working with Kawhi.” or “Watch out for Jason Tatum this year; he spent the summer training with Kobe.” All of Kobe’s newfound openhandedness seemed spiked with self-aggrandizement. Opting to be the mentor of the next generation ensured that the success of future stars led back to him, and that he would be relevant and sought after long after his retirement. 

Whatever the subconscious or even conscious motivations behind Bryant’s mentorship, his movie Dear Basketball, or his show Detail–in which he broke down the games of basketball players across levels and leagues, treating women’s college basketball standout Sabrina Ionescu with the same care and reverence as NBA star James Harden–the result was education, service, stewardship, and love for the game of basketball. 

I started writing this soon after Bryant’s death but struggled to synthesize an ultimate point. In the end I am not sure I have one, just that Kobe Bryant, much to my surprise was a figure of enough complexity and enduring relevance to require re-interrogation. In hindsight, I needed to watch The Last Dance; the 10 part Michael Jordan re-coronation. In 2009 newly elected President Barack Obama, after stumbling over the oath of office during the freezing January inauguration, retook the oath the next day in a private ceremony just in case any of his political enemies, or the fomenting alt right with its myriad factions–from the conspiratorial to the downright racist–tried to invalidate his presidency. While trivial in comparison, Jordan, with The Last Dance is attempting desperately to reconfirm that he is the greatest basketball player of all-time, something only a few lunatics question. While the actual game footage is a wonder and leaves no doubt of Jordan’s basketball supremacy, the final tally of this hagiographic enterprise may result in a net loss for Jordan. Jordan, like a 19th century robber baron, seems to genuinely believe that his misanthropy, arrogance, condescension, usury, brutality, workaholism, and myopic focus on basketball, and consummate self-centeredness were all justified, required even, to win. To win what? Championships? With sports leagues and public officials debating when and if sports can and should come back amidst a virus with devastating life or death stakes, sports and success within them feel quite trivial and quaint at the moment. 

Having won at everything in life, sitting in his palatial mansion, sipping impossibly overpriced scotch, Jordan does not seem fulfilled. He is Ebenezer Scrooge. Unfortunately, it is not Christmas, and no ghosts of introspection are visiting Jordan, only a camera crew determined to retell the gospel of Jordan with a few non-canonical details sprinkled in for flavor. I am reminded of a line in Pat Conroy’s My Losing Season, an autobiographical account of his college basketball days at The Citadel. After a storied career, Conroy’s senior season is a disaster (hence the title). In it he says no one ever learned anything by winning. The inference is that, while winning is great, the actual growth occurs before, in the losing. Jordan in The Last Dance is the ghastly personification of “never losing. Like Bane before breaking Batman’s back, “Victory has defeated you.” With an unimpeachable resumé, Jordan was never required to question his actions or behaviors towards his teammates and competitors. Worshiped unwaveringly by all, Jordan never felt the need to give anything back to the game or to the communities that supported him. 

While never verbally conceding, Bryant seemed to embrace being the loser. Bryant realized early, perhaps as early as Colorado, that he was never going to be as beloved as Jordan. He began planning early for a life outside of basketball. He started a production company. He braved eye-rolls for the n-teenth time when he proclaimed that he was going to be a “storyteller.” Beyond a cliché adage, Bryant became a “family man,” and focused on this part of his life with the same ferocity that he once attacked the basket. Despite braving turmoil very publicly as a young couple, the bond between Bryant and his wife Vanesa appeared, at least on the outside, genuine. They welcomed their newest daughter, Capri, just 7 months before his death. While no less ambitious or busy in retirement, the Bryant who once wore his insecurity and desperation on his sweaty armband, strangely appeared content, happy. The guy who once proudly proclaimed “Spalding his only friend” relented to a verdant life with others.

While undoubtedly compounded by the tragic and sudden nature of his death, the truly astounding outpouring for Kobe–murals the world over, calf-length tattoos, millions of twitter handle re-namings–stands as an accomplishment, or better said, an acknowledgement that “better” athletes like Jordan or LeBron or Tiger or Brady will probably never receive. He wasn’t the best of us, and in many ways we loved him even more because of that. Before The Last Dance we got a preview of the more candid Michael Jordan during Kobe Bryant’s memorial, where Michael, who unbeknownst to us all was a confidant of Bryant’s, admitted that Kobe made him want to be a better father, a better person. In the end even the GOAT was a disciple of the Mamba. It’s only right that the first millennial superstar gained the biggest following.  

[madebyleftovermuses]

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Hare Moon

Finally made it through Hare Moon...only took me four days

Shirtless Harvey with Roz

Sometimes I forget Roz is the daughter of a priest

Roz’s dad is gonna be gone for a whole week

Yes, lets totally sin in a priest’s house

Nice room, Nicky

What is that?

