#but which one wins the title of commander handsome here?

[sunflowersunite]

commander handsome

sunshine - eyebrows: 1 - 0

credits:

(yes, eyepatch Hange and alive Erwin are interacting for reasons)

(and, yes, Levi is extremely attracted to Hange after that)

[adventuresinwonderlust]

hey, could you do something where the reader meets yoon while either they or him are rolling around on the floor of the wolmido ride? 🥺 ty if so!

Title: Wolmido

Pairing: yoongi x reader ft. JK

Warnings: fluff, smut, oral (m) receiving

Rating: 18 and over

Permanent Tag List: @mochilicious-yoongi @heyimtavia

You squealed loudly, jumping up and down, winning the ball toss game. Your friends mouth hanging open in shock. “Hell yeah! That’s my best friend!” She shouts suddenly at the two guys standing next to you, defeated. The one in baby blue pouts, telling his friend that he wants to play again. It’s the one in yellow, however, that you can't take your eyes off. His sweet stoic face, his sharp cat like eyes. You couldn’t stop staring the entire time you stood there playing. When had he noticed you? You wondered to yourself. “Here’s your prize!” The employee says, shoving a stuffed teddy bear at you. You cradle it against your chest, still staring at the handsome man across from you. “Come.” Your friend shouts, snapping you out of your mini staring contest.

You made your way through the crowd of people in the packed Wolmi Theme Park. “Come let's get on the Disco Pang Pang.” Your best friend urges. You cringe at the thought of being spun in circles, your stomach already doing back flips. “Uh, I don’t know about this. I might hurl.” “Don't be a baby. It’ll be fun!” You groan, being pulled along by your very excited friend. You approach the ride, waiting on the line, looking at the people bounce up and down screaming. “Is this supposed to be fun?” You ask aloud. “Yes, you my friend, are just boring.”

You shake your head, moving forward with the group of people ahead of you. “We shouldn’t do this. What if we get hurt?” Your friend sucks her teeth at your assumption, rolling her eyes but not responding. Soon it's your turn and the two of you make your way onto the famous Disco Pang Pang. You take a seat next to each other, tucking your teddy bear between your thighs, you both grasp onto the handlebars behind your head. “This is going to end badly.” You groan over to your friend. “It’s going to be fun. You wait and see.” You watch with unease as the gate to the entrance of the ride slides close and the stairs lift.

The ride begins to move slowly, and you squeal. “Hold on!” Your friend shouts to you. The ride soon taking speed, spinning rapidly clockwise, stopping, and spinning counterclockwise. You slide forward in your seat and attempt to shove yourself back just as the ride begins to hop up and down. You tighten your grip on the grab bars, your sweaty hands betraying you. “I can't hold on!” You shout to your friend. “You got this!” She shouts back. You groan quietly to yourself, the ride jumping quickly and spinning right after, causing your grip to come loose.

You gasp, feeling your butt come up off the seat and flop onto the ground, sliding to the center of the ride. Your stuffed teddy keeps gliding down, your body rolling clockwise with the quick spin of the ride. You can’t help but yelp, trying but failing to reach out to your friend. The ride seems to be moving faster and the faces surrounding you begin to blur. You call out to your friend but are unable to make her out.

Suddenly, you feel someone slam against you. You gasp, reaching for the body that’s pressed against yours. “Come I’ll help you.” The cat eyed man in yellow from the toss game says, reaching for your hand. When did he get on the ride? You wonder, reaching for his hand. He begins to shift on hit bottom towards the left, tugging your hand to follow his pattern. You begin to shift on your bum as well, the both of you making a slow and steady pace. Soon in the distance you see his friend dressed in baby blue, reaching his hand out.

“Oh, thank goodness." You whisper to yellow. His long, large hand reaching desperately for his friend. Their fingertips touch and soon their palms and you take in a deep breath in excitement. “Ahhh!” Yellow shouts, his hand slipping with a quick whip of the ride counter clockwise. The two of you rolling atop each other back to the center of the ride. “Oof.” Your breath escapes you as you land on top of Yellow. “I guess we got too excited.” He chuckles, pulling you close when the ride hops up and down then back around clockwise. “What now?” You ask. He smirks. “We just enjoy the ride.”

You swallow hard when he tucks an arm behind his head, lying flat on his back, allowing the ride to bounce him about. He pulls your body close to his with his free arm, resting it around your waist. “I’m Yoongi by the way.” He shouts, rubbing the exposed flesh of your hip. “Y/N,” you shout back. In that moment, even with your bodies sliding side to side and lifting off the ground, you can't seem to see anything else but each other. It isn't until your respective friends come to collect you both that you even realize, the ride has stopped moving. Your friend tugs you along, away from Yoongi and his friend in blue. You can't help but keep looking back towards him. “Come on Y/N, I'm hungry.” Your friend whines.

You make your way down the steps of the ride when you feel a tap on your shoulder. “We’re headed to the mirror maze. Wanna come with?” Yoongi asks. Your mouth falls open and your friend interjects. “We were just going to grab some food but thanks anyway.” Yoongi smirks, not taking his eyes off you. “I’d love to.” You say without warning. Yoongi nods, reaching out a hand for you to take. “Y/N, I'm hungry.” Your friend whines. “I’m Jungkook and I can eat.” He gives a sweet bunny smile. Your friends eyes light up and tucks her arm into Jungkook's lifted one. He soon swoops her away. “I’ll call you when we’re done.” She waves, walking off. You wave back, turning to fac Yoongi. “Shall we?” He reaches his hand out again. You nod, taking it and allowing him to lead you to the house of mirrors. You both walk around, laughing and pointing at the shapes you make in the mirrors.

“Do you come here often?” You ask. He chuckles. “Not really. I don’t really like rides. They make me sick, but JK loves them, and he really wanted to try the Disco Pang Pang so, here I am.” “AH, I hate rides also as I'm sure you could tell from how quickly I fell of the Disco Pang Pang.” Yoongi laughs. “Yeah, you're really weak huh. I mean you flew off so quick.” “Hey! You fell off too so don’t poke fun.” “Actually, I let go so I could talk to you.” He gives a tight smile, soon looking down. “Wait, what?” “Yeah, “He shrugs, “I wanted to talk to you at the ball toss, but I get shy, so I figured saving the damsel in distress was a better option.” “You’re too adorable.” You whisper. His cheeks flush at your compliment. “No way. Watching you flop around like a scared fish was adorable.” You swat his arm, turning into the mirror maze, jumping at your own reflection.

He chuckles at your reaction, turning quickly and walking into a mirror reflecting the next hallway. “Ha!” You shout, laughing hard at his mistake. “I meant to do that.” He shakes his head in annoyance. “I think it's this way.” You point to the right. He shrugs, waving down the hallway. “After you.” You shake your head, walking down the hallway and into another dead end. “Shit. We’re stuck.” “Seems so. I mean we can just walk backwards.” He notes. “Or we can sit here until we are rescued.” You plop down on the floor, looking up at the handsome man in yellow. “Uh, we could be here for hours.” “My friend would never let me be lost for hours.” “Uh, with JK, she’s already forgotten you exist.” You giggle at the thought. “Well, what do you want to do to pass the time?” “Escape.” He smiles, turning to walk off. “Wait! Don’t leave me!” You shout, hopping up to follow him. You begin to walk back towards the way you came in. “You know this will be the second time I save you today. Which means I get a second date no?” You laugh at his brazenness. “Is that how you think this works?” “Well, I mean, it would be nice.” He pouts. “You’re beautiful you know that,” You note, “I haven't been able to stop staring at you.” He stops walking and looks over at you. “You know, I was thinking the same thing about you.”

Your breath hitches at his words, getting stuck in your throat when you realize he’s leaning in for a kiss. His mouth is soft, warm, inviting. He commands the kiss with ease, starting with gentle pecks and working up to breath taking tongue swirling. You moan into his mouth, digging your hand into the soft locks at the nape of his neck. You wrap your arm around his neck now, deepening the kiss. His hands begin to travel to your lower back until he drops them low, tucking them into your back pockets. You moan again at the feeling of his erection against your thigh, trying to catch your breath when he pulls away. “Sorry,” He whispers, “I’m getting too carried away.” “Not at all.” You whisper back, reaching down to palm him through his jeans. HIs cheeks flush and mouth falls open. “We- we’re in public.” He pants. You look around. “I don’t see a public anywhere. Just stay quiet.” You wink, lowering to your knees before him.

He chuckles nervously. “You don’t have to.” “I know but I want to. You were so brave today.” You bite your lip, unzipping his jeans. “Fuck.” He whispers, looking around again. You release his weeping cock, licking at the dripping tip. “We’re gonna get caught and arrested!” He covers his gaping mouth to keep from squealing, watching you wrap your mouth around his tip. His head drops back but only for a moment, his eyes scattering about the mirrors that surround you. “This is so fucking hot.” He praises, his hand falling into your hair. You suckle gently on his tip, reveling in the hushed moans that leave his lips. You relax your throat, taking his full length to the back of your throat. He whimpers at the feeling, his free hand slapping against one of the mirrors to keep him steady. You bob back and forth along his length effortlessly, picking up your pace, loving the hissing sounds that escape his pout. His grip in your hair tightens and you pull him out of your mouth. “You can guide me if you want.” You look up at him. His lust filled eyes widen and he nods. You smirk, turning your attention back to his reddened length. You bob on his tip first before taking all of him again. He moans out loud this time, his hand tangling in your locks. He wastes no time guiding you along his length, his hips hitching forward to meet your pace.

“This feels so fucking good. I’m not going last much longer.” He warns. You hum around him, and he groans at the feeling, speeding his thrusts in your mouth. You hollow out your mouth, relaxing your throat as much as possible so he can find purchase there. “Uhh, oh wow. I’m gonna cum. This feels so good.” You hum around him again, his thigh tensing. You bob faster, gripping his ass to pull him into your face. “Oh, oh. Fuck!” He shouts, yanking his cock from your throat and turning to spill his seed onto the floor. He jerks his cock slowly, his head falling back, until every drop is spent. You lick your swollen lips, standing now. He tucks himself away, turning and moving into your body for a kiss. “I need to return the favor.” He says with a kiss. Your eyes light up. “I wonder what that would feel like on the Disco Pang Pang?” You giggle. “Shit! You little freak. I don’t have any cash on me, but I’ll gladly hit an ATM to pay the operator off and make your dream come true.” You laugh heartily. “I’m not kidding. Let’s get the hell out of here. I need your legs wrapped around my face and now!” He wiggles his eyebrows, taking your hand to lead you out. “You’re crazy!” You shout. “Crazy about you!” He stops, pulling you into another kiss.

[destielharlequinchallenge]

The Destiel Harlequin Challenge Master Post: 2020 Mega Bang

Participants in the 2020 Destiel Harlequin Challenge completed an amazing 20 fics and 3 sets of artwork! You can learn all about those here!

Spectre (fic by a_dusky_gold, art by aceriee)

This whole thing… this was supposed to be a fucking farce. A way to keep Nicholas Vaught occupied until the deadline he’d given Dean would run out, and he’d still get the money to send Dad to the Town Hall rehabilitation for alcoholism, because that was the goddamned deal.

There were no such things as ghosts or magic or a Book of Life. Dean knows, okay? He wasn’t the Army’s goddamned Mystery Raider for nothin’; he knows history, he knows artifacts, and he knows that the Book of Life is an ancient myth that is about as real as werewolves or vampires.

And yet.

“The Book of Life,” the man had said. Dean can’t even remember his name.

Shit, shit, shit.

Dangerous Ground by Amethystaris

Special Agents for the Department of Diplomatic Security, Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester have been partners and best friends for three years, but everything changed the night Cas admitted the truth about his feelings for Dean. And when Cas was shot a few hours later, Dean felt his reluctance to get involved was vindicated.

Can a camping trip in the High Sierras save their partnership?

Honour Undressed by andimeantittosting

Among his friends, Castiel, Lord Milton is everyone’s confidant and, along with his trusted valet, the fixer of problems. But there is one secret Castiel has never shared: he is in love with his valet and has been for years.

Born in the gutters, Dean Winchester was assigned as Castiel’s batman in the war, and when Castiel travelled home to take up his title, Dean followed him as his valet. To assist Castiel, Dean is not above a little burglary or blackmail. But the one thing he wants for himself is Castiel’s heart.

When Castiel’s closest friends become the target of a blackmailer, certain truths come out. But while Dean determines to seduce Castiel, Castiel is adamant that he must resist, for if there is one rule a gentleman must follow, it is never to dally with his servant.

Havenport by BlueMasquerade

Castiel cleared space on his desk by the expedience of sweeping the previous contents to the side. He set the bundle down in the center of the surface and studied the knots in the rope before expertly untying them.

The book was old, its leather bindings cracked and crumbling. He carefully opened the cover to reveal the pages within, each hand cut, the edges beautifully deckled, the text written in pen and ink.

“This is written in ancient Enochian.” Castiel looked up, gaze narrowed. “Where did you obtain a book written in ancient Enochian?”

“Is that what it is? All I could tell is that it sure as hell isn’t English.” Mr. Winchester grinned, a dimple flashing in his cheek.

an aching in my heart by contemplativepancakes

When Dean’s best friend dies, leaving behind her daughter, Dean knows he has what it takes to give Claire the life she deserves. The problem is, they’re not related by blood, and Claire’s long lost uncle gets called to take her in. Castiel Novak was bad news when he was in highschool with Dean, and judging by his blue hair and tattoo sleeves, nothing’s changed. Castiel ran out on his family once before, and there’s no way Dean’s going to let that happen to Claire without putting up a fight.

Fools and Fate by Danica_Dust

Castiel Novak fled his coven to escape the rigid, predetermined Fate laid out for him within its confines. Desperate and alone, he took shelter in the city of Sacriloga, forsaking all magic and living off whatever he could steal. There, witches like Cas are hunted. They are feared. And they are burned.

When Jack, a young witch also on the run from his own coven, seeks out Cas’ aid, however, Cas finds that he cannot reject the boy, leaving him to his sure destruction. Especially after the newest visitor to Sacriloga makes his presence known: the legendary Hunter, Dean Winchester, who has been following Jack’s trail.

Sworn to the Men of Letters, Hunters live by one principle: thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Dean’s path was never meant to cross with Cas', but a desperate stunt and a single mistake forces them into an impossible union—holy matrimony.

The war between the witches and the Men of Letters is an ancient one and Cas' most dangerous enemies bring a Fate worse than fire. Unable to ignore his growing feelings, yet powerless to change what he is, a choice must be made.

A suffocating Fate on one hand. A precarious freedom on the other. And in between, the kind of love that makes fools of us all.

Ozone by Deancebra

A young magic user who wants desperately to live. A jaded recluse who has forgotten what living means. They’re each other’s only chance.

Dean’s wild magic is killing him. The mage guilds have given up on him, and it’s only a matter of time before he dies in a spectacular, catastrophic bang. His only hope is an exiled wizard who lives in seclusion—and is rumored to have lost his mind.

The years alone on his hilltop estate have not been good for Castiel Novak. After the magical accident that disfigured him and nearly destroyed the village, he drifts through his days, a wraith trapped in memories and depression. Until a stricken young man collapses on his driveway, one who claims Castiel is his last chance. For the first time in fifteen years, Castiel must make a choice—leave this wild mage to his fate or take him in and try to teach him, which may kill them both. The old Castiel, brash and commanding, wouldn’t have hesitated. Castiel the exile isn’t sure he can find the energy to try.

A Demon Like Him by EllenOfOz

Dean Winchester doesn’t want to be a warlock. The idea of working in a lab, channeling demonic magic into enchanted batteries is not what he wants to do with his life, but it’s a dangerous opinion to have—his father was a powerful and well-connected warlock, and Dean is expected to follow the family tradition.

His only way out is to fail the demon summoning class—failure means expulsion from the Warlock College. Despite Dean’s best efforts to fumble the summoning, it works. Although not the way anyone expects.

Dean’s demon, Castiel, is an incubus, but also a powerful mage on a mission to rebalance the magic that is being stripped from Demonside by warlocks.

Dean must choose: fail out of his final exam and turn his back on becoming a warlock, or help Castiel and graduate. But he doesn’t count on how hot the incubus is, or how close they have become in just a few days.

A Working Relationship by fangirlingtodeath513

The homes that Castiel Novak designs for Angelic Houses are to die for. They’re pristine, perfectly designed and organized, and they’ve caused more than a few bidding wars. It’s the perfect job—he’s organized, good with math, and he’s able to pick up on design trends relatively quickly. The only thing that isn’t perfect? His obnoxious older brother, Luke. Castiel’s been vying for a position on a flipping team for years now, but Luke has never even considered it. When a lecherous gossip reporter overhears an argument, they receive an offer they can’t refuse.

They’re invited to compete on Flip Off, a competition where two people flip houses and compete for the highest profit. Castiel wants the leverage a win would bring him, but he also wants to prove himself. Enter Dean Winchester, a contractor with his own team and one that’s blissfully unconnected to Angelic Houses, allowing Castiel to prove himself without any help from the family company.

The undeniable attraction between them certainly doesn’t help matters, but Castiel is resolute in his decision to make a move only after they’ve finished working together. At least, that had been his plan until Dean made him an offer he simply couldn’t refuse.

Crashing In by followyourenergy

Castiel Novak is convinced he’s the last unwillingly single person in Lupine Cove. Even Gabriel, his perpetual bachelor brother, has found love. It’s probably because Cas leads the most boring life in existence. He’s a gay man living in a rented, one-room cottage in the same small coastal town he grew up in, just getting by as the owner of the same convenience store he was practically raised in. The most excitement he gets is chatting with the locals or maybe, if he’s unlucky, oversleeping and rushing to work. So when a baby is left at the Safe Haven drop-off at the local fire station, he takes the opportunity to step in for the child temporarily, at least until suitable parents, plural, can be found.

Life certainly gets more interesting.

And it gets even more interesting when a handsome man comes crashing—literally—into his life.

Make Me Believe by GhoulsnHalos

Ten years ago, Castiel Novak’s stepfather disowned him, taking from him his place as hereditary heir to the head of the Hunter and Warrior Guild. Now, he’s a self-made, and celebrated, master gem and metal smith. Castiel doesn’t believe that the God’s decide your soulmate. Until he designs what can only be a gift fit for his soul mate, who in contradiction to the etiquette, if not the laws of Neffroen, must be a man.

Dean Winchester is convinced that he is a lowly, dumbass, no magic hunter who couldn’t possibly be on the same social scale as a Novak. So, why is it when he spots the jewelled torc in Castiel’s shop, Dean develops an obsession over the neckpiece and its creator? It can't be anything to do with the will of the Gods, no matter what anyone says, because that's baloney and Dean's not into men.

When Castiel’s long-lost brother turns up and suggests he ought to challenge their stepfather and that Dean is destined to help Castiel rule the clan, Castiel takes some convincing. The real problem is Dean. Can Castiel with the help of family and friends convince Dean of his place by Castiel’s side? Can Dean play the part everyone expects of him to help Castiel regain his rightful place in society?

Shielded Heart by JuniperJones

Arthos, the Infinite City, is a place of alien wonders and indescribable beauty—and, most importantly for Dean, it’s also halfway across the universe from his abusive ex-fiancé. He came to the city desperate for a fresh start, but he finds himself downtrodden on a world of aloof alien beings with little hope of finding his place—and a good chance of being kidnapped or killed before he can even settle in.

At least until he is saved by an irresistible alien with piercing eyes and a seductive smile.

Castiel is the living embodiment of temptation, and he makes no effort to disguise his desire for Dean. But when his past threatens to drag Dean into a dangerous underworld, Dean discovers Castiel isn’t who he claims to be. After enduring so much suffering, can Dean bear to take a leap of faith with this mysterious alien? Can he trust Castiel with not only his life, but his heart?

Stumble and Fall by Kitmistry

Castiel was raised to do one thing: serve his country, whether that was fighting a war or becoming an expert spy. But when his lover is charged with treason and executed Castiel defects. He has evidence that can destroy the KGB’s entire spy ring in New Mexico, he has names of scientists involved with atomic weapons who send information to the Soviets, and he won’t stop until he has revenge.

Putting all his trust in the Americans, Castiel finds himself under the protection of U.S. Marshal Dean Winchester, who is too cocky and attractive for his own good, but at least seems to know what he’s doing.