Sabrina interrupting suicide?

Do cheerleaders do flash mobs?

Of course, Sabrina bragged about Nick

Nick just downing a whole bottle of whatever that stuff is

Is Mr. Kinkel gonna soundproof his garage like Freddy did?

Dad had a one-night stand with a carnie

Harvey has zero patience for this lady

Moon pie

Zelda licking the spoon

Sabrina inviting her aunts to the flash mob

Hilda wants to go, and Zelda says they are too busy

It is exactly the time to question tradition

Ms. Wardwell is confused

Nick can’t come because he’s getting drunk

Let’s say we didn’t investigate especially not with Robin

Sabrina has witch obligations so she can’t help

Robin not joining because he’ll be found out

Sabrina asking if Hilda astral projecting

“oh, no, tried to, couldn’t, drove” ❤

Come on, Sabrina let go to the Academy

The difference is there aren’t witch hunters around

“It means the Dark Lord is a sore loser, and he's cut us off like the petulant brat he is.”

Well, they now know Sabrina is Queen of Hell

Love Zelda calling Sabrina “your highness” despite being in trouble

Sabrina does have a savior complex

Hilda not knowing what “the tea” is

Ambrose is going to hell

“Well, what am I going to wear?” ❤

Nick just straight up punching Lucifer

The carnival grounds look creepy empty, but I guess that’s the whole idea

Roz exploring on her own

Snakeskin never a good sign

Is the snake charmer Medusa?

I wouldn’t say Roz is sex-obsessed

The carnies take the same day of the Hare Moon off?

What did Medusa do to Roz?

Robin alerted the carnival that Theo, Harvey and Roz where gonna snoop

Robin Goodfellow? Isn’t that the name of Puck?

Ostara what the fuck is that?

Odd that the Hare Moon and Ostara is on the same day

Stop tormenting Nick, Luci

Nick isn’t actually beating up Luci he’s beating up Blackwood which deserves it!

Faustus isn’t happy he’s been beaten up

Lilith asking why Ambrose is in hell

Privy counselor is what he came up with

Um, excuse me Crowley was king of hell! And I miss him (I know wrong show)

Ambrose is happy to be in hell

The magic comes from Luci himself, not hell

“Of course, Lucifer's power is celestial, not infernal” just blew Ambrose’s mind

Lilith laughing when Sabrina says they need another angel

Angel’s tried killing Sabrina last year and they stashed one away

What like you’ve never lied, Zelda

Hilda telling Zelda, Cee proposed to her

Zelda is sad that Hilda is gonna leave her

Hilda just said they haven’t set a date so she’s not going anywhere

Plus, I doubt Dr. Cee would let Hilda abandon her coven in their hour of need

I doubt you could explain to the hospital what happened

Yes, let’s not kill the angel in case we need more blood

Dorian has taken a taste

I don’t understand why Hilda couldn’t just check on her

Yes, your powers are waning but that don’t stop you from trying to figure out what made Roz sick

Sabrina about to find Nick with sex demons

“I can explain” no thank you, nothing you can say would be a good enough reason for that

Dorian is gonna drink the blood

“I thought it might help with my complexion.”

Hilda coming up with a way to use the little bit of blood Dorian saved

“What's a moon bath?” exactly what it sounds like

“Yes, it is lunacy, as in pertaining to the moon, lunar, lunacy.”

“should I go check on her?” YES! That’s is your friend and maybe you would figure out whats up with the carnies

More singing…. I’m not going to lie I think they sing better than Riverdale

It’s weird seeing everyone in white

Because the carnies in masks isn’t creepy

Hilda is like “look who’s here”

Nick is part of the coven why wouldn’t he be there? Just because he’s going down a downward spiral

I feel bad that Roz has to wait for Sabrina

The dude’s face is like “gross”

Because who doesn’t love Nutella?

They switched allegiance

Dark Lord can go get fucked

I wonder if Sabrina is still a virgin

Ambrose saying “the old old country”

Zelda asking if they are going to be moving on soon

Trust me dude, you don’t wanna stay in witch city

Hilda trying to make small talk

At least she takes care of the spiders and not hurt them…I on the other hand will burn the house down if I see a spider which explains why I’m not allowed a culinary torch

How the fuck you know if Hilda’s spiders are happy or not?

Its Circe and didn’t she transform people into animals?

Pretty sure they aren’t Pagan witches…think they are the pagan monsters

Nick really is over Dorcas

The snake did something we all hoped to do strike Dorcas and poison her

Medusa ain’t wrong…we are guest in this world and the animals were here first

Why not join forces? Aside from the virgin sacrificing thing Sabrina’s coven is in need of a new god

Harvey checking out Medusa’s tent and finding the statues

I can see how Nick thinks he didn’t do anything wrong, but it would have been better to just kick the snake out of the area

NO ONE TOLD YOU TO TAKE THE DARK LORD INSIDE YOU!!

“I detest teen angst” and then Dorcas’ face is like “damn”

Well, maybe if you fucking talked about it Nick instead of going off with sex demons

And the first season Nick did say that monogamy wasn’t really for witches so that’s also on you, Sabrina

Sabrina, people process trauma differently

Though Nick’s way isn’t healthy

Lilith really fucked up with her treatment of Nick while in Hell

Yes, I know the dark lord is inside Nick but so is Nick

You didn’t have to wrestle, I guess

Again, Nick you chose to sacrifice yourself! Sabrina could have figured out another way to trap the dark lord hell she didn’t even want you to do it

Damn Nick tell Sabrina how you really feel about her

That’s on you if you see Luci when you see Sabrina

Someone is coming for you Agatha and about time too

Never go towards the music

I like Dorcas’ outfit

Yes, because whatever is in Forest is gonna response with Wazzzup

It’s Medusa!!

Nick visiting Luci

Red mercury and dragons’ tears…Luci offering Nick drugs

Don’t do the favor

Everyone is in white but Prudence

They look like aliens when they are glowing

“I feel tingly all over” ❤ Ambrose

Fuck the pagans

Like rude taking things from the witches that shared their picnic with y’all

The moon got eaten

Sabrina needs to find Nick and Prudence wants her sisters

Roz is stone 😭😭

Snakes in the cots

Melvin running to Zelda is the best thing about Melvin this season

I mean, it’s not like you guys have a god right now

How come it took a while for Roz to turn into stone, but Dorcas was quick…was it because she looked at Medusa longer?

Turning back to the dark lord

Luci is gone

And Nick is dying

[for-peace-war]

art by @idrawbuffgirls​

Part VI is the final part of this series prior to its in-game conclusion.  It was a lot of fun doing it... thought his one went to an hour and a half because I had to look up a lot of information.  All the same, thank everyone that followed the story to this point.  It means a lot to me that people found it worth looking at in any regard.

This follows @iamreinhardt‘s Valenso the Zingaran. And as always, thanks Kelzack for the awesome art!

THE GREAT WINGED ONE.

Follows Part I.

Follows Part II.

Follows Part III

Follows Part IV.

Follows Part V.

Part VI.

VALENSO THE ZINGARAN vantage of the vivacious Vendhyan vixen enveloped in velvet violated what vaunted virtues he envisioned for himself.  She was an exotic acquisition—black hair that fell like a funeral pall along her lightly toasted features.  In motion her body was a series of quiet seductions, which the Zingaran had enjoyed many, many times the nights prior.  She claimed that her father was a brahmin of the priestly varna.  He informed her that if that was the case, then her father had sinned mightily—for to steal a piece of the heavens and offer it to infidels, now could that be anything short of sacrilege?  And then he had sinned mightily with her.

Oh, what a time it had been.

“You do not sleep?” She asked.  Her voice was quiet and husky, the sort that made bedroom chatter incline toward bedroom play.  Though he spoke enough Vendhyan to get around when needed, Valenso did not care to engage her in the tongue; he much preferred to hear her stumble over Iranistani. It was cute—in a way.

But she was correct in her inquiry—he did not sleep.  The air was perfumed not merely in the fading notions of their congress, but spices and the heavy scent of the oils she had placed upon him.  Though that haze had seen him clearly to the point of exhaustion, it had not prevented his mind from remaining fixed on one truth: one unmistakable truth.  It was not that he had lost Zaliki—it was that he had never had her at all.

The Zingaran moved a hand to slap the girl’s bottom, which clapped to a sound nearly as delightful as that which came of her mouth.  She pulled away, the velvet sheets upon her drawn like a whorl in her wake, and revealed more of him to the warm air that infiltrated the ship at its mooring.  She looked back at him playful; he ran a hand through his hair and allowed his amber eyes to take in not merely what was before him, but what was not.  There was no small wonder why he had picked the girl, of course.  She was shapely, with the body of a dancer and the large, heavy breasts of a matron-to-be. Her hips jutted out into vase-like curvature that placed to shape the pottery of the greatest Corinthian kiln master. Along the tops of her breasts and around her midsection, thin lines of a softer shade appeared where her skin had stretched along itself, painting those areas in a pale, though vibrant wave of hues not at all dissimilar from the orange glow of the setting sun. And her eyes—the one that had not been concealed by the sea of black that she swam within, were a brilliant blue so fine that sapphire might well have been carved from them.

No, it was no wonder at all that he had chosen her.

But she was not the wonder that he had chosen.