When a routine transfer to a safehouse goes horribly wrong, Castiel and Dean narrowly escape with their lives. With the Marshals compromised and Castiel being framed for murder, he and Dean are on the run from KGB and law enforcement alike. They have no one to trust except each other, and nowhere to go that their enemies can’t reach.

The Shots We Don’t Take by MandalaRose

Still nursing the tatters of a broken heart and trying desperately to stave off the terror of his impending graduation, college senior Cas Novak decides it’s time to blow off a little steam. Not just any hook-up will do, however. The last thing Cas needs right now is a distraction. On the lookout for someone he can enjoy a steamy night of passion with before leaving them behind entirely, Cas thinks he’s found exactly what he needs in cocky university hockey star and well-known playboy Dean Winchester.

Dean is gorgeous, doesn’t date, and is the singular most infuriating person Cas has ever met. He’s the perfect one night stand...that is, until Dean decides he wants an instant replay of what was supposed to be a one-time event. Will Cas’ offer of friends, sans benefits, convince the arrogant love ’em and leave ’em hockey defenseman to find an easier score? Or will Dean wear down Cas’ defenses and lure the sexy nerd in the dorky trenchcoat back to his bed?

Bullets Over the Bayou (fic by mattzerella_sticks, art by dontbelasagnax)

Everyone wants Castiel Novak to quit the force, including Castiel. But he stays on despite the toxic work environment he’s surrounded by. Still believing he can do some good despite the many lines of red tape impeding him. Luckily, a pair of scissors by the name of Dean Winchester drops into his hands, and he finally feels like he can do some good.

Dean Winchester thought he would be in New Orleans for a day or two. Identify the body of his deadbeat father and then move on. No one knows he’s here. His mother and brother are blissfully unaware of the danger his father roped him into. With a parting gift of a journal, delivered to him the same day he received word about his father, Dean has become the target of a group of people who want him dead. The same people who killed his father.

Racing against the clock, can Dean and Castiel figure out what is so important about John Winchester’s journal that someone would kill for it?

Masquerade by noxsoulmate

It had begun as such a good plan; one that benefitted them both. And masquerading as Castiel Krushnic's boyfriend during the weeks of balls, galas, and charity events certainly was no hardship. With the impending end of their arrangement, though, Dean Winchester must admit that behind the mask of an aloof CEO lies a man he could fall in love with. Or maybe, he already has…

The Medium by raths_kitten

Detective Dean Winchester hates it when his Chief sends a medium to consult on his cases. But this time, the murder is closely linked to Castiel’s world and they both need to work together to solve it.

Any Semblance of Touch (fic by saltnhalo, art by c-kaeru)

1925, New York.

Dean Winchester’s life’s work is protecting the world from the supernatural relics that could destroy it. When an amulet with the power to control the tides is shipped to New York, he must intercept it before it can be used to devastating effects. This time, in order to succeed, he needs a powerful psychometric… and the only one available has sworn off the magical world altogether.

Castiel Novak’s gift comes with great risk. To protect himself, he’s become a recluse, redirecting his magic into museum research. But with the city’s fate hanging in the balance, and faced with the power of Dean’s charm and persuasion…

He can’t force himself to say no.

The Love of a Righteous Man by SargentMom573

Five years ago, Captain Dean Winchester defied his father, Senator John Winchester. With his brother Sam, and his spaceship Impala, Dean found his place among a ragtag fleet of pirates and smugglers. Their latest mission left him with a price on his head and a scar on his heart. When a surprise attack separated him from Sam and revealed a Sith weapon, he would do whatever it took to bring his brother back – even sacrifice his own happiness.

After Emperor Michael’s death broke the psychic link between them, Emperor’s Hand Castiel Novak spent years drowning his sorrows at the bottom of a barrel. Mostly sober, three years ago he found a new purpose as the Impala’s Chief Medical Officer, and Sam Winchester’s guide in the Force. And a good friend in the Impala’s gruff but kind Captain.

Dean and Castiel must work together to bring Sam home alive. But when Castiel’s last mission is exposed, will Castiel complete it and destroy any hopes Dean had for a family? Will Dean forgive Cas’ horrific purpose before it is too late? And give them both what they really want — the love of a righteous man.

SKID by spnsmile

Dean Winchester swore off love after getting dumped and fired from his job the same day. Badly drunk, he ended up balcony-hopping until a pair of hands snatched him inside a darkened room. But it's no hero, it's someone with deep voice whispering threats with a gun pointed at his back. Dean’s too drunk to deal with life but one good look at his hot assailant plus enough beer sold him to his accursed fate. The next morning, he found himself engaged to the most notorious leader of a powerful clan, Castiel Novak.

Married life in the compound for a month was not as blissful so when he could, Dean fought for that freedom. Castiel relented and as Dean tried to put the pieces of his normal life together, getting a bike messenger job and dealing with pain in the ass clients, he now also needs to deal with the dangerous presence of his very jealous and very protective husband watching over him.

Is his life ever going to get back to normal?

[highsviolets]

ne plus ultra

summary: you encounter acclaimed scholar obi-wan kenobi after an academic conference

rating: mature (not explicit)

notes: all my love and affection to brit and mia. @profkenobi​ you are my prompt muse & @goldenkenobi​ you win many awards by listening to my endless rambles about this fic. // CHAPTER TWO 

ne plus ultra (n). 

(1) the highest point capable of being attained 

(2) the most profound degree of a quality or state

the story starts in medias res, as all lives do. the beginning of your life is always in the middle of someone else’s. your death coincides with another’s gallant ebullience, your semi-colon failing to incise upon their life. so the scholars say.

the conference — your first since you passed your dissertation — had made you nervous, and you were glad to be spending an extra night before returning to the real world tomorrow.

your palms are slick, as they always are after too long spent in the company of other academics. the anxiety that swells in you is ballast and the deadweight forces you to slump forward slightly, the visible seam on your the shoulder of your shirt sashaying inwards.

when you smile at the concierge, it is tight, like a formation of soldiers in Napoleon’s day, and does not quite reach your eyes. still decked with traces of freckles and darkened by a summer spent abroad under the sun’s penetrating gazes, your skin fails to comply with demands of minuscule muscles pulling and stretching, commanding it into a thin arc.

but it is no matter — you receive your key and you sign the paperwork and are ascending the winding staircase to the seventh floor. emerald green carpet is your guide, swathing your ascendancy in a sheen of dark-hue velvet. sir gawain chasing after the knight in green armor, a lecture on virtue streaming from the knight’s mouth, materializes on the steps. the galloping thought makes you smile, this time more relaxed. that story is something you know. something you know so well you could almost touch it. indeed you had fingered its pages, during your apprenticeship at the British Library.

hope. the words springs forth, nearly unbidden, from your lips. the word is spoken so softly — merely a breath and a hint of sound disturbing the stairwell’s precious physics. it is a reflex of association. green means hope, the scholars had said, and during the course of your studies you had been disappointed to find that you agreed with them. you did not want to agree with the fashionably smug expert in the field. you wanted to rattle him. shake him to his sacrosanct core, the sanctimonious scum.

you had never met the man: the mysterious OWK. your advisor had raved about his breakout lecture series that had taken place years ago, when he was a newly minted phd and you were still in undergrad. sipping a cup of cafeteria coffee (they always forgot you preferred tea, all these years later), they had rambled on about the poetry of OWK’s phrasing and his decisiveness in speech and the unparalleled skill of his primary source research. the lectures had been sadly lost, the footage deleted, or archived, they didn’t know which. just that the man had refused to distribute them and speak on the matter further, nearly abandoning academia entirely.

the beverage was bitter but you laughed lightly. “is this thomas moore and his lectures on st. augustine, then? so legendary that no one can find them?”

your advisor had inclined their head, congratulating you on your witty reference. “i suppose so,” they had mused, leaning back in their office chair and staring at some point above your head, at the oaken bookshelves with brightly colored book jackets lining the walls. “now, your latest draft—“

the memory fades as your purpose alters. a simple twist of the key and the door opens. but you remain on the threshold, stuck between two modes, between here and there.

there is a man in your room, and he is as handsome as sin. he sits in a chair in the corner of the room and one leg is resting on the other’s kneecap at a ninety degree angle. he is wearing glasses, and has short auburn hair that gleams in the dull light of the lamp beside him (although, a few wayward strands obscure his eyes, layering over the frame of his glasses). he is reading. the cover is folded over so you cannot see the title but it is hefty, judging from its position on his thigh. shadows have formed over high cheekbones.

the man removes himself from the task, focusing his gaze on you. you see now that he has bright blue eyes.

“hello there!” his greeting is polite, and amiable, and accented, though not pleasantly so. “can i help you?”

“I’m afraid there seems to be a mix-up!” you say in your ‘adult voice.’ it’s same one you used on your dissertation defense. “it seems we were placed in the same room.”

“ah.” he nods sagely, as though this were to be expected, and unfolds himself from his chair.

you place a hand on your hip — near the phone snug in the back pocket of your jeans — and shrug. “I’m sorry.” the apology is saccharine and tastes like grenadine. “I’ll pop back downstairs and find out what the problem is.”

he urges you to stay, to let him call from here rather you lugging your things all the way down and all the way back up again. “it’s not proper,” he insists, dragging you in and closing the door behind you. in the time that his is so near to you and you feel the way his frown matches the steady grip on your upper arm, something warms in you at his indignation. your hand drifts away from your phone. he retreats to his corner to make the call while you linger just beyond the threshold.

the conversation is hushed and decorated with the raised tones of inquiry. when he hangs up, he sighs.

“they were under the impression that we were a married couple. apparently we booked under a similar last name.” his voice turns down at the edges. he sounds the way his frown had earlier: weary, confused, and a dash of inexplicable certainty.

“but—“ you gesture to the beds — “two beds?”

something of a grimace shadows his face. “all that was available, apparently.”

“oh.” there is a pause. he does not continue. “but they got me a room, right?” if you sound slightly desperate, perhaps it is because you are. you are sweaty. you are nervous. you want to relax. in your own room.

he zooms past your query. “i know you,” he says, and sounds as if he is surprised he knows how to speak.

“i —“ you shake your head — “i don’t think so.”

when you give your name and recognition fails to present itself, he falters and twists to stare through the glass behind him. “i thought…” but he breaks off.  in the end he rights himself and tells you of the situation — how there is no vacancy, but he does not mind the sharing a room with you, just for the night, it wouldn’t be a bother.

there is something different about him. maybe it is the way that he emphasized the word can. maybe it is the way he is pushing the hair from his eyes, and removing the glasses from his face. maybe it is the way that, now pausing his actions, the man cants his head and furrows his brow.

air grows thick with the brush strokes of caravaggio: he is in the spotlight, sure and solid and steady, pure against the whirlpools of unknowing realism.

you are on the cusp of stepping into his white light when he offers his name. the first letter of each word drags itself from his mouth and burrows into your ear, until you almost divorce the meaning but for the particulars.

the first instinct that you are aware of is one you cannot name — it is an anger that is sweet, and one that is shielded by sadness, yet fueled by frustration.

there are dozens of others that your heart and mind have already examined, of course, turning them this way and that, inspecting their corners with bloodied hands. but they are rejected, and expelled into the waxy shadows, without your being aware of them. that is the job of the soul: to know before you are even aware.

he senses the shift. perhaps uncertainty has clouded your eyes. obi-wan kenobi, OWK, takes a step back from rising mist and shadow and once more turns to gaze out the window. through the glass there is a gentle village scene, all cobblestones and iron street lamps and hills keeping time on the horizon.

“i — “ you start, but you stop again. you must start, you feel, but you do not know what path to take, and you halt. the time he thinks you consider you are in fact not considering at all. there is only one answer (answers that are wrong are never really answers, after all, just more questions).

“i’ll stay.”

—

Obi-Wan is courteous and deferential and demands that you permit him to treat you this evening as an apology. he departs to give you privacy as you shower, and the flash of shimmering emerald carpet you spy as he exits makes you wonder if you are the Lady Bertalik to his Sir Gawain.

the steam and the water beat down clenched muscles with gentle hands and lingering touches. it is for several minutes that you linger in their warm embrace, but as you wipe away fog from the mirror you cannot help but encounter the sensation that you are alone, and wrongfully so. you cannot feel Obi-Wan’s presence and the air feels stale without him — like there is no current disrupting the atmosphere’s mundane course.

droplets decorate your shoulders and the hollow of your throat. they hold fast even when you pad softly to your belongings for a fresh change of clothes.

The ache in this room is stronger. The walls themselves are mourning his absence. You feel it settle in your gut, a gluttonous mass that lightens when you consider that he should be returning soon. the sky outside the window is orange and gold, flattering the leaves of maple trees in autumn.

the room is pretty, in a simple way: the emerald carpet of hope has been exchanged for a darkened hardwood. Chrome accents gleam in the reflection of the wood, and two beds — one at opposite ends of the wall — are smothered silver-white sheets. a series of Malevich paintings are hung up in a neat grid, as though the dissembling artist would come barging in, screaming of the devil, if the French theories of symmetry were not obeyed.

as you dress and begin to comb your hair, you wonder why you miss someone whom you have just met, and someone you are not disposed to like. can you miss someone you don’t like? he is sporadic and paradisiacal; in motion and steady. his kindness had surprised you, as had his beauty. he was less corrosive than your advisor had made him out to be, less ambitious than the accolades awarded to his name. but he is zealous, hungry, seeking: you could see in the way his eyes bunched around the edges, in the crick of his neck when he sought wisdom from the hills, how he had contorted his body in the chair.

(he is like you, both here and not here, and although you did not yet know, your soul was aware and reflective in wonder)

when your flesh-and-blood sir gawain returns, you muse that you are a poor temptress in an thick-knit ivory sweater that encases your body from neck to wrists. it had been a steal from a second-hand store a few years back, and you had never found the heart to give it up. it was like a childhood book, or a favorite mug — the object, in all its durable materiality, was akin to you.

Your smile pleases him. Obi-Wan says he has found a place for this evening, nothing special, but nice. “We are celebrating after all,” he says, shrugging off a dark woolen coat.

“We are?” you look at him through the reflection of the mirror. blue eyes meet yours.

“Of course!” the phrase suspends itself for a moment, maybe two, as though it is waiting for something to slip in and complete its trinity. but it falls, tumbling back down to terrestrial concerns. “We are celebrating our meeting.”

He is absurd, and you laugh. Obi-Wan’s theory of festivity is not so mercurial as his speech — the declaration sticks to your ribs, pumping blood to your heart and flooding your cheeks with a natural flush.

Obi-Wan continues to examine you. “Might I ask,” he starts, hands stilling in their expedition of finding suitable attire, “where you bought your sweater?”

you respond: it was from a second-hand store, you found it during your apprenticeship, it was the only thing that kept you warm that terribly dreary winter, it was your constant companion.

“does it have a trio of red threads on the left cuff?”

satisfying his quench takes precedence to mystery of his request.

Obi-Wan’s smile engulfs the spirit of the room, and the two of you, and the bedding, and the glass window, too.

“that was my sweater,” he says. “my uncle made it for me, and i gave it to my brother after we adopted him. he wasn’t used to the dampness of English winters, but he didn’t like the itchiness of the knit. he always had an aversion to gritty textures.” he reaches out a hand with a faint smile, like the combined power of his simple offering can cross space and time and memory and return him to the days of him and his uncle and adopted brother.

you do not know what to say. you watch him for several moments. you want to speak, but your mind is blank, thrumming with the idea that it is so very right that part of him has been with part of you all of these years. parts have him has seen you through the long hours of a dreary apprenticeship and discovering the healing properties of English tea and catching tears and wisps of smiles and witnessing ink spill over pages as you churned out dissertation drafts until the argument was smooth and refined.

the idea makes you feel very alive, and alert, and you want to offer him comfort. “would you like to take it back?” one hand tugs at the edge of the cloth, near your waist. “it’s yours anyway.” the pain of parting is lessened by the joy of giving.

he demurs, you coax. eventually it is determined that he will wear the garment for the evening, but only if you wear something of his, too. “that way it’s even,” he says, and you laugh again to hide the dip in your stomach at thought of wearing something of his, of wrapping yourself in his scent, of placing your body in a place his had once inhabited.

you settle on a light gray blazer that you think must compliment his eyes, which sparkle with aquamarine and crystal. it is paired with a turtleneck and when you emerge to show him the completed ensemble, spinning in a circle, he chuckles.

“you look like me,” he says, one hand cupping his chin.

a feeling pulses in your mind but you let it go. you may like him after all, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t a pompous academic whose theories had made your life hell.

—

you expect him to take you to a cozy place. somewhere where they serve the local brew and make homemade shepherd’s pie, but he doesn’t.

he takes you a bar that is sleek and modern, with soft yellow lights and paneled ceilings and marble counter-tops. Obi-Wan escorts you to a high table in the corner, a hand on the small of your back. the warmth from his palm spreads through his jacket and your turtleneck and it feels like cinnamon and candlelight.  

later, you will not remember what you ordered to eat, but you will always remember the two cups water that appear on the table.

the glasses have smooth edges and and rounded sides, curving around themselves ad infinitum or perhaps reductio ad absurdum. faint golden orbs hunch against the surface; integers of light cling to any sort of tactical reassurance. even the glass will do.

the cups are hefty, and not just with the font of life. the vessel is weighty, durable. Obi-Wan tells you that they are recycled.

he does not talk about what he does now and how he teaches, and you do not mention your work. you do not need to: what these truths have taught you is in every swallow, every glance, every gentle barb. the two of you do not need shields of citation guidelines to understand one another.

the conversation dances. he pulls you in with a question. you twirl around him, brushing his five o’clock shadow. artifice glistens and then falls away. with every pass and dip and pas de chat resentment and assumption weaken, and your eyes become bigger. he changes the time signature, the style (first it was a waltz, and then a swing step, and now it is easing into something unknown). the fabric of his jacket is smooth, and comfortable, and smells like him — warm and spice and clean. you ease into it like it is your birthright.

you do not see, but Obi-Wan notices, and grins into his water.

he does not see, but you notice, the way he couches into your sweater, and your eyes curl in some form of elation.

“what were they about? the lectures, i mean.” this is the question you have been waiting to ask. here, in the bar, with glass, you are emboldened to let go of one last grudge.

he looks at you, and his gaze stabs you, but then it softens — like the needle from a shot easing into muscle before retreating as swiftly as it came.

“what did your advisor say they were about?” he fiddles with his glass.

“they said…” you close your eyes in recollection. eyelashes flutter against freckles. “they said the lectures were about grief.”

Obi-Wan’s smile is wry, but he does not seem displeased. he is still too relaxed to be angry. how you can read his body language so quickly, you are not sure — maybe it is because he is wearing your sweater. so many things you are unsure of, but he is not one of them. not really.

uncertainty is different with him. he is not an ever-fixéd mark, nor a staid anchor in the waves. but he is resolved, and you can separate him from the rest of the particulars that impede your life. he is not just krei: distinguishing and judging and explanatory and crisis all at once, all at everything.

yes, uncertainty with him is less about judgment and is rather imbued with mystery. it is krei mixed with mysteriam: separating the hidden things from that which is known.

Obi-Wan taps his finger on the glass and the sound returns you to the present. he has caught you wandering, again, wandering the wayward halls of esoteric remembrance.

“they were about grief,” he nods, staring at the transparent material in his hands.. Obi-Wan’s voice is kingly and aromatic, like basil. it lilts and sways around the words he speaks as in a courtly dance, like those Anne Boleyn performed for King Henry.

lifting his gaze to yours again, he adds, “and they were about joy. those lectures were about everything, and nothing.” a hand rises, and rhythmic fingers sweep away invisible cobwebs. “they were,” Obi-Wan concludes, “about life itself. phenomena, as it were.” the hand floats down and rests on the table.

it is perilously close to yours now: mere inches from the edges of your body. you both look down at his hand in a brief moment marked and scratched with silence, and you are alone with  your thoughts. his hands are worn, like they have been used — little scars and wrinkles and a slight puffiness that tells you that he spent a lot of time writing today. you like that.

you point to the swelling, at the v of his hand where thumb and palm meet. the tip of your index finger hovers above the spot and your confession must linger too, because it takes several moments for him to drag his eyes upwards to study your face.

“how many ACE wraps did you fray while writing your dissertation?” he asks, and you want to push him for being such a competitive brat.

your hand is still suspended above his.

you tell him your answer, and he cups his fingers around yours in a spasm of revelation. “me too!” his grip tightens. “academia is one son of a bitch.” he catches you in a sideways glance, and when you laugh, he relaxes into a smile.

“I read your dissertation, you know.” the sweater itches against your wrist, where the sleeve of his blazer has ridden up and exposed skin.

“i didn’t.” you take a sip. “but i do know how you feel about scholars such as myself.” another sip. are you biding time? you are not sure. “you feel very strongly about the color green, Dr. Kenobi.”

his grip slackens but he does not release your hand completely. “please. call me ben.”

“no?” your eyebrow arches. “not OWK, either?”

“I don’t use that name with friends.”

“Are we friends?”

his eyes are earnest, open, porous, like blue tulle on ballet costumes. “yes. i dare say we are.”

—

when the two of you stand to leave, there is a still a table that prohibits unity. emptiness subsumes you; he is so near and yet so far; Ben should be next to you. the distance continues, grows, as you exit, and an ache pours forth from your soul, because you now know what you did not know before. you had seen it in the glass, and in the reflected light, and the way you had seen yourself in his eyes when you danced with him without touching his hand.

you halt, he pauses. you take a step forward and Ben watches you. darkness blankets the town’s cobbled streets; the stones gleam dully and swallow the street lamps all into an abyss. except his eyes: Ben’s silken azure eyes are your anchor.

people don’t make sense but you do.

a few steps more and the two of you are very close. you tilt your head to look at his face. you are there, reflected in his pupils. “maybe i am you.” you mean for it to sound teasing, but your soul knows before you do, and the words are laden with imperial import, like a royal seal.

those gemstone eyes flicker over your face. he has felt it too, he is telling you, but how you know this you cannot say. “no, i do not think so.” letters drip out, leaking in a slow stream. “but i think perhaps we are a part of each other.”

and then you have narrowed down the sum to its composite parts. the glass has shattered and the left hand swims in its sand and calcium carbonate and ash, drifting through a process of becoming. particles glimmer on skin, under nails, brandishing depth and texture and a pantone coloring book of the human heart.  

it is a mutual kiss, one where individualism no longer endures. his hands — swollen, calloused, firm — are grasping your cheeks. your arms are around his waist, winding around sweater and skin and soul. when you close your eyes, you think it will be dark. you are wrong. tenebrism creeps away and shadows vanish, and there is only him, and a resounding tenor of colors.

ben’s lips are soft, and his breath is warm, and it is the kiss for which you feel like you have spent your whole life preparing. he is safe (tender) and unexpected (his tongue grazes your teeth). he likes it when you grip him harder, the knit no longer coarse against your palms, not when his hand is wandering through your hair in flashes of blue and gold and pearl.

when you pull away, and nuzzle his cheek, Ben smiles — soft and comforting like the garment on his back. maybe this is why glass shatters and cracks around your feet, crunching as you sway slightly in each other’s arms — you have worn his jacket, and he has worn your sweater.

—

it is predawn the next time he kisses you. the two of you are on his bed, near the window. sweaters and blazers have been exchanged for baggy t-shirts and sleep shorts. Ben is facing you, cross-legged on the pale sheets, and he watches you as you take in the metamorphosis of the sky, from black to navy to the merest smidgen of blue and grey on the horizon, skating across the silhouette of the hills.

he watches you as you speak, too, about the way you loved the ocean as a child, and your favorite book is Moby Dick. it was so very ethereal to you, the way that sailors used the stars to navigate. it was like they were communing with the heavens.

Ben thinks that your voice glitters. it is weary with much talk and too little sleep but it shines the way diamonds do when they are stitched onto spanish lace, supported with the strength that is only found in delicacy.

your eyes, he thinks, are more like satin, for the way they gleam and mix their depth and shadows without losing their sheen, glassy in their wonder.

but you notice his regard, and you pause. he cannot see it, but he can feel a blush jogging from your neck to your cheeks.

you stare at each other. and then — he is next to you, and laying you down, and you are learning his labyrinthine ways even as you begin to come undone.

he is coming alive, or waking up—you’re not sure. his ends and beginnings are still a unknown to you: you must fashion yourself a mystic to enter his realm. somehow you suspect he is yours. your alpha and omega, the moral force that has driven you forward to now, to this point, where his forehead is meeting the jut of your jaw as he kisses his way down your neck.

you are hot and cold all at once and when he licks your pulse point, and sucks, you gasp. it is a gentle thing, more like a deep breath than an exclamation. you feel yourself leaning into him, straining for his touch. his auburn hair under your fingertips is soft and slick with his gel and you tug at it in an act of encouragement.

he pulls away. hovering over you, eyes blue and silver in the pale light — twin moons, perhaps — he smirks. “are you trying to tell me something, darling?” he asks lowly, and his voice is dark molasses. it is sticky and sweet and bitter, inching down your body. you want his kisses to follow its tortuous path, staining you with vermillion and black and dying you with pleasure.

he is color. you are cloth.

the durability of your nature returns in a rush marked with grains of steel. “no.” you swallow and the action traces where his lips met your skin just moments earlier. “i rather thought you were trying to communicate with me.” you sound ragged, coy, on the verge of aching.

Ben does not take your bait. “i was.” his breath is hot against your ear, and arresting. he pauses. the molasses continues to drip. “i was just wanted to make sure i had a clear answer.” and he nips your earlobe. you bite your lip in response: the two of you are in sync.  

“yes.” you are fabric, and your voice is terrycloth.

“Yes?” he repeats your fiat. Shards of glass collapse around you as he again meets your gaze.

this must be how the Virgin prayed her Magnificat, you think as his heart errantly beats against his throat. She must have been like he is now, brimming with humble righteousness and bound by understanding. Tenderness cords through you; it tempers your breathing, smoothes the bubbles of molasses. Reaching up to to cup his face, you let your fingers splay over his cheek, resting on stubble and skin. your pinky finger meets the angle of his cheekbone. the image falls into place and the symmetry causes you to smile.

“yes. etiam. ja. sí.” you are about to conclude in greek — ναί — but he halts your litany of assent by placing an offering on your lips. the greek is in the twists of his tongue in your mouth, and so is the hebrew, and the arabic, and all the languages yet to engrave themselves in your memory.

it is like the first time you experienced champagne at your father’s christmas party. one of his students had poured you, then sixteen, a glass and said with a wink, “the monks declared it was the taste of the stars.” you had raised the flute to your lips and drank as you were bid, and when you had swallowed, you knew the world was different now. or perhaps the old world had not changed, you had merely adapted to fickle ways.

your tongue did as it had then, skating across your front teeth onto your upper lips in quick, jabbing motions. unsatiated and incomplete.

he pulls away again and you frown. eyes closed, you tug at his shoulder in a nonverbal ask to come back.

silence meets your plea and you open your eyes. he is still above you, weight resting on his forearms, and he is smiling.  “you are so impatient.” the rebuke is fond and he soothes its burn with a kiss to your cheek. your eyes flutter closed, briefly.

“i am not impatient.” arms cross over your chest and eyes roll. “i am —“ the phrase is paused as he kisses your other cheek. you open your eyes. “i am.” he waits for you, as he always has, but after a few heartbeats he gleans the completeness of your meaning. existence is the watchword of this night, or this dawn: let sartre and his kind be put to rest.  

so the two of you kiss again, and when his arms get tired, you drape your legs over his lap and press yourself into his chest. the last vestiges of moonlight have settled upon you, but it is no thing, not when skin feels what eyes cannot. lips are languid and hands stroll up and down pathways and alleyways and sidewalks. brittle substances of impatience are burned away through the silk of his fingers. you are content to rest in chiaroscuro.

there is another breaking: transparent and fortified compound of ash and sand — let in by the moon and the rising venus — twinkles around your head, his spine. a whispered ask, a tender assent: shirts glide over shoulders and he guides in your descent.

breathing is knowing, feeling is seeing: for here essence and existence bleed into one consummate act of communion.

lips touch your collarbone, your breast. your hands plane over his chest in a crusade of knowledge. he does not begrudge your gasps, now, or the arches your back erects to his honor. ben’s lips, hands, the vehicles of his words to the world, at once analyze and soak in praise.

clothes fall away, skin uncovering skin, manifesting a reality that had resided in your souls far before today. before the bar, the hotel, the sweater, there was always the two of you, striving for eudaemonia.

“this is phenomena,” he whispers against the curve of your hip. ben presses a kiss to the bones that give form to your body politic (the totality of your shattered glass made whole).

fin.

Tags: @profkenobi @goldenkenobi @ohhellokenobi @obitwo @nobie @cherieboba @lazzwhile @rentskenobi @master-obi-wan-kenboneme @justrunamok @citadoll @obirain @catsnkooks @royalhandmaidens @kyjoraven @mcu-padawan @anakin-danvers @snips-n-skyguy0501 @saintlaurentkenobi @answer-the-sirens @videogamesandpoorlifechoices @likeshootingstarsinthenightsky @icedcoffeeandgays // please send an ask or fill out this form to get added to my taglist!

[shadow-assassin-blix]

Stitches

Benny Miller x reader/you

Continuing the Shawn Mendes Song Fic. Santiago is next and then I’ll be moving onto another band/theme. Uh. Some fights. Nothing really too extreme here. Enjoy. 

Everything Tag: @mikeisthricedeceased​

I thought that I've been hurt before

But no one's ever left me quite this sore

Benny was watching an MMA tournament, checking out his competition for his tournament next month. Will was there with him, watching the matches with his keen eyes. Benny was… easily distracted to say the least. He smiled flirtatiously at many women who passed by him. At one point he noticed a group of women, standing off to the side. Most of them had a guy with them, all except one.

As he looked at her, he could tell she looked extremely bored. She had her arms crossed; her foot was tapping. She kept checking her phone for either the time or something to give her an escape.

After a moment, a guy joined her, handing her a clear solo cup of beer. She smiled tensely at him and would duck under his arm anytime he tried to wrap it around her. She eventually, handed the drink to one of her girlfriends, and said something to excuse herself. He watched as she walked over to the concession stand. That was when he decided to make his move.

Your words cut deeper than a knife

Now I need someone to breathe me back to life

You were idly standing by the concession stand, pretending to look over the menu. You were not thrilled to be there, and just wanted to leave as soon as possible.

While you were standing there, a guy stood nearby you. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. You noticed he was pretty handsome. Brown hair, blue eyes, a light amount of scruff, and well built.

“Having a hard time deciding what to get?” You hear him ask, as he stepped a little closer, so you could hear him.

“Oh yeah. So hard to chose between popcorn, a corndog, or a hotdog. What would you recommend?” You asked, chuckling at the situation.

“Uhh. Nothing from here. I would recommend only eating this food, if you had a lot of liquor and no taste buds left,” He joked scratching the back of his head.

You crinkled your nose in slight disgust.

“I’m Benny. What’s your name?” He asked.

You tell him yours and he smiled brightly.

“So. Don’t take this the wrong way, but this doesn’t seem to be your scene? Or rather… you don’t look thrilled to be here,” He gently probed, wanting to know.

Just like a moth drawn to a flame

Oh, you lured me in I couldn't sense the pain

“Oh. Um. Blind date. I hate it. Him. He’s rather touchy, and he’s just boring. My friends thought this was a good idea. After my ex broke up with me because I “wasn’t there enough.” I’m a med student. Sorry my life doesn’t revolve around you,” She informed him with an eyeroll.

“Oh? Med student? Nice. Good to know,” He teased.

“How is that good to know?” She questioned, staring at him confused.

“I’m a fighter. Uh. I have a tournament next month. So, I’m here with my brother to check out my competition. It’s nice to know a pretty doctor is all,” Benny tells her, feeling slightly awkward, thinking he overstepped.

She shook her head with a small smile, thinking he was cute.

“A fighter eh? You any good?” She asked him, biting her lip.

“Come to my tournament next month. You’ll see. Maybe I can…take you to dinner after?” Benny asked charmingly.

She smiled, looking down. She looked over at her group of friends who were apparently waiting on her. She pulled out her phone, quickly unlocking it.

“Put your number in, and text me the details,” She requested.

Benny gave her a 1000-watt smile, as he input his number, sending a text to himself, and saving himself as a contact.

He felt his phone buzz as he received the messaged.

“I’ll see ya then,” Benny stated, pressing a kiss to her cheek quickly.

He ran back over to his brother and looked back to see her still standing where he left her. Her hand was gently touching where he kissed her, and he could see her smiling softly.

Will simply rolled his eyes and shook his head at him.

Your bitter heart cold to the touch

Now I'm gonna reap what I sow

It had been a week since that day, and you were nervous as you stared at your phone. You wanted to talk to Benny again. You didn’t want to wait a month. You opened up the chat he created, laughing at the name he gave himself.

“Hot Stuff”

You sent him a message simply saying ‘hi.’

Seconds later you got a response. ‘hey! How are you?’

‘I’m well. I... hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time? I just wanted to talk to you again’

‘Oh really? How did the rest of your date go with Mr. Boring?’

‘It didn’t. I ran when he went to the bathroom. He apparently thinks it was a magical date. I told him I wasn’t ready for anything more.’

‘lol. Poor guy. Shame he couldn’t see that you hated it. His loss is my gain tho’

‘Oh. Is that so? What did you gain, besides someone to tend to your wounds?’

‘A beautiful girlfriend? If you’re interested?’

She paused at that. She could feel her face warm up a bit. She bit her lip as she typed out her response.

‘Wouldn’t that imply you have to take me on a few dates before receiving that title?’

‘What are you doing for the next 3 weekends up till my fight?’

She laughed at that before typing out a response.

I'm left seeing red on my own

Got a feeling that I'm going under

The month passed by quickly. Benny had taken you out every weekend: movies, lunch/dinner, walks around the park. He made every date feel relaxed and easy. You didn’t feel like you had to be on guard or put on a façade. He made you forget about all about your dumb ex and was very supportive of your learning.

One date, he actually helped you create flashcards and study for an upcoming exam. Something Brian would never do. He always felt that the attention should be 100% on him, and to hell with your education.

Benny even made copies of your study notes, so he could quiz you randomly throughout the day.  Something you appreciated greatly, because it kept the info fresh in her mind. When the exam day came around, Benny sent you flowers and candy wishing you luck. About 2 hours later, you were turning the test in online, which automatically gave you a score. 100%.

You immediately called Benny, excited, “Benny! I aced it! Thank you so much for your help!”

“Congrats baby! I knew you would ace it! Shall we… celebrate? I’ll bring over food, and we can watch movies?” He offered somewhat shyly.

“Yes! I would love that! But wait… Weren’t you supposed to hang out with your brother and friends tonight?” You asked thinking back to a previous conversation.

“I could cancel with them, it’s not a big deal,” Benny said nonchalantly.

“No. Don’t do that. They are your family. How about we celebrate after your fight on Saturday?” You countered, not wanting him to change his plans just for you.

“Alright. If you’re sure?” He asked wanting to confirm.

“I’m sure. Bye babe,” You tell him as you hang up.

“Bye!” He chirped.

But I know that I'll make it out alive

If I quit calling you my lover

Saturday rolled around fast, and after a rush of getting your badge that gave you VIP access, you were searching for someone familiar. As you were searching, a blonde man appeared before you.

“Hey Doc. I’m Will. C’mon. Benny wants to see you, seems to think you’ll bring him good luck,” Will’s voice was slightly deeper and raspier than Benny’s.

As you looked at him, you could see the resemblance between the two of them. You followed him toward the back, where the locker rooms were located. He led you down a hallway and to a room about midway. Benny was in the middle of bandaging his hands, rather poorly.

“Stop. I have no idea what you’re doing but stop,” You command moving forward.

You grabbed the bandages, undoing his work.

“No wonder you keep busting your hands. Who taught you how to wrap?” You asked him as you wrapped them properly.

You heard several chuckles.

“We keep telling him, but he refuses to listen,” Came a deep voice to your right.

You glance at the man, one of two Latino men who stood nearby. The one who talked was the kind who looked painfully handsome and knew it. The other, who wore a cap, looked sweet and was shaking his head at the scene he was seeing.

“You’re legit the only person he’s ever let touch those wraps. Us? The men he spent years in the army with? Oh no. We know nothing,” He teased, lightly shoving Benny.

“You should listen to them more often. They were correct,” You lightly admonished as you finished wrapping both of his hands.

“Hey, you’re supposed to be on my side!” Benny exclaimed, as he tested his hands, making fists.

“Says who?” You asked him teasingly. “So, who is on the lineup?”

Will handed you the list of fighters that were supposed to be there. As you looked at the list, you noticed the first fight Benny had was against Brian Holden… Your ex.

You snorted. Loudly.

Move on

Needle and the thread

“What? What’s so funny?” Benny asked watching her reaction.

“Just... do me a favor. Your first fight? Make sure you not only win, but make sure it hurts,” She requested handing the list back to Will.

He glanced at the list and chuckled when he recognized the name. The match was in a few minutes and he had a feeling he was going to enjoy it.

Gotta get you outta my head

Gonna wind up dead

They walked out and as Benny was announced, you and the guys made your way to your seats upfront. Benny got in the cage with your ex and you were snickering.

Will leaned over as the fight began, and stated, “He really likes you, you know?”

You turned to face with a smile, “I like him a lot too. He makes me very happy.”

“He… he falls pretty hard, pretty fast. Do me a favor? Don’t break his heart, yeah?” Will requested.

“I don’t plan too,” You assured him, turning your attention back to the match, to cheer Benny on.

“WHOOOO! GO BENNY!” You cheered as Benny landed several hits onto Brian.

“They don’t allow chairs, or anything do they?” You asked all of three of them.

The three of them laughed, before Frankie, as you found out, “No. It’s not wrestling. It’s MMA, there is a bit more class here.”

“Damn. Oh well,” You said, in mock disappointment.

The fight took about 15 minutes and Benny came out on top. As Benny stepped out, he walked over to them and you hugged him in congrats.

“You did great!” You tell him.

You looked him over really quickly and noticed he had a busted lip.

“Ooh. Ouch. Does that hurt?” You ask him, digging into your bag.

He goes to answer but stopped when he watches you pull out a small med-bag.

“You.. came prepared I see?” Benny noted with a smile.

“Just… some small things. Is that weird?” You asked concerned.

“No. No it’s not weird. Let’s get to the locker room and you can tend to me,” Benny tells her appreciating the gesture.

You watch me bleed until I can't breathe

I'm shaking, falling onto my knees (falling on my knees)

A couple hours later, and few more scrapes, the tournament was over. Benny came in first and was super happy. The five of you made your way to a local bar, and order food and drinks.

“So. What do ya think of my fighting skills now?” Benny asked taking a drink of beer, basking in his win.

“Mh. You’re good. Could be better,” You teased, hiding your smile in your drink.

“OhHo! What?” Benny exclaimed pulling you to him, his hands running up your sides, tickling you.

You laughed loudly, as you squirmed away.

“Brian used to make me watch all sorts of MMA tournaments. Said it helped him get in the zone or something. I always thought it was kind of boring to be honest,” You admitted once he finally stopped.

“And now?” Benny prompted.

“I… could find a reason or two to find it enjoyable… So long as I’m not patching you up every time you forget to dodge or block a very obvious punch,” You stated with a raised eyebrow.

The guys laughed at that and as Benny dramatically clutched at his heart.

As they talked, someone strolled up next to you.

“Thought you hated fighting?” Came the somewhat nasally voice of your ex, Brian.

“No. I thought it was boring because you never bothered to explain anything. Plus. You always felt the need to interrupt my study time with a match that I just ‘had to watch.’ There’s a difference,” You replied annoyed, not even bothering to look at him.

“Don’t be a bitch. So, what you are with this asshole now?” Brian questioned, grabbing you and making you turn.

You moved to shove his hand off of you, but Will got in between you two, shoving him away. Benny also, moved to place you behind him.

“Get out. You put your hands on her again, and a busted nose will be the least of your concerns,” Will threatened.

Brian turned, acting like he was going to leave before, he swiftly turned back throwing a punch. Will dodged easily. All four of them were gearing up for a throw down but you were sick of it already.

You reached into your medical bag and pulled out your scalpel.

“BRIAN!” You shouted his name to get his attention.