“I am going to go for a walk,” the Zingaran said. “Try to pretty yourself up a bit for me before I return, yes?”  He winked devilishly at her.  She blushed a fine color along her brown cheeks.  When he drew himself out of bed, he knew that her eyes followed him with admiration.  There were few men that could command enough physical beauty to deny a woman’s inclination for wealth, and few men that commanded enough wealth to make a woman forget how hideous he had become in its acquisition.  Fortunately for her—and more importantly, every woman that had ever crossed paths with him—he was the possessor of the better part of both qualities. He was born into beauty the same as he was born into wealth.  When one was a noble, what else could they expect to know?

She mewled after him. “You do not like what you see?”

His response was to draw her closer by her hair, so that she winced a playful protest, and then kiss her.  It was not the manner of kiss that was intended to claim souls—it was the kind that was meant to stoke a fire and keep it well tended in his absence.  She warmed against him and her hand, covered in golden ringlets, found his strong jaw and stroked the hair upon his chin. His hand moved from the gentle slope of her neck, down to the full, hanging breasts he had favored with so many affections before, and he carefully squeezed upon nipples as dark as earth, and twisted tenderly until she moaned against his lips.  She was heated by his presence, he could feel.  If he wanted, it would have taken him no time at all to slip into bed and back into her in an instant.  Even had he been a pauper—and perish that thought!—he would have been faced with no great resistance.  As a man of the sea, he had learned to navigate all manners of wetness and opened legs were no less wonderful to sail than the open sea.

But, alas, he had business elsewhere—business, and a mind, that though piqued knew it would not be sated on her for the time being.  He drew his hand away from her breast and brought it to her chin, where he pressed his thumb against the side of it and his other fingers claimed portions of her jaw.  She was made to look at him directly then.  He spoke to her, in the slow and patient way a man might have a mule, a child, or any other simple creature not fit to stand as his equal.

“Do not ask whether or not I like what I see, little girl,” he told her. “Pray that I do.”

He did not hurry away from her, but rather dressed slowly in the wake of his command.  Her attention was wholly devoted to him and in those moments, the Zingaran allowed himself to become what he knew he never could truly be: free of worry, of the burden of concern.  The masks he wore would always prevent him from needing to delve deeper into what pressed against him, and just as he slipped back into his fine clothing he could place on more to protect him from the elements that surrounded him.  The warmer climes of Iranistan had made his attire less suitable than it had been previously, so he adopted their garb—a sirwal and a silken coat that followed him as loyally as the Vendhyan girl’s eyes did.

What was her name again?  As he snatched a pear up off the table he reminded himself to ask, but had forgotten his interest in the matter by the time he was tossing it away.

Zariba was a lively city.  Deeper within Iranistan, near Anshan, he knew that Zaliki had claimed to have a need to speak with someone and though he had been inclined to accompany her there were ways in which the Stygian could make a man forget what his true intentions were. After all, she had convinced him—a proud son of the sea—to make a journey to Iranistan of all places.  The coastal condition had made it slightly less daunting to consider, but some part of him knew that even if she had asked to be deposited in the heart of Drujistan, then he would have carried her there.

The streets were filled with the exotic enticements of a decadent world—a world so decadent that even he had made a vow not to enjoy any more of it before he had learned something of what had become of his companion.  What had begun as a vigil, set by himself in her name, had devolved into a torrid series of vices that ranged from beauties to brawn to the bestial things that came between them.  He had no reservations in most cases when it came to taking what he wanted, but when what he wanted could not be taken, it was a hollowing experience. What was the use of all of his skill, coin, and bravado if he could not acquire that which was on his mind?

Why had he allowed her to leave without much protest?

There were times when Valenso thought that he might have seen her in the streets. At the corner of his eyes, perhaps behind a snake charmer or a rug merchant he thought he saw her, nearly fair despite her heritage and draped along the arm of some rich aristocrat. But each time they turned out to be nothing more than voluptuous mirages, and after he had sampled their wares he always came away feeling as if he had wasted even more of his time. But wasn’t it all just a waste of time?

Wasn’t he being an immense fool, in the end?

Marioso, his first mate, had been as clear as his cordiality permitted him.  “If she remains, my lord, then she does not wish to be seen.”  Darmino, a cocksure sailor with a golden tooth, had offered his agreement in the form of a muttered vow that his ‘jigglestick’ was sore from its stay in port for so long. “Me sores is sore,” he declared. Valenso had considered their words and with the aplomb of a man that knew his place in the world, promptly ignored them. For what did either know of what they had seen in the Accursed Lands?  What did either know of what it meant to survive through determination alone?