He turned to you and paused when he saw the knife in your hand.

“As you very well know, I am very good with this small sharp object. Get away from me now. Stay away from me. Or I will CUT you,” You warned him brandishing it to him.

He stared at you for a moment before quickly moving away, tripping over a chair as he did so.

You put the knife back into your bag, and all four of the guys stared at you.

“What?” You asked innocently.

Benny reacted first, with loud laughter. “That… that was hot. Terrifying. But hot.”

The others shook their heads and retook their seats.

“Appears, your girl doesn’t need a knight Benny. She can handle herself quite well,” Santi remarked.

“Yeah. She’s more of a knight than you are,” Frankie teased.

“Oh yeah. What does that make me then?” Benny demanded as he pressed a kiss to your face, wrapping his arms around you.

You looked at the guys, and they you, all four of you stating at the same time, “Jester.”

You all laughed at Benny’s pout, and you pressed a kiss to his lips.

“But a very cute Jester,” You try to placate.

“That sounds too similar to “very cute moose,”” He said suspiciously.

“You… remember that line from Princess Diaries 2? Really?” You asked with a giggle.

“It was the funniest part of the movie,” He mumbled looking away.

“Wait… You got him to watch what now?” Santi asked.

The rest of the evening was spent talking about some of your previous dates, while the guys told you funny stories.

You enjoyed the evening and looked forward to more dates and nights out with all of them. Benny came into your life unexpectantly but you wouldn’t trade him for the world.

And now that I'm without your kisses (without you)

I'll be needing stitches (and I'll be needing stitches)

Tripping over myself

Aching, begging you to come help (begging baby please)

[horanghaes-gaze]

Requested by: @bluekidohoonikonsmutopera

Group/member: Vixx's Hyuk (Han Sanghyuk), Got7's Jackson

Genre: Smut; warnings: daddy kink, fingering, cheating, no condom, fingering, mentions of marking, oral

Title: Man of the Hour

Word count: 3.2 k

Notes: This was a whole mess, I typed it out and it didn't save so I had to retype it and it was all just a rollercoaster. But, I finally finished it, I hope you enjoy, and I'm sorry this took so long to write~~💕💕 Also, tell me if y'all want a part 2 because that ending got me feeling 🥵🥵

As the chandeliers lit up the dim and warm room, you put the champagne glass to your lips, taking a sip. The announcer still calling the last few names of the guests arriving, the last guest being the most important. This gala was the biggest one held every year, topping the rest and putting them to shame. It pulled off all the stops, fancy invitations, suits and tuxedos, long dresses and ball gowns, masquerade masks, the full 100. The venue resembled that of a royal ballroom. The dining table stretching to what seems like a mile long, the large, cushioned chairs and shiny fine china plates added as a perfect touch. The whole event was stunning and looked forward to every year, each time topping the last. Everyone's attention was at the entrance, awaiting for what name the announcer would say, this name being the last.

"And the last and most coveted guest of the night this year," his voice was loud and clear.

"The man of the hour, Hyuk, Han Sanghyuk"

You placed your glass of champagne down and clapped along with the crowd. You watched as the man walked through the doors, expecting another old man to walk down the stairs with his wife, sugar baby, and/or gold digger. But the man that did walk down the stairs was quite the opposite. He was clearly well built, tall, and despite the mask, anyone could tell that he was handsome. His sleek black hair parted and swept back with a jaw that could cut diamond, the suit he wore only accentuating his broad shoulders, small waist, and long legs. You swore that God carved this man himself as his looks rivaled perfection. He smiled and waved towards the crowd, a group of women fighting over who caught his attention. You continued to watch as he walked, surprised when he waved and smiled one last time. Looking right at you. In your eyes. It didn't last long however, as your husband wrapped his arm around your waist.

The night started off with dancing, the orchestra setting the mood for every song. You and Jackson, your aforementioned husband, were dancing the second to last dance, both swaying in each other's arms. You were content in his hold, calm, until your husband suddenly stopped. You looked up to see why and saw where he was looking.

"Excuse me," the man standing in front of you spoke.

"I'm sorry" was all he said towards your husband before leaving. You looked up to face Jackson, who gave you a confused look back, he shrugged, leading you to your table as the song ended.

"Hm, wonder what that was about" you said.

"Maybe he thought I was someone else, we are wearing masks, and this is masquerade gala." Jackson replied. The last song started to play, Jackson leaving to talk to some associates and business partners. You sat there, looking around until you locked eyes with the man who interrupted your dance, the same eyes that had caught you by surprise earlier, at the staircase. You had to think for a second, Hyuk, that was his name. You got up, your legs bringing you to him before you even realized where you were heading. And right now, not knowing what you were going to say or do, you're standing right in front of him. He gave you a smile and took your hand, leading you to the dance floor. You followed him, it was like he cast a spell on you, you were completely mesmerized. He took you in his arms, leading the dance.

"Why'd you tell my husband that you were sorry?" you asked.

"Because I am sorry, for what I'm going to do to his wife tonight"

The last song ended, and he lead you back to the table. He sat himself down right next to you and Jackson. Jackson took your hand, smiling at you, looking into your eyes with nothing but love and adoration for you. Hyuk saw this and a small part of him almost felt bad... almost. The servers soon filled the room, pushing in carts with food that enveloped the air with the most delicious of aromas. Food was being served on the fine china plates and all the guests were now preoccupied, including Jackson. This gave Hyuk a chance to start his night with you. His hand slowly went towards your thigh, his thumb stroking over it back and forth. You let out a small gasp, only Hyuk noticing as he continued to tease you. Throughout dinner you were trying your best to seem as calm as possible, keeping your attention mostly on the food. And also throughout dinner, Hyuk's hand only kept going further up your thigh, towards the inner direction. Hyuk only got more cocky as this went on, even having the audacity to strike a conversation with your husband, knowing fully well what he was doing to you. Once dinner ended, guests continued to socialize and chatter about. The men talking business, and the women complaining about their husbands and eyeing the young and attractive men in the room. You were now sipping on a glass of red wine, making your way to the balcony. You leaned on the thick cement rail, setting down the wine glass. Taking a breath in, you let the cool night air fan over your skin, gazing up at the midnight sky.

"It's a beautiful night isn't it? Romantic, even." you heard from behind you. Turning around, there Hyuk was, looking at you with that smile again. He walked to stand next to you, holding a wine glass of his own.

"It really is." you answered him.

"If you don't want this, tell me now. Because if so, I'll leave you be and we never have to meet again." he said with utmost seriousness. You shook your head.

"No, I want this. And I know it'll ruin what I have with Jackson but, I want it. I want it so bad."

"Here's the key to my hotel room, my driver will take you. I'll tell your husband that you got sick and called a cab home." He handed you the room key. Room 339. You left the venue and got in the car, the smell of roses filling your senses as you stepped in. You soon arrived at the hotel, thanking the driver as you got out of the car. Making your way inside the building, you looked around, the hotel's luxurious interior making you feel out of place. You went up to the receptionist and asked which floor room 339 was on.

"Room 339, let's see... It's on the very top floor, ma'am." she replied. Nodding, you bid her thank you, walking to the elevator. Pressing the button, you waited as the elevator made its way up, dinging when it arrived on the top floor. Taking out the key, you unlock the door and enter the dark room. Walking further in, you went to stand in front of the window, looking at the midnight sky once again.

"It's a beautiful night isn't it?" you knew it was him.

"Romantic, even." you answer back.

He smirked and took your hand, leading you to what seemed like the bedroom. You both stood at the foot of the king sized bed. He took off your mask, then his. You finally got to see his full face and there was only one way to describe him: breathtaking.

"Not to be basic or anything but, like what you see?" he teased.

You look away, flustered and a little embarrassed for staring. He took your face in his hands and kissed you. Kissing him back, you couldn't resist giving into the temptation. Both of you fought for dominance, Hyuk eventually winning. Finally letting go for air, you both looked into each other's eyes. You leaned up and kissed him again, you arms wrapping behind his neck. As your lips crashed together, he laid you down on the bed. His lips left yours, moving down to your neck and collarbones, leaving a few marks. He looked up at you, sincerity filling his eyes.

"I'll ask you one last time, do you truly want this?" he asked. You nodded and kissed him again, urging him to continue. He sat up, taking off his jacket. He helped unzip your dress as your fingers worked on the buttons of his dress shirt. Once you both were discarded of all of your clothing, you couldn't help but admire him. Your hands hovered over his abdomen, not knowing if it was okay to touch or not. He noticed this and placed your hand on his body, silently telling you that he wanted you to touch him. Then, he finally took a moment to fully look at you, taking in your naked form.

"You look even more beautiful than I imagined"

"Imagined? But you don't even know my na-"

"Y/n. Your name is y/n, and mine is daddy for you tonight." he cut you off.

"Then please show me what you imagined, daddy" you said as your fingers traced his chest up to his shoulders. He kissed down your body from your chest to in between your legs. Spreading your thighs, pecking them and leaving a hickey or two, he slid two fingers between your folds. He then brought them up to you, showing how your arousal was practically dripping down his fingers.

"Suck" he commanded, placing his coated fingers on your bottom lip. You opened your mouth, letting his fingers enter and harshly sucking on them. He took them out, making a pop sound from how hard you sucked.

"Good girl" was the compliment you got before Hyuk made his way to in between your legs again. Starting with the two fingers you were previously sucking on, he started to slowly push them in.

Gasping as his fingers went deeper, your hands slowly bunch up the sheets under you in tight fists, the pleasure coursing through your body from head to toe. You then felt his lips wrap around your clit, harshly sucking, making your back arch off the bed. He added a third finger, going a little faster each time a moan left your lips. Your hands then went from gripping the sheets to lightly tugging his hair, legs keeping him in his position. Feeling the knot in your stomach tighten, your moans get louder, body getting more reckless.

"D-daddy, 'm gonna c-cum" you managed to get out between your moans. This urged him to go even harder on you, dead set on making you cum. He felt you clench tighter and tighter, adding a fourth finger, his tongue making obscene sounds against your wet core. He let out a small chuckle, sending vibrations through your pussy to the rest of you. With a few more pumps of his fingers and flicks of his tongue against your clit, you let go, your orgasm hitting so hard that your vision went blank for a few seconds. Hyuk licked up every single drop, absolutely basking in your taste and the way you clenched around his fingers even tighter than you already were when you cummed. Your chest was still heaving up and down when he took his fingers from your wet and sensitive pussy to his lips. He sucked his fingers off, lacing it with the same pop sound you had made earlier at the end.

"You taste so sweet, just like candy" he told you.

Giving him a small smile, you got up and took his hand, leading him to sit at the edge of the bed.

"I wanna taste you too. Can I daddy, please?" you asked, kneeling down between his legs. Taking a look at his length, you swore that it was the most beautiful cock you had ever seen. It was thick, long, and had just the right amount of veins. He lifted your chin to meet his eyes, nodding. Keeping eye contact, you start kitten licking his tip and watched as he let out a sigh of relief, head rocking back slightly as he bit his bottom lip. You then licked down the side, your tongue gliding over a vein, reaching the base and coming back up to the tip. Finally taking him in your mouth, he started to weave his fingers into your hair, holding your head down.

Going lower and taking him deeper, you started to lightly suck, keeping eye contact with him the whole time. You were now bobbing your head up and down on his cock, the tip hitting the back of your throat everytime you came down. His grip on your hair tightened, small grunts and moans leaving his lips as you kept going. Getting caught up in how good he felt, his hand kept your head still, hips starting to buck up and slowly thrust.

Now, his thrusts were harder, his cock hitting the back of your throat even deeper, making you gag slightly. Despite that, you let him thrust more, tears pricking at your eyes and threatening to spill, but you couldn't deny how much you enjoyed it all, enjoyed pleasing him. Feeling how his cock twitched when he thrust in, you knew he was close. He looked down at you, seeing how eager you are to make him feel good, your glossed over eyes, your lips wrapped around his length, how you were on your knees for him, hands on his thighs as your nails dug into them. Seeing you like this gave him the final push to climax, cumming with one last buck of his hips, grip on your hair tightening, and his quiet moans growing in volume, voice breaking towards the end. You got up, reaching eye level with him, letting him watch as you swallowed his cum, sticking your tongue out to prove that you consumed every last drop. He smirked and pulled your chin closer to catch your lips in a kiss, lips dancing with yours in a perfect harmony.

"Hands and knees on the bed, babygirl" he told you with a smirk.

You obeyed, scrambling as quick as you could to get on the bed in the position he had asked for. You heard shuffles as Hyuk made his way onto the bed, kneeling behind you, hands going to hold your hips. Leaning down, he spoke softly into your ear,

"Bad timing, but you're on the pill right?"

You nodded your head immediately, desperate for him to continue. He returned to his previous posture, now aligning his length to your entrance. He pushed in slowly, stopping when he bottomed out, giving you time to adjust. After giving him the okay, he started to thrust at a steady pace, rocking your hips along his cock while doing so. His movements made him hit deep and hard within you, making you feel fuller than you've ever been before.

Your body moved back and forth as he rammed into you, the sound of skin hitting skin echoing throughout the room. Moans were leaving your mouth like a mantra, sounding even louder than before. Arms giving out, you let your face meet the sheets, hands gripping at the pillows. His hips continued to harshly meet yours as he continued to push his length in and out of your now quivering pussy. Grabbing your wrists with one arm, he held them behind you as he continued to abuse your sensitive hole, going even faster and harder than before, eliciting even louder and more broken moans from you. His other arm reaching around to find your clit, rubbing it fast and harsh, making your body stutter along his thrusts.

"Tell me who's making you feel good" he grunted between thrusts.

"Y-you, mmf, you daddy, you're m-making me f-feel good"

"Yeah? How good?" he said, hand moving from your wrists to hold you hair, pulling you up so that your back met his chest.

"So, so, good-ah" you replied, moaning at how this new angle allowed his cock to hit a different part within you.

He continued to slam his hips into yours, soon switching your position so that you were now straddling him. Your arms held his shoulders, nails digging into them as he went harder with each thrust. Not long after, your nails raked down his shoulders to his back when he hit a specific spot that had you seeing stars. Incoherent curses were whispered in between your moans as he kept hitting that same spot, knowing fully well that he was ramming into your g-spot.

"R-right there, daddy, right t-there. Just l-like that please-" you were cut off by an especially hard thrust that sent you over the edge.

Your walls tightened around his length, your second orgasm hitting you even harder than the first. Your pussy was dripping, quivering, and convulsing as he kept going, riding out your climax. He loved seeing you like this, all fucked out because of him, from his cock, his doing, makeup smudged, saliva down your chin and even a few tears streaming down your cheeks. It all gave him a push to continue pushing into you, working up to his own climax. As he let his length slide in and out of your abused core, he ravished in the way you were still so tight, like velvet around his cock.

"Just a bit more babygirl, help daddy cum, can you do that?" he asked, seeing your worn out form.

Nodding your head you let out "yes, use me, use me to feel good daddy, use me to cum"

Hearing those words leave your mouth had his head become empty of all other thoughts, the only one staying being the thought of filling you up with his cum. Pushing into you even harder, and deeper if possible, he did as you had said and used you to reach his high. With a few last sloppy thrusts, he let go, cumming into you and filling you up as he intended to, staying still in you when he did. You let out an especially long moan when you felt his warm seed spill into you, happy and satisfied that you had made him feel good.

Pulling out, he watched as the thick, white liquid dripped out of you, mixing with your own arousal. Hyuk then got up, going into the connected bathroom, disappearing past the doorway. You closed your eyes, trying to calm down your breathing as you slowly came down from your high. You heard the water running from the faucet and how it splashed, then hearing a second faucet and water fill what you assumed was the tub. Then footsteps came from the bathroom, stopping near you. Feeling the bed dip, you kept your eyes closed as strong arms carried and placed you into the tub. The warm water immediately relaxing your muscles as you leaned back on the smooth surface of the tub. You were about to fall asleep, but before you did, you felt a kiss press against your temple.

"Don't worry, I'll get you cleaned up honey, just relax, you've had a long night"

Your eyes shot open as this wasn't the same voice you'd heard earlier.

It was Jackson's.

[lachryphage]

I collect National Geographics and one of my oldest ones -- from April 1964 -- has a delightful article on cats: “The Cats in Our Lives” by Adolph Suehsdorf, photographs by Walter Chandoha

the entire article is a gem, but I thought the section on breeds would be especially interesting to @pangur-and-grim​ or really anyone that wants to see how cat breeds have changed over the past 57 years.

below are the photos of the breeds and their variants, and the accompanying descriptions. this is very long but I’m not putting it under a cut because I am malicious lol

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

Domestic Shorthair

interestingly, the author says that nearly all cats are this specific breed.

A free roamer and free breeder, it developed coats of many colors and patterns, such as the calico... Show standards of the Cat Fanciers’ Association recognize 20.

here are a couple examples of those variants, although they don’t appear to meet the standards listed with them:

Odd-eyed White must have one blue eye and one copper or deep orange eye. Her coat should be short, thick, even in texture, and pure white.

Tortoiseshell standard calls for a coat of black, orange, and cream. Nose should be half black, half orange; the eyes, copper. Males are extremely rare and usually sterile. 

maine coons are included in this section -- despite the acknowledgement that they don’t have short hair.

Maine coon cat -- a variant Domestic and not a recognized breed -- exhibits long hair and long neck. Early (colonialist) Americans erroneously considered her a cross between cat and raccoon; experts now believe that she descended from wild tabbies with long-hair genes. 

Persian

Pedigreed, pure-blooded, exotic breeds are catdom’s elite. Valued by exhibitors, or “the fancy,” no cat looks fancier than the Persian. Long glossy hair in 20 recognized colors, each color with a specific eye hue, gives the Persian a look of haughty languor. The standard for Persians calls for a chunky build, low on legs, deep in chest, massive across shoulders and rump.

unfortunately, between the crease and the glare, it was really hard to get a good photo of this striking image:

Here Voo Doo, the Black Persian grand champion owned by cat judge Richard Gebhardt exhibits the qualities demanded for the head... Voo Doo’s expression here belies his gentle disposition. Unlike most males, the seven-year-old cat is devoted to his kittens and takes an active hand in helping their mothers raise them.

Chinchilla Persians achieve an aristocratic look with pure-white coats so subtly tipped in black as to seem silver. Black rims accent blue-green eyes, lips, and nose, whose center is brick red. Tail should be “carried without a curve,” says the standard. “But,” counters the author, “the man doesn’t live who can tell a cat how her tail should behave.”

Blue Cream Persian and her Cream kit arrive for a show in a carrying case.

Siamese

Lithe and sinuous body in two-tone color, wedge-shaped head, and bright blue eyes distinguish the Siamese. The C.F.A. standard recognizes four colors -- Seal (black-brown), Blue, Chocolate, and Lilac -- for the points... Red points are also recognized by other associations.

These Seal Points, exhibiting the most popular color, show eyes conforming to the standard: “Almond shaped and slanting... in true Oriental fashion.”

Blue Point Siamese, grand champion Jezebelle, wears a  coat of bluish white with points of the same shade of “definite blue, giving strong contrast of divided color.”

Lilac Point Siamese, champion Tai Shan, requires, for perfection, a body color of “glacial white.” Points, says the standard, should be “frosty gray with pinkish tone. Foot pads... mauve.”

Himalayan

Champion Goforth Tiara (right) and Blue Point Siamese differ in length of hair and color of masks. Seal Point Himalayan, a cross between Persian and Siamese, must show “conformation the same as for Longhairs,” says the standard. But it must also reveal “color and points the same as for Siamese, with the same color classes.”

Burmese

Mother and kittens reveal the Burmese to be compact and muscular... Their eyes glow a deep gold. Green eyes are a fault and blue eyes “outrageous enough to disqualify the cat”... The unique and wonderful color of the Burmese is a “rich, warm sable brown.” Coat is short, lies close, has a glossy sheen and satiny texture, Fastest growing in popularity among the Shorthairs, the Burm commands a handsome price.

Russian Blue

“Texture and appearance of the coat are the truest criteria of the Russian Blue,” says the standard in consideration of the fact that this cat’s fur is unlike that of any other breed and, in fact, closely resemble sealskin. Like seal, the Blue’s coat is short, thick, and very fine. It feels silky and has a distinct sheen.

Here Grigio, a Blue once owned by the photographer, exhibits the required broad face with nose longer than the Persian but shorter than the Siamese. Vivid green eyes are set wide apart and appear round, rather than almond shaped. Young cats have yellow eyes, which change with time... A highly intelligent cat, Grigio enjoyed jumping from one high stool to another in a graceful, arcing leap. Sometimes Mr. Chandoha held a hoop between the two stools, and the cat sailed through it. The performance made it appear that the owner had trained his Blue. “But that wasn’t true,” says Mr. Chandoha. “I just added the props for Grigio’s own act.” One day Grigio walked off the farm and disappeared from Chandoha’s life.

Abyssinian

A breed fast growing in popularity, the Abyssinian has been known for less than a century; England saw its first pair following a British campaign in Ethiopia in 1868.

These kitten exhibit coats that resemble those of wild rabbits. From a distance, the fur looks brown but actually is ticked... Kittens’ small neat feet make them appear to be standing on tiptoe, as the standard demands. Both wear a necklace of color high on the chest, a marking that is now being bred out of the blood line. If a necklace exists, it must show a break at the throat. Some ambitious exhibitors... “have been known to pluck hairs, to powder, dye, stain, or bleach out a necklace to meet standard.” Bars on the legs of these cats would also be considered a fault.

Manx

Lack of tail distinguishes the Manx. As the standard makes clear, “Tail-lessness must be absolute... There should be a decided hollow at the end of the backbone where, in the ordinary cat, a tail would begin.” The rump should be as round as a ball and supported by hind legs that are longer than the front one.

Grand champion Pola was the first White Manx to win that title. All colors are recognized for the breed, but they must be worn in a double coat.

Rex

Marcel waves rippling across the body and tail give this cat its unusual appearance. Although the Cat Fanciers’ Association has yet to recognize Rex, other groups have proclaimed it a breed and set up standards. The wavy coat should be the “texture of velvet pile,” and the head should exhibit a “Roman profile.” Ears should be “large and naked, set high on the head.”

A spontaneous mutation, the Rex is a one-in-a-million oddity found among Domestic Shorthair kittens. One was discovered in England, another in East Berlin. Both strains now are being bred in the United States. There are very few of them so far, however, and experts feel it will be years before they are well established.

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

those are the breeds! there’s a ton more info in the article, including more details of each breed but those are the basics.

and now, because this post is already long enough, I will add a little more including,

a meme cat:

and a cat that reminds me of the infamous Pangur:

[ssa25]

Ruins Left Behind - Sasuhina Month 2020 - Day 7

Rating: Mature (implicit details)

Hinata paced about anxiously. Her feet were tired but she could not sit still. She had no clue about what was happening outside. All the windows had been barricaded by thick wooden planks.The guard stationed outside her chamber was on high alert and had been left with strict instructions to not let her out of her room. Her pretty metaphorical cage.

The gong rang three times. Her heart lurched, as hope renewed within her. The murmurs she had overheard between her unreserved handmaidens had been true. The Uchihas had rejected the alliance, in the end. Which could mean only one thing.

He had come, after all. He had come for her.

-

Her mother had cautioned her. That her beauty, while considered by many as a boon, could in fact become her undoing. But if she wielded it with reasonable wit, it would become her weapon.

But when tragedy befell her, she had been too naive to act on her mother’s words. There had been no warning. No signs. She had been safe and loved under her parents’ care. Then one cursed day, she was dragged out of her home and into this huge castle.

Prince Ootsutsuki had chosen her to be his bride, after noticing her on his way back from a hunting expedition with his friends. She had been forced to marry him, following which he was coronated as the King. Her parents had been angered and protested against the monarch. But they were brutally killed, along with the few good men who had supported their cause. 

If Hinata was scared and furious before, she became shocked and broken after she had been informed about it by her merciless husband. For a long time, her tears did not cease, while she fervently hoped so for her heart.

When every attempt to flee or end her life was thwarted by her ruthless and vile husband, she became a shadow of her former self. She abhorred the idea of birthing the future heir to the despicable king, and surreptitiously used herbs to keep herself bare.

And, in turn, he kept her closed and guarded in her chambers, limiting her movements, curbing her freedom until she relented to his whims.

-

Months later, Hinata overheard her handmaidens talking excitedly about the impending visit of the Uchihas. She had a vague idea about the savage and power hungry clan from local gossip. From what she could gather from the two young girls, the two Uchiha brothers and their sizeable troops were supposed to be visiting to discuss the possibility of an alliance. The King was planning on elaborate festivities to honour and win favour of the fierce clan with abundant food, flowing wine and beautiful women every night.

She was ordered to be confined to her room by the King, the night before the guests were expected to arrive. She was unperturbed to be left out. Inconsequential rumours did not bother her, nor did the excuses that Toneri must have made on her behalf. The only thing she missed were her afternoon walks around the castle grounds.

Just after midnight, on the second night of her total confinement, she slipped out of her chambers. The guard outside her door was slumped over in deep sleep. She went to the small lotus pond overlooking the plum blossom tree and sat on the wooden bench. The cool night time breeze momentarily soothes the resentment that seemed to have become a permanent part of her.

“Isn’t it unwise for a lady to be out this late?”

Hinata was startled at the deep voice that broke the calm of the night. She stood up and swung around with wide hesitant eyes.

“I… I was hoping for some fresh air and alone time.”, she whispered apprehensively, as her eyes took in the form of the stranger. She had never seen anyone like him. Tall with wide shoulders, and shoulder length dark hair that matched his irises. Under the pale moonlight, the young man seemed to be carved from marble. Perhaps he was one of the Uchiha clansmen.

“So was I…. Pardon my ignorance, my lady, but I do not seem to have made your acquaintance in the last two days here.”, he said curiously. Hinata found his eyes assessing her in the same way as hers did. She should be blushing and fleeing away, but she had become numb to those emotions. She could only feel wariness. What if this stranger revealed her midnight escapade to Toneri?

“How can you be sure, Sir?”

“Because I’m fairly certain I would have remembered meeting you.”, his tone had no traces of mockery. But his eyes were filled with an emotion akin to desire.

Hinata looked away from his inquisitive gaze and moved to the path back to the castle.

“Will you not allow me to introduce myself?”, he asked her before she got out of earshot.

She had to stop and turn. Etiquette dictated that she did.

“I am Uchiha Sasuke, the Commander General of the Uchiha Army.”

Hinata realised that this man was no mere Uchiha. He was the younger brother to the ruler of their kingdom. 

“My name is Hinata.”, she replied . That was her only identity. She refused to accept the title of Queen or the name of Ootsutsuki.

The sudden frown on his face could only mean that revealing her name had given away her identity too. Without waiting for him to say anything more, Hinata turned around to go back to her room.

-

It was curious. Very much so.

To have made the Uchiha Commander take an interest in her. Was this what her mother meant? It was an innocent thought, but she felt the bitter and enraged part of her, incite her to test the limits of her allure. Up until then she had been a slave to it, how could she use it to her advantage?

The following night she made the same excursion, and to her twisted pleasure, she found him already there.

Almost as if he was waiting for her.

-

Her days were filled with nerves and some excitement. She half dreaded and half hoped that Toneri would find out about her midnight dalliance. Maybe then he would execute her for such an illicit act.

Oddly, she found herself reveling in the inappropriate attention from Uchiha Sasuke. Nothing could stop her from meeting the handsome and formidable man that gave her a sense of protection for what little time they spent together. The warrior clearly knew he was going against normal honourable convention, but it was quite evident that he was enamoured by her.

It was a sadistic feeling, but Hinata enjoyed the hold she had over him. They had only few more nights together.

An idea started taking form in her mind. It was unlike anything her old self could have ever fathomed. But would carrying out such a plan not make her selfish? And manipulative?

It was a war between her conscience and her blackened heart. And in the end, only one sentiment ruled her. If this was the only way to avenge her parents’ death, she would commit herself to it. 

-

He stood very little chance against her feminine wiles. She had shared her deepest secrets, her soft smiles and shy gazes. She had even let him surreptitiously hold her hand.

She grew daring and hoped to give Sasuke the last push that might tip his desperation for her. After all, she had heard from her handmaidens about how the younger unwed Uchiha had rejected taking any woman to bed from the countless that were offered to him by Toneri.

-

“It might be severely improper to say this my lord, but I find myself missing your presence during the day.”, she said on the eighth night, as they sat on the grassy patch under the plum blossom tree, hidden under the dark shadow of the moonless night.

“There is nothing improper about it, for I feel the same way. My lady, I curse my destiny for not having met you before. I would do everything to save you from the horrors you have been subjected to.”

Tears lined her eyes and as she lamented, “Oh… My Lord, please do not tempt me with such hope. For nothing could be more cruel than desiring someone you can never have.”

Sasuke frowned with a pained expression. “You desire me too?”

Hinata looked up to meet his eyes and said laughed mirthlessly. “It’s pitiable, isn’t it? I have never desired anyone as much as I have you… But, it must be my cursed fate to meet you under such circumstances for such a despairingly short time. I feel it would be appropriate for us to end our meets on this very night, before it causes us more grief.”

Sasuke grasped her hands tightly and brought it to his chest. “Do not suggest that, for it would be cruel to both of us my lady.”

Her cheeks were wet with tears of desperation, but she nodded.

-

The next night when Toneri visited her bedchamber after the nightly festivities, she lost all hope of seeing Sasuke for the last time. Her heart mourned that her plans were foiled prematurely.

She lay awake as an inebriated and spent Toneri drifted off to sleep. She knew it was a tremendous risk, but she quickly cleaned herself and put on some clothes to rush to the pond. It was already way past their rendezvous time, but she had to look for herself.

When she saw Sasuke pacing over the sparse grass worriedly, she felt the beginnings of genuine affection arise in her heart for this man. He had waited for her. He was worried for her.

His steps halted when he saw her figure standing in front of him. Hinata ran up to his open arms and sobbed into his chest.

“I was worried that you were caught…”, Sasuke said hoarsely as his arms tightened around her.

She shook her head and shuddered at what had delayed her. “Toneri… expected me to... carry out marital… duties… It was sickening…”, she gasped and let her tears wet the front of his silk robe.

His fists were clenched tight and his body grew stiff in anger. He held her at arms length and asked her, “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head to relieve his worries.

He sighed helplessly and cradled her face in his hands, “I wish I could whisk you away from here, but I’m afraid it will be catastrophic for us with so many guards and soldiers around… The only way for me to take you away would be to launch a stealth attack… I’m afraid it might take some more patience on both our parts.”

“Will you really face such a peril for me?”, she asked with awe and admiration.

“I will, my lady. I most certainly will.”

“Say my name? I want to hear you say it… before you leave.”, she pleaded.

“Hinata…”, he bent down to touch their foreheads. “Bestow the same pleasure on me… Call me Sasuke.”

“Sasuke… Sasuke…”, she grabbed the lapels of his robe and pulled herself to her toes to lay her lips on his. He responded with eagerness and kissed her back.

Hinata moaned under his ministrations. She knew she was using him to get to her goal, but she found herself more and more attracted to him too. Kissing him did not feel like an ordeal, in fact it was very pleasurable. She discerned that this was how a lover’s touch felt. His caresses over her body and his lips against the throat made her respond with an audible moan. It was an absolutely sinful feeling.

And she wanted to feel more of it. She wanted to know, atleast for once in her life, what it was to make love with someone you longed for. It was a wicked feeling.

“I am scared… What if this is the only night I get to see you? I cannot bear, not knowing how we would be together. I wish to stay with you tonight...Erase the vile traces of Toneri with your loving ones… Please!!”, she sounded positively wanton. So much so that she surprised herself too.

Sasuke cursed under his breath and lifted her up in his arms to take her to a secluded grassy spot. The cool spring breeze was pleasantly cool over the searing heat between their bodies. Their coupling was intense and ravenous, and it took Hinata all her willpower to not scream out his name.

-

When Hinata thrust open the door, she found his guard missing. She gathered courage and ventured into the halls. There were loud voices, screams and the clanging of swords. Maids and soldiers were scurrying past her. 

She had nothing to defend with, but she had to see for herself. When she came upon a bloodied lifeless body, she covered her mouth to stop herself from retching. But bending down, she picked up the sword that lay a few feet away.

Suddenly, an armoured figure bearing the seal of the Uchiha clan came in sight. She had expected the soldier to attack, but he simply moved past her.

She swallowed her fear and rushed to the Royal court. She found three Uchiha armoured men fending off Ootsutsuki soldiers easily, but right there behind the royal throne, two tall figures were busy duelling with each other. It was Sasuke expertly clashing his sword against Toneri. She stared at the duo, the commotion behind her was ignored. 

Right there in front of her was the culmination of her deepest darkest wish. Her elaborate plan was on the cusp of fruition. She wanted to deliver the final blow, but before she could act on that thought, she saw Sasuke’s sword cut slice through her husband’s abdomen.

Her body could not handle the rush of emotions at witnessing the end of her tyrant, so she fell down to her knees in pure shock and adrenaline. Sasuke finally noticed her presence and rushed to her.

When his face came into her dazed view, Hinata flung her arms around him and hungrily kissed him, as a singular thought persisted in her head. 

He had come for her. For her. He had avenged for her. And she would devote the rest of her life to him. The two lovers were lost in each other amidst the total carnage and ruins they had left behind.

x

A/n: Sorry for the one day delay. I wanted to keep this short. Clearly, I failed.

[jessiebanethedragon]

Cracked Kyber, Empty Coffins (6/?)

Approximately two years earlier: 

You avoided Colt after your sparring match, even though it didn't mean anything, you couldn't even call the two of you friends. So why couldn't you stop thinking about his smile when he finally had bested you? The issue, and your curiosity, needed to be put to rest. And so you seek him out, as he prepares to depart from Kamino.

“Commander.” You greet him as he makes the final  checks to his ship.

 “Jetii.” He nods to you, his old habit of mando’a slipping out. Taking his helmet off as you approach. There’s a shadow of stubble on his jaw. And it’s nice, too nice. 

“That’s mando’a right?” you say, trying to shake the thought of Colts handsome face. 

“It is. You speak it?” His head tilts with interest. You laugh and shake yue head no. 

“Unless this counts: Copaani mirshmure'cye, vod?” You struggle with the pronunciation a little but when Colts eyebrows crinkle and he looks shocked before smiling a little, the closest you’ve ever seen him to laughing. 

“You know what that means right?” he asks, it comes out breathy like there's an echo of a giggle in it. 

“I was asking if you wanted to fight, right?” you’re suddenly worried about what it could actually mean. 

“You specifically asked if I wanted a smack in the face.” He corrects, “which, for reference, i do not.” Colt adds looking at you once more before going back to fiddling with his ship. You nod thoughtfully. Trying to figure out why exactly you’re here and how to bring it up. 

“When will you be back?” Is what you ask instead, fingertips tapping against your leg, and in a haste for a distraction you miss that you’re making Colt’s helmet float towards you, until you’re holding it. 

“I guess when the next batch is ready for testing.” He grumbles, stoic face returning. “Can i have that back?” he gestures to the helmet, you hand it over quickly. 

“So i guess i need a new sparring partner then.” You joke to hide your disappointment. 

“Or just train the cadets faster and i’ll be back sooner.” Colt retorts, looking around as some of said cadets jog by, why is it whenever he’s around you he feels like he breaks regulation by talking to you? 

“How about you stay and help?” You fire back, not totally joking, you want him to stay, even if it’s completely selfish. 

“There’s a war that needs winning, remember?” Colt says, reminding himself that he needs to go, if he continues talking much longer he will be off schedule, and yet, he doesn’t move to put his helmet on. 

“And the entire republic would fall without you.” You make the dramatic exclamation with a small smile. 

“That’s right.” He says and you see the corners of his mouth turn up, before he covers it with a cough.  “Best be going then, got a war to win.” 

“Single handedly.” you remind him as Colt climbs the ladder into the one-person ship. 

“Considering all the Jetti are playing with the babies on kamino.” He calls down to you, he still hasn’t put the stupid helmet on. 

“I don’t see you volunteering!” You shout back, trying to think of ways to get him to stay. Colt smiles and shakes his head, you really were impossible. And at last, he puts the helmet  over his head, letting it hide his face from you. He doesn’t answer as the ship's engines start. The last you see before he takes off is the smallest wave from inside the cockpit. 

Commander Colt returns with his full battalion in tow. The whispers of an attack on Kamino has the entire GAR on edge. So you’re not surprised that the second you are informed of the risk, the Rancor battalion is offloading materials onto the base. As you walk through the hanger, your eyes search for the familiar armor, he has his back to you, eyes on a holopad and his men who are carrying crates of supplies. His posture is tense, and for a second you don’t think you would have recognized him. You know it would be foolish to interrupt him, and yet you find yourself making your way over to where Colt stands. Squeezing yourself in between the mass of people rushing about. 

“Jedi on deck!” A trooper shluts when they see you approach, everyone dropping their things to salute as you reach the bridge of their space in the hanger. Colt turns around slowly, coming to attention when he finally makes eye contact. 

“... at ease.”  you say unsure of yourself, not used to being saluted. And just like that everyone goes back to what they were doing. 

“How can I be of service?” The modulated voice asks, and you’re beginning to think this was a very bad idea. 

“Just checking in.” you lie, “making sure everything is in shape.” Colt visibly stiffens. 

“So you think my men aren't up to par?” Colt hisses at you, your mind is racing, trying to draw connections between the man you knew before and the one in front of you now. 

“That's not what i meant,” you rush out, “i just came by to check in.” you repeat yourself, you see the helmet glare at you, unmoving for a moment before it goes back to staring at the holopad. 

“Alright, you’ve checked in, and i’m sure there’s more important places for you to be.” He dismisses you, but you feel him hurting through the force, and stubbornness begins to show as you stand your ground. 

“I don’t take orders from you.”  It’s  said without thinking, and somewhere  in the background his men stop working again, watching whatever is going on between the jedi and the commander. 

“Is there a problem?” He asks, purposefully leaving out any kind of title. 

“You tell me, soldier.” You fling back at him, under-ranking him with the use of soldier instead of commander. It works. The helmet comes off in a flash and hits the metal floor with a thunk followed by the Holopad. 

“If you wanted a childish spat. Go find a cadet.” he's standing dangerous close to you now, forcing you to take steps back. His troopers can't believe this is happening. Colt openly challenging authority is unheard of.  

“Seems to me I’m looking at one.” You retort. And you swear you see red flash across his eyes. 

“Commander!” One of his men shouts running off the ship. “Incoming attack!” your eyes meet his, which have softened considerably at the news. He turns back to you before picking up his bucket and pushing you ahead of him.

“Get out!” He yells at you, desperate to get you out of what's about to be a battlefield.  

“The DNA!” You shout back with a realization, before you take off running without looking back at him. 

The first hit tears open the hangar doors, sending metal and clones everywhere. You turn back watching the men spring into action, Colt’s screaming orders at his men. Before he turns and ever so calmly jogs over to where you’re frozen in place. 

“The DNA?” He asks gripping your arm and all but escorting you out of the flaming warzone. 

“They’ll be headed to the lower levels.” You supply, picking up your pace once you finally reach an old stairwell. Jumping down the lights of stares until you hit the bottom, you land sabree drawn to light up the dark hallway. Green flooding the way replaced by the red emergency lights. 

Five underwater sepratsist droids turn to you, ready to fire. But you’re quicker, rolling to the side and using the wall on your left to jump at the  two closest to you, bring your blade up and over your head in a diagonal motion to slice at anything in its path. Twisting you body to kick another droid as you go to propel yourself at two more of the droids  before slamming the sabre into the chestpiece of the final one. 

Standing barely shaken as Colt sprints down the rest of the stairs at the noise of chaos. You're Looking  into the ship that the droids came off of. 

“There’ll be more.” he says, joining you.

“You go.” you say deadpanned and serious. “I’ll find the rest.” You think he hesitates for a second, but it could be your mind playing tricks on you. Before he takes off jogging down the corridor. You sprint in the other direction, finding two more empty ships embedded in the metal. And that's when you feel it. For the first time in your life, you feel the imbalance, a cold front washes over you as you come to terms with the presence of the dark side. 

Deactivating your sabre and using the darkness to  your advantage you make your way towards the feeling until it's so strong you feel overwhelmed. The sound of a blaster bolt shakes you, but the sound that follows scares you. 