It was not merely the entertainment of their voyage that kept him so devoted to his post, he knew.  Perhaps in passing when he recounted the tale to another he would say how the temptress, when astride any man on a ship, made the whole world seem a tumult that threatened to swallow him in passions only she could produce—and truthfully, the sight of her ply that secret and dark talent of that came of Luxor’s bosom and undulated as mightily as her own was a sight to behold—but it would have been false. Time spent with Zaliki was less a matter of what one desired, and more one of what could not be obtained. Perhaps they had fucked—and yet, they had not fucked each other.

She fucked him.

He fucked himself.

“What the fuck am I doing here,” the Zingaran said to himself as he strode the streets further.  The arming sword at his side, a masterwork of crafting, felt the only thing that belonged to the man that he was.  It was not love that bade him, he realized with each step that he took.  Nor was it even the devotion of one friend to another. It was something more, something more personal and intimate than even that.

It was that she had promised to return—promised in a way that he knew she could never break.  As childish as it may have been, the Zingaran realized that it was belief in another that had kept him in place!

Gods, had he ever fucked himself!

There were more beauties that met the eyes; delicate creatures, draped in fine fabrics that revealed only their eyes to the passing man.  Daughters of great men, surely, with big eunuch guardsmen that blocked the way of any that would have arrived at their bedchambers.  As he watched one of the women guiding her sisters along the street in detail with her guards, his mind shifted from the sway of her hips to a distant enchantment.  He recalled his adventure with Zaliki when they had arrived in Sabeaa, to the south, and provisioned themselves for the final leg of the trip.  The portside town was of little interest, but it was a tale that two fishermen had shared with the Stygian—informing her of how her beauty would be appreciated by Mirza Hashem, that their interest was piqued.

“The mirza’s palace,” one of the fishermen said, “is a sea of beautiful flowers surrounded by walls of ivory.  Anything that a man could desire can be found within it: wine, women, work—so long as Mirza Hashem has turned his favor upon you, there is no place better to be.”

His friend added, “And considering your beauty, my dear, I do believe you would be right at home among the clouds.”

Valenso had learned long ago how the Stygian’s voice changed when she had something on her mind.  She perfumed her words in a sort of trance that made men sway in the wake of her every word. “Does this palace have mangos?”

“I think so,” one of them said.

She turned back to him and offered him a Shemite’s smile.

“I suppose we are going to get a few mangos, eh?” He grinned.

The fishermen had not been lying.  In fact, they had undersold what awaited them.  In the middle of what should have been desert stood ivory walls that were so pale they made the surrounding sands seem as though mud.  Fine music coated the air about them, and the glittering golden armor of the guardsmen at the gate shone with enough brilliance to make him squint. There were any number of reasons not to go into the garden—for a mango, no less—yet Zaliki’s prodding made him feel it was worthwhile.

Oh, how right that feeling had been.

An adventure including an enraged Mirza Hashem, a vow to see them dead, the echoes of pleasure from the mirza’s finest concubine in his mind, several rings that then coated his fingers—and one mango later, they had retreated with laughter back to his ship and enjoyed the spoils of an evening well won.  It had been a glorious moment, indeed.

“It is rare you smile so openly,” a woman said to his right.  She was tall and golden-hued, shaped as if Ishtar herself, with regal cheekbones and a head of brown hair that fell gently past her shoulders.  The turquoise green of her eyes and the way her full lips formed into a familiar smile were unforgettable.

“Zaliki.”

“Valenso.”  She stood before him in the flesh—flesh as lovely and pure as it had been when last he saw her.  Daylight had begun to retreat from the pale walls of the city and those within it began to retreat into their homes.  Zaliki, dressed as a local townswoman, offered him a smile.  In some strange way, the cotton seemed far more exotic upon her than the silks he had last seen her in.  She was almost normal—and that made some part of his mind want to see the creature inside of her all the more.  The smile she offered him was greedily accepted; he devoured her with his eyes.

“I was only thinking of—”

“Mangos,” she finished for him.

He smiled. “Yes, mangos.”

But there was something about the air that was different.  Valenso eyed her more carefully.  Had she been injured—was she being used as a trap of some kind? Danger did not escape her, neither did a reason for sympathy.  She was not the same woman, though.  “Are you ready to leave?”

“I am,” she said.

“Thank the gods.  I could not suffer much more of this place.”

“Thank you for enduring it as long as you have.”

They walked back to his ship in relative silence, chatting as if she had not vanished off into the darkness one night and returned with the arrival of another ominous might.  Reminiscing became a protection against the moment they were in: it was a mask, that allowed them to delight in the off-putting of a heartbreak that he had not yet felt and yet had already experienced a thousand times in a thousand different ways. The moon described a path for them, but where it led was a mystery to Valenso.  He could still feel how soft her skin was; knew that her thews were silken sheaths over sturdier stuff.  The body of the woman beside him was not one he would ever forget, and yet what was within it—that was what confused him.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Part of it,” she said.