You can hear the plastoid crack and the helmet fall as Colt struggles mid air for oxygen. Stepping out from around the corner, the sound of your  sabre igniting catches her attention. 

“Ventress.” You spit at her, turning her attention away from the commander to you. 

“A padawan, how sweet.” She talks like a snake moves, slithering with purpose to its destination. 

“Let him go.” your voice is shaking, but the grip on your sabre is strong. Colts face is turning a worrying shade. Ventress gives you an over exaggerated pout. 

“But i like this one,” She tells you, bringing Colt closer until he’s right in front of ehr. “Look at that angry handsome face, he really is a fighter isn’t he?” you're breathing heavily with anger as you watch her toy with the two of you. All that changes the second her hand goes for a lightsaber. In one fluid movement your hands go out, pulling Colt towards and behind you and Ventress down the hallway away from him.

They both go flying, rolling to stops on separate ends of the hallway, as  you stand protective over him while Colt desperately sucks in air. Ventress glares at you, activating her twin sabres as she pulls herself up. You take a fighting stance, focusing yourself. 

Your face pales as you hear the telltale cough intermingled with laughter. Still woozy Colt looks over to the source. Grievous stalks into view, a pile of droids behind him. Without thinking, you send your saber into the metal wall, slicing open a gash that sends water rushing through at an unimaginable rate. Pushing all of you off your feet as the current becomes too much. Scrambling to find Colt you throw one of his arms over your soldier and the two of you half walk  and half swim to the stairwell. Watching Grievous and Ventress take off as the water fills the hallway.  A very injured Colt holding onto you entire time.

[vaguekiwi]

Whom Shall I Fear?

@tony-is-my-daddy​ posted this and my brain fucking broke down.

Whom Shall I Fear?

Pairings: Tony Stark x Peter Parker

Summary: 1 Samuel 16 - 17 but it’s Starker. (David in Saul’s Service, David and Goliath.) Tony is David and Peter is Jonathan and I have so much to say about this but I’m gonna put it at the very end.

Characters: David:Tony Stark, Jonathan:Peter Parker, Saul:Richard Parker (background unnamed Samuel, Goliath, and Merab.)

Word Count: ~2000

Other Inspiration: Sight by Sleeping at Last

Warnings: Biblical crossover/speculation, safe for work, not safe for church, hint of homophobia, inappropriate use of Biblical concepts/language

When they met, they were both still young.

There was a new attendant in the king’s court. He had dark hair and his neck was curved toward the instrument, so Peter could not see his face. But he handled the lyre carefully, almost reverently, as he played.

Peter itched for the man to turn his face, longed to see the rest of the full jaw in his view, wanted to see the colour of his eyes. Eyes which captured the lyre with an earnest focus, eyes which Peter was sure enamoured anything and anyone they looked at.

“Peter!” Peter started at the sound of the king’s voice, but was glad he did not sound angry or resigned.

“I apologise, my lord king.” Peter bowed when he addressed his father. He could feel those eyes on him now, fought the urge to turn.

“Peter,” King Richard straightened himself and waved his son in, “come, meet Anthony.” So Peter faced the musician who stood to bow.

Peter could see immediately that he could do more than play the lyre. His frame was strong and his eyes - Peter had been right - were bewitching pools of brown; traces of green and gold flashed in the man’s gaze as he looked Peter up and down.

“A warrior, too,” King Richard sighed as Peter shook Anthony’s hand, “yet to truly prove himself in battle, but that time will come. I find his songs… soothing.”

Anthony finally spoke, his cadence rough and gaze never leaving Peter’s face, “I am fortunate the Lord has blessed me with such a gift, my king.”

“Yes, thanks be to God.” The king mumbled, then shook his head. “To think your talents were being wasted so— herding sheep! It is good you have come here, Anthony.”

“I am grateful to be here, my king. And grateful too, for the beautiful instrument you have provided me.”

The king mumbled at that, and made a motion that he should continue playing. So Anthony sat down again and lifted the lyre.

Peter knew he had effectively been dismissed, but he lingered outside the door. He pressed his back to the wall and listened to Anthony’s music. He wondered why his cheeks were warm, and what the stirring in his stomach meant.

—

Anthony’s music did more than soothe the king. It stopped any temperamental episodes all together. The entire castle grew to welcome the sight of the young man with the lyre who could keep the king’s demons at bay.

He was not there all the time. He often went home to his family. Said tiredly that he needed to look after his father, help his brothers, and of course continue to watch the sheep.

When he was not there, King Richard became paranoid and angry. He threw things and spat heresy. The rumours troubled him; the ones that said King Richard had lost favour with God, that God had sent prophets to anoint a new king. Peter didn’t know whether to believe them or not, he just continued to pray for forgiveness for his father.

Then Anthony would return with his lyre, always carefully tuned and polished, and he would play to ease the king’s heart.

He sang too, beautiful homilies of faith and wonder; stories about far-off lands and battle glory. It was because he sang that Peter first got to know him.

“Anthony, are you alright?” He found the young man bending over a desk, a quill rolling between his fingers, lower lip tucked into his mouth.

“Prince Peter,” The shepherd looked up and their eyes met, and Peter wished they hadn’t. He did not want to feel surrounded the way he did by that gaze, like there was pressure on all sides and he was held down by it. Like he desperately needed to come up for air, but could not unless the strength and assurance in Anthony’s gaze gave such permission.

It was a strange feeling of authority, between prince and subject. But it also felt right.

Then Anthony turned his worried gaze back to the paper and he sighed in exasperation. “I am having trouble writing,” he admitted at length, “the words don’t come as easily as some might think.”

“What is it about?”

Peter stepped further into the room, wanting to thumb away the anxiety creasing Anthony’s forehead.

“Fear,” Anthony chewed his bottom lip and anxiously rubbed the fingers of one hand together so flakes of ink fell to the top of the desk. Peter looked down at the paper, the jumble tight print against the page.

The wicked advance against me to devour me, the armies besiege me, war breaks out against me.

There was no music written to the lyric, but Peter could imagine it easily. Could hear Anthony’s lilting voice while his fingers strummed the lyre.

Peter spoke, and put his finger to the top of the page, “if it is about fear, then what is it that gives you strength when afraid? Write about that.” And so Anthony put his quill to the page again and scrawled

The Lord is my light, whom shall I fear?

Then he went still and looked up at Peter.

“It’s… difficult to write, my prince. With someone watching… like this.”

Peter took several steps back which were too big, putting more distance between them than they needed. “Of course, I’m sorry.” He said and turned away. The wicked advance against me, armies besiege me. What did that mean? What did Anthony, the shepherd with the king’s favour, have to be afraid of?

Before Peter left, Anthony called:

“Thank you, Prince Peter.”

And so that became routine. Short moments in the afternoon sitting in an abandoned office; Peter prompted and Anthony’s words flowed. And come evening Peter snuck to the king’s chambers and listened for the finished song.

—

 King Richard was right, Anthony did eventually have cause to prove himself in battle.

Peter watched from afar with a trembling lip as Anthony shed the armour he’d been given.

Anthony cast aside his sword and declared the Lord was with him. It was a haughty sentiment, Peter thought, when in theory the Lord was with all of them.

Peter watched the musician push his way to the front lines with only a sling and five smooth stones in hand. Peter turned away, feeling a deep loss at the prospect of his friend’s death. The man who had brought peace to the king’s tortured mind.

The army jeered. King Richard shook his head sadly.

Peter thought of the tales of heroism which had been borne from Anthony’s mind - and what a brilliant mind it was - and sent a prayer for the Lord to protect His servant.

Afterward, when Anthony held the enemy commander’s head aloft, when their army roared and their foes retreated, Peter looked cautiously to his father. They could hear the chanting from here:

Richard has slain his thousands

And Anthony his tens of thousands!

A thinly-veiled insult to the king, if ever there was one.

King Richard’s face was unreadable as he turned to an aide. “Bring the shepherd boy to me.” He ordered.

And Peter thought God must be weary by now of his prayers.

—

But the king did not kill Anthony.

Peter was waiting outside the tent when he emerged. Blood still stained his hands and his clothes were still torn, but now a handsome purple mantle had been draped over his shoulders.

“Anthony!”

“Prince Peter.”

They stood just a bit too far apart from one another, a setting sun casting them in golden light while the cheers of victory and scent of sweet wine filled the space between them.

“My father…”

“He did not hurt me,” Anthony shrugged off the mantle and trudged away. Peter hurried to follow him.

“Are you alright?”

Anthony took them away from the festivities, toward the back of camp and to the seclusion of the streams and veld beyond.

When they were too far for anyone to hear them, but probably still in sight, Anthony said: “Our lord king has asked me to stay with him. To advise. To lead your army.”

“That is a great honour,” Peter said, even though his heart clutched with worry, “your family will be proud.”

“Prince Peter,” Anthony stopped now and turned to face him. He rubbed two fingers together, they watched flakes of dried blood sift off and settle to the ground.

“Prince Peter, I fear I am an enemy of your father.”

Peter glanced furtively back to camp before asking, “Why do you say that?”

“Have you heard that another man was anointed by the prophets? To be king in your father’s stead?”

“Yes.” Peter was conscious of his heart racing in his chest. He had a suspicion of what Anthony would say next, he did not know if he was afraid of it or wanted it to be true.

“Peter, I cannot lose a battle.” With the honorific prince cast away, Peter felt like his own skin had been peeled back, like Anthony was looking down at something raw and something secret. Anthony shook his head and kicked his foot into the desert ground, “I can go up against a ten foot tall general without a sword and still win… apparently.”

Peter whispered: “If you are the man the rumours are about, then the king will want you dead.”

“Or he will want me leashed,” Anthony replied, “he has already offered your sister’s hand. A fine home. A title. He is already afraid of me.”

“There is good reason to be afraid of any man with the Lord’s favour.” Peter mumbled, and then gasped when Anthony stepped forward. He put one hand on the small of Peter’s back and the other on the side of his neck, Peter could still smell the blood on it. The stench of sweat flooded his nostrils and they were very close like this, pressed flush against one another.

“Are you afraid of me, Peter?”

Peter didn’t completely understand the question, but he understood what was happening. He understood the danger of it, the horror of it. He understood that anyone could look down on them from here, and if not recognise them they could recognise the sin of two men so close.

His voice shook, “This is an abomination, Anthony-”

But Anthony only held him tighter, “The Lord is my rock, my protection, my Saviour. I can run to him for safety. He is my shield and my saving strength, my defender.” They were his own lyrics, his breath hot on Peter’s neck as he growled them out, “the world cannot touch me, Peter. Not unless He wills it. And He won’t, His plans for me are grander than this one battle.”

They were both quiet, Peter’s breath was hoarse but he let himself hang in Anthony’s grip, pressed his chin into his palm.

Again: “Peter… are you afraid of me?”

“If the Lord has chosen you to be king, then whom shall I fear?”

Anthony smiled, and it was genuine. It was happy. It was born from goodness and patience, from peace, joy, and love.

And Peter reached for the soft woollen britches which Anthony wore, torn at the knees and along his thigh from the battle.

“May I worship my king?”

Anthony growled. It was a sound that sent a spike of heat through Peter’s whole body. That made his head white with electricity when their lips met.

“Only if I may reward my servant.”

--------

Notes from Grace:

Okay, there’s SO much potential to this story. Everything I have written here is before the Bible actually mentions David and Jonathan making their covenant together. Like after this, there’s chapters on King Saul hunting David, Jonathan helping him to escape, Jonathan manipulating and lying to his father to protect David, Saul lowkey realising they’re in love so lying to Jonathan and accusing David of stealing his son away and corrupting him. There’s this actual dialogue:

**David: Your father knows very well that I have found favour in your eyes

Jonathan: Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do for you

Jonathan: Don’t be afraid, my father Saul will not lay a hand on you. You will be king over Israel, and I will be second to you.

And these actual verses:

“So Jonathan made a covenant with the house of David, saying ‘May the Lord call David’s enemies to account.’ And Jonathan had David reaffirm his oath out of love for him, because he loved him as he loved himself.”

“Then they kissed each other and wept together — but David wept the most”

And David being on the run and Jonathan straight up sneaking away from his dad to meet up in a secret liaison like who can possibly say that wasn’t gay as hell?????

And Saul offering David two of his daughters’ hands in marriage and David being like “... nah.” while ‘affirming covenants’ with Jonathan left and right.

But this is all I wrote. If anyone’s into it I would encourage/welcome you to continue it and would love to be tagged in any such continuation.

**(I use an NIV Bible for 99% of my Bible needs)

[thelordofdarkreunion]

Tongues of Fire- Empire Week Parade Scene

I assure all of you that I am working most diligently on the Magnificent Scoundrels stories.  Currently, I have two just about finished.  However, I feel bad about not posting anything for a while, so I will give you this.  It is the intro scene of Thomas Drake’s galaxy.  I hope you like it.  If you have any requests for stories, please feel free to ask.  

“One of the strongest natural proofs of the folly of hereditary right in kings, is, that nature disapproves it, otherwise, she would not so frequently turn it into ridicule by giving mankind an ass for a lion.” -Thomas Paine, Common Sense

Vorketh, Capital of the Empire of Prosium

It was Empire Week.  A celebration of all the achievements of the Empire of Prosium; technology, art, architecture, culture, and, definitely the most important to any proud Imperial citizen: military.  It was day one of the celebration, and today, on the broad streets of Vorketh Prime, the capital city of the capital world, the Empire of Prosium gave a military parade for all to see.  People and aliens from throughout the galaxy came to see the main parade of Empire Week.  Quite simply, there was nothing else like it in the known universe.  The entire Imperial Ninth Army would march through the streets, in a massive display of strength that no one else in the galaxy could even hope to match.  Fighters and gunship transports would buzz overhead in perfect formation, while massive ships of the line, this year led by the dreadnought Executioner, could be seen in low orbit above the planet.  The Emperor himself would be present at the ceremonies, as would every single monarch of the various solar systems of the Empire, including King Alderic of the Zerith System.  

Alderic looked across the raised platform along the parade grounds to where the parade would start, the Citadel of Vorkerth.  The sky was a grey color, lit well enough that people could easily see, and quite common on Vorketh, unlike the rich blue sky of Earth, the original homeworld of the human race.  The white stone architecture of the capital streets stood out against the jet black of the world’s massive planetary defense cannons.  He looked around.  There were a great many Federation humans here, enough to outnumber even the other various species the Empire controlled.  Odd, but it mattered little.  There were always a lot of them here.  He sighed to himself.  The Federation.  So argumentative.  So much...lack or purpose.  Everyone within the Empire of Prosium knew what they wanted to become, and if they didn;t, they served in the military.  Although, he himself never wanted to be King of the Zerith System, oddly enough.  But sometimes, circumstances were out of the control of individuals.  

He was generally thought as a handsome man, and many thought he looked like a more rugged version of the Emperor.  He was wearing his full kingly regalia, complete with cloak, crown, and sword.  His various medals hung on his chest, pinned on what the Empire called a tunshi, or a cross between a tunic and a shirt.  Black pants with a gold stripe running vertically down the leg covered his legs, and black dress boots that ran up to the knee protected his calves.  Next to him stood two of his closest friends.  Queen Naatz wore almost the exact same thing as he did, the only difference being she had several different medals than he did, and the crown from the system she ruled had slight variations in the design.  King Wachek had the same base design, but, fitting his personality, it was much more flamboyant.  Everything was styled and hugged his slim form perfectly, and a shorter crown than Alderic or Naatz covered his slicked back blond hair.  At his side was a thin rapier, unlike the heavy medieval-style Imperial Guard swords carried by Alderic or Naatz.  Each of the three monarchs ruled a somewhat mediocre system, not extremely important to the Empire, but not some backwater hovel, either.  This was what originally had brought the three together.  They were no one extremely important within the Council of Monarchs, but they still held some sway.  They were all savvy enough to realize that by banding together, they could get a lot more done than they ever could separate.  That political alliance had, eventually, turned into a fast friendship.  

Wacheck walked over to where Alderic and Naatz stood, carrying a glass of champagne.  He brandished it like it was some long lost priceless work of art.

“Look at this!  French champagne from Earth.  One of the Federation ambassadors brought an entire cargo crate of it for the festivities.  I must say, I think I like it better than any of the stuff we make.”  He took a sip.  “Of course, they’ve had more practice making it.”  He turned a wry smile towards a group of Federation ambassadors, who were talking with the group of high officials clustered around the Emperor.  The entire pavilion was packed with officials from every major government and race in the galaxy, including every human one.  The Federation ambassadors were being, as per their nature, extremely sauve, lavishing compliments upon all of the high Imperial officials.   The Guild officials were, as per their nature, trying to smooth talk several Imperial generals into buying Guild products and weaponry.  And, of course, the Union ambassadors were glowering in the corner.  Several Imperial officials were smirking in their direction.  Typical Union of Equality.  All bark, no bite.  In contrast, the Empire was all bite, no bark.  

What appeared to be a Dracus general approached Alderic’s group.  The Dracus were a warrior race, and had what most humans thought to be the body and legs of a kangaroo sitting on its haunches with the head of a lizard.  They were bipedal, and while they weren’t close allies with the Empire, they respected the Prosium for their martial traditions.  This one was wearing red ceremonial armor, which made it of very high rank.  Alderic couldn’t tell the difference between the male and female of the species, so generally he just asked Dracus their names and used that.  

“Magnificent parade,” he said, in the growly, guttural voice of the Dracus.  Alderic turned to him, or, at least, he thought it was a him, and smiled, careful not to show his teeth.

“Why, that you, General…”

“Itchernicer, King..”

“Alderic.  King Alderic.”  Itchernicer bowed and gave the traditional Dracus hand gesture greeting, moving his fingers to his lips, then his forehead.  He looked like he was about to say something else, but then the loudspeaker cut in.

“Ladies, gentlemen, species from all over the galaxy, the parade is about to begin.  If you or your species has sensitive hearing, you should wear protection.  Enjoy the parade!” With a flourish, the Emperor, flanked by four members of the Imperial Guard, entered the balcony.  The Emperor waved to the crowd, who let out a massive, roaring cheer.  Commander Robert Rorrenbrand, leader of the Guard, was several steps behind the Emperor with two more Imperial Guardsmen.  He was average height, with a rounded, scarred face and short cut black hair.  He was also, Alderic knew, despite his unimpressive looks, quite simply the best soldier in the galaxy.  Some might think these security measures harsh, unreasonable, but those people were not from the Empire of Prosium.  As any loyal citizen will tell you, the Empire never messes around when security is concerned.   

Itchernicer, Alderic, Naatz, and Watchek turned towards the Citadel.  The massive monument, built of white marble, towered over the wide streets.  White marble steps cascaded from the front of the building, lit by the fires of massive braziers.  Massive statues of Imperial Heros, some twenty feet high, towered above the streets.  Every culture had heroes.  Some thought that heroes were people who came up with new technologies, or those who were pious and strove to help others.  Not Prosium.  While all of those were traits and qualities to be admired, the people of Prosium believed that the only way to tell a true hero from all the rest was to forge them on the battlefield.  Only where shot and shell screamed, where man and alien alike died choking on their own blood and crying in agony, could a true hero come forth.  True heroes were those who fought and often died for the Empire.  True heros were not some scheming politician or sniveling scientist who strove to convince everyone that they and they alone were right; true heroes were the ordinary men, women, and aliens who performed insane feats of bravery in places that shred normal people’s sanity.  True heroes were like Private Stebban Wyric, who fought to the last bullet of his handgun to give the battered remnants of his regiment time to fall back from an overwhelming counterattack.  True heroes were the members of the Imperial 414th Army Regiment who fought to the last man and the last round to protect their standard.  True heroes were like Governor Isin Habbic, who volunteered to ram a cargo ship into a terrorist vessel holding a thermonuclear bomb to save his people and planet.  True heros were like Mary Strolheim, who called in an orbital bombardment on her position to repel an overwhelming enemy force and eventually win the War of Kraken’s Nest.  True heros were the selfless who laid down their lives for their people, and they all had one thing in common.  The exceptionally brave were awarded the medal and title Hero of the Empire, and, if they still lived after their feat, everyone, from the lowest factory worker to the Emperor or Empress themselves would salute them.  And, every single Hero of the Empire had their name, image, and deed emblazoned into the stone walls of the Citadel’s Hall of Heroes, an entire section within the Citadel of Vorketh that was dedicated to the preservation of their legacy and guarded day and night by the elite soldiers of the the Emperor’s personal bodyguard.  Just as the children of the Federation knew the names of human history’s greatest scientists and leaders, and the children of the United Guild of Merchants knew the names of all the great company leaders, and the children of the Union of Equality knew the names of all of Communism’s great heroes and leaders, so too did the children of the Empire of Prosium know the names of most of the Heroes of the Empire.   And it was from the glorious Citadel that housed the Hall of Heroes that the parade began.  

Legions of black uniformed warriors, the dauntless men and women of the Imperial Army’s 9th Army, 56th Regiment, weapons held at the ready, marched in perfect lock-step down the steps of the Citadel.  Massive crimson flags, adorned with the black eagle of Prosium, snaked their way down the buildings bordering the parade ground.  Alderic took in a deep breath of Vorketh’s sweet air.  He was glad to be a part of the Empire.  The sweetness of the air was suddenly snached away, to be replaced by the ozone smell of plasma jets, as a squadron of Naval fighters screamed overhead at a quite frankly alarmingly low altitude.  The crowd cared not, though.  They cheered all the louder at the jets’ arrival.  

The soldiers reached the base of the Citadel, and started to march through the streets themselves.  Loudspeakers placed upon the parade route struck up a military march as the infantry was joined by ranks of vehicles.  Black and grey tanks, armoured carries, and mobile missile launchers drove expertly through the throngs of soldiers, their hatches opened and each commander giving their salute to the Emperor’s box.  Alderic looked around, taking in the entire parade, looking through the clear grey sky at the forms of massive capital ships hoving in low atmosphere.  It was, indeed, a fine day to be a citizen of the Empire of Prosium. 

[chocoluckchipz]

A Bride for the Prince - 4

A03  ~  < Previous  ~  Next >

“I hate this thing,” Nino grumbled, shifting the mask on his face. “I really, really despise it. And why am I the only one who is uncomfortable with it?”

Adrien chuckled and took a stance, ready to attack. “I’ll check if they have a different style that’ll fit you better.”

“You know, you could’ve offered me amnesty and allow me to drop the whole thing altogether,” Nino scoffed halfheartedly. “I mean, I am your best friend. That should come with privileges.”

Adrien laughed, raising his sword. “If I have to wear it everywhere apart from my private quarters, don’t you think it’s only fair that you, as my best friend, should support me and do the same?”

“As if I have a choice.” Nino lifted his sword, taking a stance as well. “Remind me to strangle the person who came up with this ridiculous idea.”

Adrien smirked. “Sure. That’ll be you, Alya and I. Who would you prefer to unleash your revenge upon first?”

“Seeing as we are baring swords at each other at this very moment...” Nino returned Adrien’s smug look. “Get ready, Your Highness, because I’m about to kick your royal butt.”

“I’d like to see that happen.” Adrien lunged forward with a chuckle. Nino blocked his attack effortlessly and immediately pounced forward with a return assault. 

“I see you’re more pissed about it than I realized,” Adrien said, diving away. 

“You have no idea,” Nino replied, determination firing up in his eyes as he leaped back to avoid Adrien’s swing. “I’ve been saving it all day.”

“Good.” Adrien smirked. "This whole ‘choose a bride’ thing is exhausting. A good battle is just what I need now to relax."

Swords crossing, blocking and dodging, avoiding and attacking, they spared on par for some time before Nino, not stopping their battle, asked, “So, did anyone catch your fancy yet?” 

“Nope.” Adrien hindered Nino’s attack with his sword. 

“Why not? So many pretty ladies around.”

“Pretty—” Adrien launched another attack, “—isn’t everything I’m looking for in a wife, and you know it.”

“That’s why—” Nino retaliated, not losing his concentration. Raising his sword, he prepared for the next assault, “—I keep telling you: start talking to them. Observing from afar will only get you so far.” 

Adrien quickly ducked away and attacked from a different angle. “Soon. The ball is coming. The Prince will have to attend in person.”

“Oh, right.” Nino deflected Adrien’s sword, turned around and plunged forward from the side. “Without the mask, I assume? The rumours about your unearthly ugliness will be put to rest as soon as you walk in the room, you know that, right? And I don’t think you’ll justify your perfectly handsome face by claiming to take plenty of beauty rest. What was the point of starting the rumours?”

Laughing, Adrien took advantage of Nino’s momentary pause and lightly poked his chest with his weapon. “Sorry to disappoint, but the prince will arrive in a mask. Just not a black one - it won’t go with my white outfit.”

 “Of course,” Nino smirked, taking a step back. “How could one of the most fashionable princes around appear in a mismatched getup? Speaking of the rumours,” he added, preparing for another round. “There is one lady who refuses to believe anything bad we, mere servants, say about you. Quite passionately as well, if I may say so.”

“Oh really?” Adrien quirked an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

“Actually—” Nino relaunched an attack, “—it’s your little commoner lady friend. She almost made a scene today, scolding Lady Bourgeois for saying you were an idiot for making your guards wear masks.”

“She did?” Adrien froze for a second too long, just enough time for Nino to put his sword to Adrien’s chest. 

“Yup.” Nino smirked. “Said the prince must have a good reason to do what he did, and no one should judge anyone for anything until learning of their intentions and motives.”

“Interesting.” Adrien stepped back, lifting his sword and pointing it to Nino. “What did Lady Bourgeois reply?”

“She said she knew the reason perfectly,” Nino chuckled. “And proceeded to repeat the exact words I whispered to Kim today about your hideousness after a supposed accident you were in.” 

Adrien leaned into a stance. “Somehow, I’m not surprised in the slightest that Lady Bourgeois believed that so easily even if she’s the one who knows me here the best. On garde.” 

“You speaketh the truth, my friend,” Nino chuckled, reflecting Adrien’s attack. 

“So how did it end? Did Marinette say anything back?”

“Hm. Well, your little lady replied that beauty is in the eye of the beholder and told Lady Bourgeois to stop measuring people’s worth by their looks. Apparently, it speaks volumes of her character.”

Adrien paused again, a dopey smile threatening to surface on his lips. 

“She also said that the true value of a person is in their soul, and she would never believe any rumours until seeing you by herself.” Seizing the opportunity of Adrien pausing once more, Nino lunged forward, stopping his blade short of Adrien’s throat. “You are off your game, Your Highness. Is something distracting you?”

“Um, not really.” Adrien rolled his eyes and shifted Nino’s blade to the side. “I’m just surprised Marinette is still the same girl I knew back in the day. Just as fierce, fair, and kind. Haven’t changed a bit, which is quite rare.”

“Oh, really?” Nino quirked an eyebrow. “Well, you’re lucky we use wooden swords for this, or you'll be dead by now.” Suddenly, he frowned, looking past Adrien’s shoulder. “Speak of the devil. What are they doing?”

“Huh?” Adrien turned around and groaned. On one of the further paths, Alya and Marinette were obviously trying to sneak out of the castle because, seeing as he frequently sneaked out to the city himself, Adrien knew quite well that that particular trail led nowhere the pair of women would be needing to go at the time when other ladies were preparing for their sleep. And it’s not like Alya was a stranger to sneaking out, but Marinette’s commoner outfit spoke volumes on its own to betray their intentions.

“Don’t tell me they’re trying to sneak out,” Nino echoed his thoughts. “And using our route for that. What the- Why is she walking backwards?”

“Don’t know but—” Adrien pointed to the further left corner, “—those guys will catch them in a few. Alya either forgot that Father ordered more guards around while this whole ‘Pick a Bride’ thing is going on or she didn’t know about it in the first place.”

“I doubt there is anything in this castle Alya doesn’t know. That woman,” Nino groaned. “I’m sorry, Adrien, but I have to step in and rescue her. Again. I’ll be back soon.”

“I’ll give you a hand,” Adrien chuckled. “You take care of Alya. Leave Marinette to me.”

Shielded by the darkness and trees, they were able to get close to the girls undetected, and just in time, because for whatever reason Alya decided to run backwards, it didn’t end well. His skills polished by years of practice, Nino caught his girlfriend right before she splattered on the ground. 

Adrien followed suit, soon finding himself holding Marinette against his chest. The guards they saw earlier were about to pass them from around the corner, so uttering the first thing that came to mind, Adrien quickly picked Marinette up in his arms and headed into the shadows behind the trees to where Nino had already pulled in Alya. As if on a command both men put their hands over the mouths of the ladies to silence them, quietly motioning to the guards that were already in view. All four froze.

“I see you’re an incorrigible flirt, Chat Noir,” Marinette whispered when he removed his hand from her lips. “I was just falling. I wasn’t falling for you. You weren’t even supposed to be there.” 

Chat chuckled with an amused smile. “Neither were you, Lady Bug. And certainly not in such a pretty, commoner dress. Makes me wonder as to what you two were up to.”

Her face downcast, Marinette glanced over at Alya who was glaring at Nino with her arms crossed over her chest. Adrien could practically see something snapping in place on Nino’s face.

“Alya, no,” his friend groaned. “Is this festival so important that you have to risk not only yourself but the lady over there? You’ve been to dozens of festivals—”

“It is important,” Alya retorted, putting her hands on her hips. “May I remind you that since it’s Prince’s twentieth birthday soon, this festival was promised to be exceptionally good. Mme Chamack heard that Nightingale and Stone troubadours will perform and that Couffaine Troop will put on their new musical. How often does that happen? Not to mention that there will be more games and dances than usual, and something called the light show at the end. Mme Mendeleiev said it will blow people’s minds. Also, the beauty competition which you know I wanted to enter; and you, Nino, promised to take me there! But no! Apparently, guarding a dozen lazy ladies is more important to you than the promise you made to your girlfriend a few months ago. So, don’t blame me for taking someone who cares about me and wanting to go out and have fun!”

Nino frowned, crossing his arms over his chest, “You wanted to enter that beauty pageant even though you knew I wouldn’t be there? You do realize the winner will have to kiss the knight who wins the joust?”

“So?” Alya quirked an eyebrow. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“You’ll have to kiss some random stranger if I’m not there to win!” 

“So, what?” Alya puffed. “The rules don’t specify how I am to kiss him. A cheek kiss should suffice.”

“Alya,” Nino groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Alya, please, you know that’s not how it works. Why do you even insist on entering? It’s not like you care about winning in the first place—”

“Well, not for the beauty queen title,” Alya shrugged. “But I do need to forge new connections in the city—”

“Should we step aside,” Adrien whispered to Marinette, nudging her elbow. “Let them argue in peace.”

Marinette nodded and followed him a little deeper into the forested area to remain away from the trails where they could be spotted. “Are they always like this?” 

“Nope,” Adrien chuckled, leaning on a tree trunk. “Usually they’re disgustingly sweet... unless Nino touches Alya’s dream. Then she’ll eat even him alive.”

“Oh.” Marinette blinked, leaning on a neighbouring tree. “I guess I should be more careful then. Would you enlighten me as to what not to touch to stay alive?”

“She wants to become a royal messenger,” Adrien explained. “And as you know, it’s practically impossible for a woman—and a commoner at that. So, she’s taking every step possible to get noticed, even if it means entering a contest she’d be absolutely ignoring if one of the judges hadn’t had a family connection to one of the King’s scribes.”

“Oh, wow,” Marinette breathed out. “That’s some serious determination.”

“You don’t know Alya yet,” Adrien chuckled. “She’ll stop at nothing if she really wants something. She even taught herself to read and write a few years back. Most commoners don’t bother with such a thing, but she insisted that she had to be literate.”

“That’s amazing,” Marinette gushed. “To be honest, after knowing her for a few days, even I could tell she is quite ambitious but to aim for such a prestigious position? Admirable.”

“I’m not surprised.” Adrien smirked, cocking his head to the side. “It takes an ambitious person to recognize one.”

“What do you mean?” Marinette’s eyebrows knitted in a frown.

“Well, coming to the castle to play a lady when you knew you’re lacking in skills and would be under constant surveillance is quite ambitious, no?”

“More like reckless, but thank you,” Marinette giggled, then paused. “If you meant it as a compliment because sometimes—”

“It was certainly a compliment, my Lady.” Adrien smiled at her. “Not everyone would be brave enough to do that, and I hope one day when we’ll have more time, you’ll tell me the whole story.”

“Thanks,” Marinette replied, a light blush descending on her cheeks. “I can certainly tell you the story one day, but for now, just so you know, not all commoners as illiterate as you think. I can read and write too. One of my friends had taught me.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” Marinette gave him a nostalgic smile. "He would visit my town during summers and bring the most interesting books with him. At first, he just read them to me, but the last year he visited, he taught me how to read and even left me my favourite book of his. I reread it probably a thousand times since then."

“Is that so?” Adrien couldn’t help but grin. “A good friend, I assume.”

“The best,” Marinette sighed wistfully. “He was an amazing friend, so kind and happy all the time, silly, carefree and made the most annoying, poorly-timed puns. Still, we had so much fun. I’ll never forget that…” Her voice getting quieter with every word, Marinette suddenly found the hem of her sleeve to be really fascinating as she started to fiddle with it. “I just wish I knew why he stopped coming. He promised to bring me more books on his next visit, but he never came back. I kept waiting for him for years. Sometimes, I think I still am…” 

Adrien looked away. “Maybe he didn’t know he wouldn’t be able to return when he promised you that?”

“That’s what I assume as well.” Marinette gave him a bittersweet smile. “I just hope he’s alright and happy somewhere.”

“I’m sure he is.” They stood in silence for a few more moments until it got so awkward, he blurted the first thing that came to his mind. 

“You are doing much better with being a lady. If I didn’t know otherwise, I’d say you a legitimate noble.” 

Inwardly, Adrien cringed. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he filter his words around her? Marinette would probably slap him for being such a jerk. Instead, she laughed. 

“Thank you, Chat Noir. Alya’s been a tremendous help with that.”

“Ah, Alya. Yes.” Chat chuckled. “She’ll spend days of helping you to stay undetected only to risk it all because she wants to go to that festival. You know, you could’ve refused and stayed in, instead of succumbing to her wishes.”

“Um...” Marinette looked to the side, then shifted her eyes to the ground. “You see… I wanted to go too.”

“You did?”

“Yeah,” Marinette whispered, her voice nervous. “It’s rather boring here?”

“Boring?” Adrien quirked an eyebrow. 

Marinette sighed. “I mean, don’t get me wrong: the castle is beautiful, and gardens are amazing, and Alya's doing everything possible for my stay here to be enjoyable, but… all those lessons and rules and schedules and even some of those ladies… and especially Mme Nathalie. It’s all just—ugh! I’m exhausted, Chat. I just want to take a break and have some fun without having to watch my every word and move. Plus, Alya promised we won’t be risking anything because she sneaks out all the time and has never been caught, and dressing me as a commoner was supposed to help so no one would suspect who I am or who I pretend to be. By the way, thank you for not blowing my cover, Chat. I really owe you, and—” She paused, noticing an amused smile on Chat’s lips and a spark in his eyes, “—and I’m rambling. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Chat chuckled. “I find it refreshing for someone to think it’s boring here. However, while I do understand your reasons, do you really think in your specific situation the risk you are taking is worth it?”

Marinette’s eyes snapped to his, then dropped down, her face saddening. 

“I apologize for the intrusion,” Nino suddenly appeared by their side before Marinette could respond. “But do you mind if I accompany Alya to the damn festival? She is a stubborn one.”

Chat chuckled. “How can I keep a jealous man from protecting his lady’s modesty.”

“I’m not jealous,” Nino grumbled. “She just doesn’t realize what she’s getting herself into. Someone has to be there to protect her.”

“Of course,” Adrien nodded, shifting his gaze to Marinette. “Should I escort you back to your room, then?”

“Why can she go with us?” Alya asked, coming up from behind Nino. “Give her a break. She’s suffered through enough the last few days.”

“That’s fine, Alya,” Marinette said, her voice quiet. “Chat Noir is right. I shouldn’t risk it considering the situation I’m in. That’s fine, really. I’ll go back and…um, work some more on my curtsies and... such.” Marinette tried and miserably failed to give them a smile.

“Now see what you’ve done?” Alya frowned at Adrien. “You made her sad. As if she hadn’t had enough on her plate already.”

“You know,” Adrien protested. “Even if we forget that she needs to keep a low profile, do you think third-wheeling you two is fun? Take it from someone who’s done it countless times.”

“Better than sitting alone in her room doing nothing!” Alya glared at Adrien, who didn’t give in, glaring back at her.

“Which is better than being caught and sent to prison. You've got to put your priorities straight, Alya. Do you want her to make it safely to the end or not?”

“You are no fun,” Alya puffed, turning away a few moments later. “In fact, you are so stuffed and boring that I won’t be surprised if you end up alone and bitter at the end of your safe life.”

“I am fun.” Adrien straightened up. 

“Not in the slightest.” Alya glared back at him. “Marinette was excited to go to this festival until you and your boring ways came across. Now, look at her! You don’t even know the definition of fun, and you certainly have no idea how to have it! All you do all day—”

“I know how to have fun,” Adrien interrupted, his face flushed. “And I’ll prove it! And since you are clearly failing to make sure that Marinette is safe taking her out, I’ll escort her to the festival myself, and we’ll have tons of fun. More so than you!”

“What?” Nino yelped, taking his attention away from the satisfied smirk on Alya’s lips. “I thought you said no sneak outs while this thing with the Prince and his brides is on?”

Adrien inwardly groaned. He could’ve sworn he got better about playing right into Alya’s hands. But then again, it was Alya Cèsaire, and she has been improving her skills every day for the past few years, shamelessly practicing on everyone, especially Nino and him. She really did deserve to become the royal messenger she wanted so much; their kingdom’s external relationships would greatly benefit from it. 

But what he was to do now? Take his words back? He didn't want Marinette to risk so much, but then her hopeful expression as she looked at him, her big blue eyes sparkling with excitement and worry at the same time made it impossible for him to refuse.

“I can make an exception once.” Adrien pouted with a frown. “I know the guards’ new schedule better than Alya, anyway, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

He walked over to Marinette and offered her his hand. “Should we, my Lady?”

Bright crimson, Marinette stared at everyone for a few moments without replying until Alya prompted her. 

“Let’s go, Marinette. You'll love it. Our festivals are way better than anything in DuPont in the first place, and this one is promising to be spectacular." 

Marinette shifted her eyes to Adrien, who was still holding his hand out to her. “Um- I don’t know- I shouldn’t- You said it yourself—”

“You’ll be fine with me.” Adrien smiled at her. “I promise.” 

Marinette blinked, her mouth slightly ajar. Adrien lifted his hand a little closer, and she couldn't keep a smile off her lips as her cheeks turned crimson again.

“Okay. I trust you.”

*       * *

The festival did look absolutely amazing. Not that he was allowed to attend many, but there were a few he’d sneaked out to in the last few years. This one, however, put all of those to shame. The lights, performers, music, multitudes of people and aromas… oh, the smell of food that flowed around… Adrien could taste it already. The tenderness and sweetness as it would melt in his mouth…

“So,” Alya intruded in his reverie. “I have about an hour before the beauty competition starts. What do you want to do until then?”

Adrien glanced at the direction of the food stalls, but when he looked at Marinette, her eyes were on fire as she watched the games on their right.  

“Games,” he stated without hesitation. They could always do food later, preferably when Alya would leave for her beauty pageant and leave them alone to enjoy the deliciousness in peace.

“Excellent.” A sly grin split Alya’s lips. “Ready to lose to me again, Chat Noir?”

“In your dreams!” he retorted. 

“Girls, girls relax,” Nino suddenly added. “Cause we all know who’s the real champion here.”

“Who?” Alya quirked an eyebrow.

Nino suddenly wasn’t as confident as before. “Me?” 

“We’ll see about that.” Adrien smirked and, taking Marinette by her hand, pulled her towards the first game: an easy enough for everyone “put a ball into a basket” game. Even Marinette should be able to play this.

Ten different games later, Adrien was ready to eat his thoughts and bow down to the Queen of All Games Marinette Dupain-Cheng as she completely and utterly obliterated the three of them in all the games they’ve tried, except the brutal strength ones, but even there, she scored decently enough. Accurate, smart, skilled; there were no bounds to how amazing Marinette showed herself to be. Adrien smiled a nostalgic, heartwarming smile. There was a reason Adrien had chosen to spend all of his time with Marinette above the other kids he could have played with back in the days: Marinette was amazing and beautiful in every conceivable sense of those words.