“You should see the woman I found to pass time with in your absence.  Your Derketo would find no reason to complain of her.” He thought to compare her to her directly—to perhaps draw a bit of jealousy out of her so that when they fell to play upon the girl, she would be as mean as she was invigorating.  Yet that idea felt like an aborted dream, divided by a chasm that denied what was—and what could ever be.

A phantom’s romance floated off of Zaliki’s voice when she spoke. “Did she satisfy you?”

He found that question surprisingly difficult to answer.  “In a way,” he said.  The Zingaran looked at her and noted her eyes were turned toward the distance as they walked. He looked to the starry sky. “I have had better, I suppose.”

“And worse,” she said.

“And worse.”

“It is always good to remember that. Better—and worse.”

Their conversation became more fleeting.  Iranistan’s streets had become empty and for an ephemeral moment, Valenso wished that Mirza Hashem’s golden-scaled men might have emerged from an alley and forced them to fight their way from their midst to his ship, where a speedy retreat would have been met with laughter and lust.  But the streets were quiet and the only gold that saw was that which they wore.

When they arrived back at his ship, they stopped.

Valenso spoke first.  “You aren’t coming back with me, are you?”

The Stygian was quiet for a moment.  When she spoke, her voice was of a different world.  “No.”

“Then why did you come back at all?”

She stepped closer to him and with a gentle touch, placed her thumb to his chin, and allowed her fingers to claim possession of his bearded jaw.  She kissed him, not in the manner that made one’s flames come to life, but in a way that caused the soul to release it had been relinquished at long last. The masks that he wore fell to the floor, and he realized that he no longer cared for the coins he had acquired or the beauties he had known. Truthfully, even the Vendhyan that waited for him hot as the flames that had spawned her could not promise him a moment of what he saw before himself.

“Goodbye, Valenso.”

“Zaliki,” he said her name as if holding her by it.   He was a nobleman of fine blood, who had conquered the seas and escaped the Accursed Lands.  Saying her name should have been enough—it should have held her fast, as fast as his hands might if he could seized her. Even that act felt helpless, though.  He knew that he could not hold her—that man could, in the end.  “Where are you going?”

The Stygian’s silence was agonizing.  She turned her eyes toward him once more—eyes that joined the craftiness of her Shemitish and Stygian blood, yet somehow were able to convey an earnest concern where neither bloodline would have done so on their own.

“If I tell you, you must promise never to tell another.”

He did so.

She told him.

The Zingaran swore to never tell a soul of where she had gone—or to ask himself how he could allow her to go there, alone.

[all-of-the-imagines-for-eve]

United We Stand ~ Sweet Pea (Part 7)

A/n: Haven't updated this in a MINUTE, huh? Well, here's to the continuation ig lol

Word Count: 2537

MASTERLIST

Alene completely disappeared.

The first day Sweet Pea tried not to think about it but after an entire week passed where he saw absolutely nothing of her, he was worried. The others, who had classes with her, said they didn't see her in class. She wasn't coming gone to the trailer. THE trailer, because it wasn't his anymore. It was theirs. Except that now that she was gone it was just a place he lived, not the new kind of home they'd built together.

He hadn't even realized how much of his life was her. It was weird to sleep without her figure against his, her warmth and breath felt against his skin. Without waking up to see her face or hear her voice. Even just knowing that she was okay or being sure that she was well rested and had something to look forward to or smile about or a moment to relax and that no one had picked on her to much. Or... worse.

He was going out of his mind with worry. He got so desempate that he went to her dad's house. He knocked on the door, ready to face the worst, only to be surprised when a tired man that seemed ready to fall apart answered.

This was not the same man that had wrenched the door opened the night Sweet Pea had taken Alene away from this house, but he did have the same face. Did the Devil Man have a righteous twin?

"Uh... are you Alene's dad?"

The man looked up hesitantly, his shyness reminding Sweet Pea of how Alene used to be when they first met. It made him uneasy and he found himself readying for a jump scare or some sort of attack. "I have to say yes, don't I?" His eyes watered and he whimpered. Sweet Pea shifter uncomfortably. "She's gone. Been gone so long. Probably killed herself and it's all my fault. I'm such a terrible father. I wish she would come home. Place is so... empty without her. I miss her. Martha..." the man moaned miserably and Sweet Pea turned and walked away. She wasn't here. He didn't know who Martha was but Alene definitely wasn't here.

He hated to think about her in that house, getting beat on and touched and used in every way and then made to feel bad for the person who was ripping away at her with his claws. How evil does someone have to be to turn her disappearance into an occasion to talk about himself? He hadn't even asked if Sweet Pea knew anything, or asked why Sweet Pea was there or how he knew her. No, he was fishing for reassurance that he wasn't a terrible father. He was fishing for a compliment, an ease. It sickened Sweets. No wonder she stayed. She pitied him. She was too pure for her own good.

He waited until Monday, planning on going to the police after school if she wasn't there again. He'd been avoiding it because if anyone would be considered when a South Side-friendly North Sider went missing would be the Serpent who asked about her... but her safety was worth him being stereotyped and over analyzing and run through the wash.

Conveniently, that was the day he noticed her.

He hadn't realized it, but recently she'd worn more decisive colors. Black and purple and neons and pastels. Lively colors that drew the eye and made her pop out. Today, she wore one of her old shirts: a beige, long sleeved sweater and faded grey-black jeans. Turns out she had had a bunch of jeans that had just worn out over time, not one pair she wore every day. It hadn't been an issue before, but now she faded into the walls, keeping her head down and her body small and she weaves and bobbed and dodged and stayed hidden.

His eyes went wide. How had she backtracked so much from where she had been before?

...What had happened to knock her down?

"Lee!" He called, trying to maneuver through the crowd to her. The girl froze, her body responding without her permission. That voice, that name. It wasn't within her power to resist it. And once she saw his face? It was over.

He found his way to her, his hands hovering between them, wanting to touch her, but not sure if she wanted him to.

Spoiler alert: She VERY MUCH wanted him to.

He looked around at the most students who were giving them side eyes and slowing down to try and hear their conversation. He swallowed. "Can we... talk?" He looked at her desperately.

"What do we have to talk about?" She asked. Her eyes met his and he realized that despite her skill of blending in and fading out, she hadn't really backtracked at all. She still had all her confidence, she was just using it to hide.

His face twisted in hurt. "Lee-"

"Don't call me that," she snapped. He stepped away from her. She might as well have slapped her. She just needed a distance. She needed space. She needed him to stop saying that name with that voice, low and soothing and full of concern. It was too painful, too distracting. To him though, it seemed she was cutting that last string that held them together. They were worryingly far apart and he couldn't even begin to reach her.

His lips parted but no sound came out. He closed his mouth. She clasped her hands behind her back to try and keep hold of her self control. Finally he found his words. "So that's it?" His teeth locked together and the edge of his jaw pressed against his skin, working and grinding.

She looked around at the students too. Yeah, this wasn't a good place. "Let's go somewhere else," she said quietly. He followed numbly after her as she guided them outside, to the football field that was abandoned during school hours. The bell rang in the distance but neither of them much cared. Honestly school could suck it.

When they stopped, she stayed facing away from him. Her eyes were watering and her hands, now clasped in front of her, were shaking. His words ran through her head again and again as she swallowed her own words she was so desperate to say. That's it, he had asked. As if it was up to her. As if SHE had been the one to say that was it for them. SHE had not said that they would not work. Put this space between them that was killing her. She had hid, doing everything she could to be invisible in this school once again. And when she was really hiding, it seemed Sweet Pea was the only one who could see her. What did that mean? Maybe it didn't mean anything! Maybe she was just so desperate for an alternative ending to this story that she was searching for something that wasn't there.

Maybe she'd been a fun experiment this whole time. Could he solve the puzzle? Could he figure her out? Could he find a North Sider that wasn't complete shit? But then he'd gotten too involved and now...

Sweet Pea swallowed as he went to say her name to get her attention and then thought of her snapping at him not to say it. She didn't want him to call her Lee but he couldn't bring himself to call her Alene. He couldn't do that, it would be final then. "Hey," he croaked. He closed his eyes. "It's not easy for me to open up to someone that isn't one thing or another. I used to think this world was black and white, and then you cake along and became this gray area that scared and intrigued me and I was so drawn to you." He took a step closer. "So I'm not good at this. This gray area. This word thing. Opening up and turning what I'm feeling into explanation. But what I said, it... I didn't mean that we would never work. I meant... I meant that seeing you look so North Side terrified me because, what if you realize what South Side Serpents really are, you know? We're not always butterflied and safety nets. We're not always big and strong. We don't always win. We're not heroes. We do bad things and get involved with bad people. I mean, Tall Boy for one. The Snake Charmer." He flinched at the memories of the two people he never wanted to see again. "What I'm saying is that you're so... good. You deserve to be happy and safe and sure of where you are, and you can't have that with me. And I'm terrified you're going to realize that."

Lee turned slowly to face Sweets and both froze upon seeing each other's expressions. Both of their eyes were watery and her hands were shaking as he wrung his wrists. They were falling apart.

"This is ridiculous," Lee groaned. "Let me tell you now, I know you're not perfect. That the Serpents aren't perfect. But I was willing to work to make it work, imperfections and all. You aren't a safety zone, Sweets, you're my-" she cut off, suddenly realizing that they'd never officialized anything. She was so stunned that something came out of her mouth that she had been trying not to say. "I love you." Her eyes widened and Sweet Pea didn't move a single muscle, trying to process. "You're not perfect and you're not all good. But what the fuck ever!" She looked at him, her words growing louder. "I'm NOT a princess. I'm a prisoner. Cheryl is a princess. Betty is a princess. I'm trapped in this stupid world I want nothing part of, looking for a reason to escape. YOU are that reason, Sweets. You want to know what was going on when I was with all those North Siders? I was enjoying a joke. A temporary phenomenon." She stepped closer to him. "I went deep into hiding since we've been apart. Kept my head SUPER low and took absolutely no risks. No one else could see me, Sweets. I disappeared. I was invisible again... to everyone except you. I think I knew. I avoided you so much because I was scared you wouldn't see me like everyone else, even more scared that you would. But you saw me and it's so much better than I thought it would be." Her eyes closed. "I get it if you don't feel the same but-"

Sweet Pea rushed her. Their lips met and his hands pulled her close. She went tense, freezing, and then even so slowly responded. Her lips worked with his, her hands reaching up and tangling in his hair. They fused together, and to anyone watching it wasn't completely sure where one stopped and the other started. It was heated, their bodies lighting on fire. It was impossible to move, breathe, or even think because the sizzling and burning that made it impossible to part also made it unbearable to stay together. She shivered and his hands tightened on her.

Finally it ended. Mercifully. Unfortunately. The fire was terrible except that it was also life giving and cleansing. It super charged them and wiped every other emotion off the table. It was painful and it hurt oh so good.

When they did finally stop kissing, they didn't stop touching, keeping the fire alive. Their foreheads pressed together, their noses brushing and their breaths mixing. "I love you too," Sweet Pea whispered. The words were huskier than usual. Still smooth though, soft and gentle and full of ease and warmth. He suddenly dipped down, kissing her again. "I love you." Another kiss. "I love you." Each fast kiss came with little confessions between them, over and over again until they were laughing, Sweet Pea weak at the knees and Lee trying to wipe the tears that wouldn't stop. "Don't cry," he begged quietly.

"These are happy tears," she comforted him. "I don't think I could stop them if I tried." She laughed. "I AM trying, so-" Another laugh.

Sweet Pea smiled. "We're so dumb," he groaned. Lee groaned in agreement, her forehead pressing on his chest.

Lee leaned back, looking at the world around them. The sun seemed to shine brighter, the colors more vibrant and the movements of cars and wind-pushed plants smoother and more natural. She leaned away from him, grabbing one of his hands with two of hers. He rose an eyebrow and she winked. She sat down in the middle of the field, tugging him until he sat down next to her. "Lay down with me," she asked him, patting the grass. He did so, his expression unsure but curious. On instinct he put his hand under his head, his arm sticking out. She smiled, laying on her side right next to him, scooting as close as possible. The arm that was between her body and the ground she slipped under his folded arm, laying on top of their arms. Her other arm went over him and the leg on the same side of that arm went on top of the leg that was closest to her. Without thinking about it he put the other leg on top of the one she'd placed on top of his. His free hand moved down to allow his thumbs to trace her bare arm. The arm she had under his, under her head, she bent to brush her fingers through his hair or across his shoulder.

It was comfortable. So comfortable it surprised Sweet Pea. She moved closer so that her ear was pressed against the connection between his arm and his chest. She hummed. "I can hear your heartbeat."

He smiled. "How did you learn how to do this?"

She blushed. "I read a lot of books. And watch movies." Her smile was soft. "My mom used to tell me stories, snuggling up with me when Is have panic attacks. She said this was the most comfortable position she'd ever found to cuddle in...." The more she talked the quieter her voice got.

Sweet pressed his lips briefly to her forehead. "You never talk about your mom," he quietly noticed.

"She left," Lee answered. "I don't blame her, my father is... terrible. Tried to take me with her but I wouldn't go. He begged me not to." She flinched and Sweet Pea held her tighter. "I'm glad I didn't go. Despite everything... I look like her. He used to call me Martha."

Sweet Pea's eyes widened. "Your mom is Martha?" He felt sick.

Lee nodded. "Yep." Her words grew strained. "He used to say I was just as pretty as she was."

"I love you," Sweet Pea said.

She smiled. "I love you too."

With the sun above them and the grass under them and their words between them, they were cocooned in soft safety. Nothing existed outside of them. It was just them, here, now. Lee's past was dark and demented, but her present was good and her future seemed to be looking even better. Nothing else mattered.

-

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