“Yay!” The girl on his mind jumped after knocking all six jugs with a ball from her first try. 

“No fair,” Nino pouted. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Plenty,” Marinette responded with a smirk. “But most of them have to do with grace and patience.”

Alya snorted a laugh. “Sounds just about right. You did amazingly, girl! I’m so proud.”

“Yes,” Adrien added. “You did awesomely.”

“Thank you,” Marinette replied with a curtsy and turned to Alya. “What prize do you want?”

“Huh? Me?”

“Yes, you,” Marinette said. “I already have plenty. Plus, I need to thank you for helping me out with the whole ladyship debacle. So, choose whatever you want.”

Alya’s eyes lit up as she lunged forward and gave Marinette a tight hug. “Thank you, Marinette! You are the best!”

“No problem.” The girl giggled.

“Chat,” Nino suddenly whined, rubbing the skin under the edge of his mask. “Can I take this thing off? I bet I can do much better when it isn’t bothering me. It’s not like we are at the castle, so we don’t really have to wear them, right?”

“Yeah,” Alya chuckled. “You should take it off, Nino. Maybe then my knight can win something for me too.”

Adrien stilled. The thought to remove the mask didn’t even occur to him, seeing as Marinette was with them and because they didn’t really stand out in the festive crowd with quite a few people from multiple troops and circuses wearing their own masks. But Nino famously hated his mask, and to be honest, Adrien couldn’t see a reason for him to still wear it. He, on the other hand, was a different case… 

Or was he? 

The only purpose of the whole mask idea was to prevent the ladies who knew his face from recognizing him. Marinette, as far as he knew, had never seen “the Prince” and had always thought that Adrien she played with as a child was the son of Mme Bustier, the late Queen's personal maid. That was the only condition his mother gave him when allowing him to play with commoners: they were to never find out his actual social status. Claiming Mme Bustier as his mother was perfect. Being a son of the Queen's personal maid could explain why he was always coming to visit when the Queen did and why he had such easy access to her private quarters. Furthermore, there was a huge chance that Marinette wouldn’t recognize him. It’s been ages since they’ve last seen each other, and it wasn’t like his blond hair and green eyes were as unique as Marinette’s beautiful features. He had a legitimate excuse to recognize her right away; there weren't many girls he'd met who was as pretty as Marinette was. She didn’t have that excuse. Plenty of men had blond hair, green eyes, and a fit figure. 

“Ah, why not?” Adrien shrugged and reached for his mask. “Just promise not to faint, ladies, when you behold our unearthly beauty.”

Alya puffed. “As if.”

“Finally,” Nino sighed with relief, his mask already discarded. 

Marinette curiously looked at his face.

“Isn’t he handsome?” Alya cooked, immediately looping her arm around Nino and giving him a lovesick, playful grin. “My fair knight Nino.” 

“He is quite handsome indeed,” Marinette chuckled and curtsied. “Nice to meet you out of your mask, Sir Nino.”

Feeling a little left out, Adrien pouted. Back in DuPont, Marinette had always used to tell him how pretty he was, and considering their conversation about her childhood friend at the garden, Adrien was sure she’d like to see how he grew up. Perhaps, she’d even like what she saw… even if she wouldn't recognize him. Somehow the thought of that made him sad, but brushing it away, Adrien leaned closer to Marinette and purred, “What about me? Do I tickle your fancy as much as Nino does?”

The moment Marinette shifted her eyes to Adrien her smile dropped. With her lips slightly ajar, she carefully looked at his face, her hand reaching forward on its own before she stopped and pulled back.

“Marinette?” Adrien frowned. “Is everything alright?”

Her eyes instantly blew wide as she squeaked, “Adrien?!”

[lsbaird]

The Devil’s Luck - Chapter Two Preview!

It’s a nice long one today, folks! Maybe snug up with a cup of coffee. If you’re just now joining in, the prologue is here, and chapter one is here! Today’s installment tells us more about Chancelion, the unfortunate Evern, the maybe more unfortunate Frey, why squirrels are bastards, and why you should lock up your books when Etienne comes to visit.

 Etienne woke up late the next morning feeling almost cheery.  It had been too rainy the night before to do a thorough scouting of the rooftops, and he had retired early.  His garish bed made up in feather ticking what it lacked in subtlety, and none of it could be seen in the dark anyway. He had slept like the sainted dead, though he still had to suppress a yelp when he woke and saw the room by daylight.  It was that damn cherub.  

He opened his curtains onto the gardens—the view was as lovely as promised, if still somewhat waterlogged—and took a deep breath. All would go well. A rocky start did not predict a rocky end, after all, and if he was going to make some flubs on his mission, it was better to make them at the beginning rather than at a more critical moment. He repeated these things to himself until he started to believe them, and turned away from the window to face his first morning at Chancelion.

The tea and soup from the night before had not yet been cleared away. Frey's servants had heeded his order not to disturb Lady Elsa, and even if they had tried, the chair Etienne had put under the door handle would have prevented it. He was pleased to see it had not shifted an inch. Trustworthy staff, Etienne thought, adding the tidbit to his growing list of household details.

His dress was still unpleasantly damp, even after spending the night spread over two chairs by the fire. Etienne had three gowns with him, which was enough for his deception, but any real noblewoman would feel destitute with so little.  Etienne padded across the bright carpets to the wardrobe lurking in the far corner.  Wearing a frock of his fiancé's choosing was a sure way to his heart, and as Lady Elsa's lady-maid and trunks of clothing were all fictitious, it seemed a shame not to have a look, at least.  It couldn’t be as awful as the rest of the room, could it?

Etienne tugged on the brass handles of the wardrobe doors, instinctively braced for whatever horror might await him.  But here, once again, Chancelion—or at least Chancelion’s master—surprised him.  

Shades of cool green and black washed over Etienne like a refreshing waterfall.  In the letters to Frey, which had been concocted by Ephaseus and written by Etienne, ‘Elsa’ had mentioned her preferences when it came to such things: an emphasis on clothes that would be best suited for the concealment of weapons, and for activities where accidents could happen.  Every least detail had been taken into account, even her (Etienne’s) antipathy to lavender. All the linens smelled of mint leaves, instead.

She would not be used to the cold, and as a result, there were three handsome wraps as well as a fine wool dressing-gown in Lady Elsa's favorite emerald hue.  Pearls were her favorite gem, and the embroidered bodices were stiff with them, no matter the outrageous price they commanded in Easting.  She enjoyed riding and hunting with birds, and so a green damask riding habit hung in the nearest corner, along with fine hawking gloves decorated with gold silk tassels.  A lady's riding boots occupied the bottom of the wardrobe, along with several different pairs of slippers.  An evening dress, suitable for a royal ball, was downright crunchy with its yards of thick gold lace; Etienne mourned that the neckline was far too low for his disguise.  Jewel boxes nestled on the shelves contained ropes of pearls, gold chain, and actual emeralds.  Etienne at once lost his vain little heart to a particular pair of pearl drop earrings, thinking they would look elegant on Elsa and rakish when worn with his usual black leathers.  

Perplexed by his findings, he looked at the room again, as though to make sure its hideous state had not been some fevered imagining on his part, but it was as outlandish as ever.  The wardrobe and its contents seemed to have come from some other chamber, possibly one in a different house.  

Etienne fingered the soft velvet of a split sleeve. The gown was a simple one for day wear, easy enough to get into on his own, and the already demure neckline could be made even more modest with a fichu hanging nearby.  After a moment's consideration, he pulled the dress from its hook and his mostly-dry corset from the windowsill, where he’d thrown it the night before.  

Dressing took him time and care; it was, after all, as much his arsenal as his disguise. The pins in his wig could pierce a man's heart, the flutter of lace at his throat concealed a fine length of garroting wire.  Poisons he had as well, of various sorts, but one in particular—the powder of the humble grensel blossom, concealed beneath the ruby on his forefinger—was for Etienne alone.

Etienne carefully measured out a tiny portion of the deadly nitoxis powder from the compartment on his ring, swirled it in his half-finished cup of tea from the night before, and drank it down.  It tasted like nothing but cold chamomile tea and orange peel, but he couldn't repress a faint shudder.  Playing dice with his own mortality was a dangerous business, but his immunity had saved his life six times so far.  Of course, the time he failed to keep up his doses the withdrawal almost killed him, but that was a hazard of the job.  It was a price he paid for being careless, and he'd learned, very quickly, to never be careless.

His weapons and dress secured, Etienne smoothed the sleeve of his gown to be sure the crimson brand on his wrist was well-covered, and swept out the door for breakfast.  

Once again, however, the actors had failed to assemble for the performance.  This time, it was the leading man that was missing, and Etienne was in the dining room before he found any of the other players at all.  

“Out at the cattle barn, miss,” Tobias whispered, as the maid dished up oat porridge and poached eggs on toast for Etienne, alongside fat sausages and potted chicken liver and fried apples and all the other morning delicacies of the country.  “One of the yearlings took ill in the night, and suffers naught but the Master to nurse it.”  

“He is good with animals, then?”  Etienne asked, napkin balanced on one hand to eat with a young lady's poise.  It would not do to give in to his own peculiar habits, such as pouring massive globs of honey on his sausages.  

“They take to him, aye,” the butler went on, in his creaky voice.  “But the stableman hopes that some of the Master's good fortune will rub off.  None he's nursed yet has fared poorly after.”

“Oh, how curious.  Is he so very lucky?”  Etienne sipped his at his tea like a bird tasting the air of a winter morning.  It had been put out for milady’s breakfast on ormolu trays, served in cups of a fine porcelain as fragile as frozen milk, but was weak enough to read a gospel through.  Coffee, to Etienne’s abiding regret, had not yet caught on in Easting. With a flash of longing he thought of Ephaseus' comfortable, parchment-scented study, a battered silver pot of black coffee laced with cacao powder at his elbow, and a thick book in his lap, leather armchair pulled up to the fire.  Resigned, Etienne contemplated swift murder, and dutifully drank his impotent tea.  

“Luck is what the unfaithful call the will of God,” Tobias wheezed, and it was lucky he had his back turned as he attended to the sugar tongs, so he missed the expression that crossed Etienne's face.  It was as much for the sanctimony as the weak tea.  “But it would seem heaven has seen fit for Lord Reichwyn to be uncommonly blessed in that regard.”

Etienne lifted his eyebrows, and wondered how quickly the uncommonly blessed Lord Reichwyn would sink in a swollen Easting stream after his lungs were punctured with a knife.  “When might you expect him back?”  

“He asked me to proffer his apologies, my lady, and inquire if you would do him the honor of going for a ride with him this afternoon.”  

Etienne's smile was winning, and genuine.  There were so many ways one could die, out on horseback in the country.  “I should be delighted.”  

“In the meantime, he bids you feel free to look around the house and grounds, and hopes you find them to your liking.”  

Etienne remembered that Elsa was supposed to have every intention of making Chancelion her future home, and as a result should take an active interest in things like the main hall carpet and the gutters. For himself, Etienne wondered if there was a decent library.  He finished his breakfast in spite of Tobias hanging off his elbow like a dried-up dungball, and went off to get a better grasp of the manor's layout.  

 Excepting the dearth of coffee, Chancelion was a well-appointed estate.  Frey, in his two years of holding the title of Lord Reichwyn, had devoted considerable time and effort to converting the neglected property into one of the finest holdings in the north.  Etienne spent the morning wandering the halls, not only checking to see which doors and windows were regularly unlocked but, more and more, with a genuine interest in the house.  It would have taken all day and some of the evening for a complete survey of the rambling manor, which he fully intended to do, until he was distracted in his reconnaissance by the scent of books.  

He was not prepared for the library.  Country manors were rarely outposts of learning, and at best one could expect to find an old volume of St. Justicia’s teachings, or an archaic treatise on mushrooms, or doggerel poetry about cows.  Or so Etienne supposed, and he was delighted to be proven wrong.   It was not expansive, that was certain, only a simple square room with one window. But it was quality.  Etienne knew that by the smell of old leather and quality parchment, as well as beeswax, which meant the room actually saw use.  Within a minute he had vanished into the library’s inviting shadows, and the rest of the morning slipped by with astonishing speed.

He had just persuaded himself to resume his work, and was heading for the other wing of the house to do so, when there was a commotion from the entrance below him.  Etienne gathered up the weight of his green velvet skirts (which had been made heavier with the weight of one or two rare editions that he was sure no one would miss) and peered over the balustrade into the stone-flagged entryway below.  

Freyton Reichwyn Landry had just returned from the stables, as muddy and strawy as any cattle-hand, beaming in spite of the state of his boots and coat.  His hair was falling out of his queue again, and his good spirits gave him the appearance of a boy returning from some successful caper.  He was wholesome enough to make Etienne shiver, as would any explorer in a foreign land when confronted with some strange and innocent animal.  Etienne didn’t think they even made them like that anymore.  Or ever.

“I think she'll pull through, Tobias,” Frey announced with triumph, shucking out of his waistcoat.  Etienne bit his lip and leaned slightly over the railing, watching closely, but Frey kept his shirt on. Even going out to the stables he had it buttoned to the wrists.  His neckerchief was modest in terms of ruffle, but he wore it wound up to his jaw like an old-fashioned city lawyer.  Etienne let out his breath in frustration as Frey put on his more gentlemanly boots.  “But it's coming up another rain, I'm afraid.  Touring the grounds with Lady Elsa will have to wait.  Have you seen her?”

“Lady Elsa is inspecting the house, sir,” Tobias answered.  

“Ah, well, I hope she hasn't gotten herself lost!” Frey pulled on the coat Tobias offered, a somber thing of brown velvet and gilt buttons, more suited for his role as manor lord, trading it for the threadbare tweed he had worn for nursing cattle.  

Etienne pondered the advantages of making an entrance just then, but chose instead to retreat backstage to his rooms for the moment. For one thing, he wanted to dispose of his stolen books in his traveling bag, and for another, there was a trap to be laid.  

Etienne paused by his dressing-table for a brief dose of powder and perfume, and then went out in the corridor and proceeded to get lost.  Not terribly lost, of course, only a little bit lost, just a short way inside the unexplored wing of Chancelion and out of sight.  He knew his perfume would do the rest.  He also knew, from the sound of boots on the carpet down the hall, that a splendid, fated rendezvous was imminent.  

Etienne positioned himself at a cross-corridor, between a suit of archaic tilting armor and a large ceramic urn, and put on his very best winsome and bewildered expression.  

For once, the leading man knew his cue.  Frey appeared around the corner with impeccable timing, redoing his ribbon and whistling a country jig.  His eyes lit up at the sight of his betrothed in the corridor, and he quickened his pace along the landing.  

“Here you are!  I hope you haven't been too dreadfully bored, have you?”  

“Oh!”  Etienne said, wringing his hands and turning in surprise, as though he had not in fact been counting Frey's boot-falls, and had not known full well just when to look up to best effect.  “Lord Freyton!  I'm ever so glad to see you.  I'm afraid I've gotten turned around entirely.  Is this the way back to the east wing?”  

Frey shook his head.  “I must beg your forgiveness, Lady Elsa.  I have been terribly rude to abandon you this morning, without even a guide around the house!  I should have sent Tobias with you to show you the lay of the manor.”  

“We'd still be in the foyer,” Etienne muttered, and then caught himself with an internal curse as Frey’s eyebrows shot upwards. Elsa would never say that!  Not about such a dear, kind old soul!  “I mean,” he hastened to add, “He is elderly, and I fear it would be too much strain for me to drag him all over at my pace, and…” Etienne hit on it all at once, and it was so obvious, he was ashamed it had taken him so long.  “Well, the truth of it is, I was searching for a room.”  

“A room?”  Frey echoed, with a careless smile.  “Well, there are dozens of them, Lady, you may have your pick.  Is your chamber not to your liking?”  

Etienne's laugh was a little thin. That had been a close call.  “Not for me, My lord.  One room in particular has caught my fancy,” he continued.  “I have heard a legend told of this place: the great ghost story of Chancelion.  In Ivanis City, they say that your great-uncle Evern Reichwyn played a hand of cards with the devil, and lost, and was dragged down to hell for payment.  Is it true that the room where they gambled is still locked up, untouched?”  

All of the good humor had fled Frey's face.  For a moment Etienne thought he had gone too far, and some fast back-stepping would be required, but Frey shook himself and dredged up a smile from somewhere.  It was a thin ghost of the previous one, however, and did not reach his eyes.  

“Ah, I should have known you would be curious,” he said, sadly.  “I suppose even in the south, the misfortune of Chancelion is known?”  

Etienne clutched his hands in his skirts, consternated. “Forgive my inconsiderate curiosity, my lord.  Of course, it is a family matter here, and a serious thing, not some scandalous fireside rumor told in a salon in the city...”  

“Frey,” Frey said, with a touch of his old humor. “Call me by name, lady, and I will grant your desire, any desire.”  

Etienne felt his pulse quicken, in spite of himself. He told himself it was only the hot blood of the chase.  “So he did play a hand with the devil?  There is such a room?”  

Frey shrugged.  “I wasn't there at the time, so I don't know about the devil or not. But there is such a room, yes, and it is indeed untouched, as far as I know.  It's a morbid curiosity, really, and in my eyes it is the sad remnant of a man who went mad and nothing more.  But I cannot deny the air of the place, and I've no heart to disturb it. The servants refuse to speak of the room at all, so one can hardly expect them to go in and tidy it up. There is only one key, and it is mine. I am not sure if such a place is suitable for you, even if it is only a legend.”  

Etienne's curiosity was now well and truly piqued. So Freyton Reichwyn Landry—who if Etienne’s information was true, was the Devil's Heir apparent himself—doubted the legend of Chancelion, and his own great-uncle's fate?   “I assure you, Lord Freyton, I am not prone to histrionics or fainting.  I can endure the sight of a dusty chamber with a tall tale tacked onto it.”  

“Then I will show it to you,” Frey said, and reached for the ring of keys at his belt.  “Provided, of course, that you meet my condition.”  

“Your condition?”  Etienne echoed, and then remembered.  “Ah yes.”  He paused to taste the name a little before letting it out.  “...Frey.”  

His suitor smiled once again, and it was as though the sun had come out, though rain still hammered down like musket-fire on the leaded glass windows.  “That is much better,” he said, and swept his arm towards the left-hand corridor.  “This way, my Lady.”  

Frey knew the passages of his rambling house as though they were the contours of his own bedchamber.  Even though he had only lived there for two years, he could recite the date of every tapestry, the tournaments won or lost in every suit of armor, the artist of every portrait.  Knowledge of his ancestral home was a matter of some pride for the young landholder, and as he had been unaware of his birthright for most of his life, he took it as both his duty and his pleasure.

Etienne did not have to feign interest on Elsa's behalf; he had a weak spot for history and the halls of Chancelion had their wealth spread out in a tasteful sheen, instead of the overcrowded luxuries of his room.  Frey led Etienne across a landing and through a side-passage, then down a staircase of coiled squares, the railing-posts mounted with exquisitely carved hawks.  

“They were an addition of his,” Frey said, patting one of the birds on its shiny head.  “He liked it a great deal, I've heard.  Hawking.  You enjoy it as well, don't you?  Perhaps tomorrow it will be dry enough to go out.”  

“His?”  Etienne repeated.  

“Uncle Evern,” Frey said.  “I never met the man, but Tobias was here at the time, you know. Much younger, of course. He knows everything about the place.  I'm a mere amateur by comparison.”  Frey had paused at the landing, under an ornate window with stained glass in the pattern of the Reichwyn arms, emblazoned on a shield held by a pair of rampant cats.  On a sunny day, it would have splashed them both with blues and golds, but in the rainstorm, it was darkened as though in mourning.  The device featured crowns and stars and moons and suns—-the same as Evern's ill-fated round of card suits.  Etienne wondered if Frey had picked those motifs when he came to inherit, or if his Great-Uncle had chosen them when he won Chancelion.  Etienne shuddered as he turned his back to the window. Perhaps it was only that the Archdemon had a wretched sense of humor.  

“This way,” Frey said, once he had finished adjusting a bit of the stair-carpet that had buckled up under its rod.  “Bloody thing is always coming up.  Someone's going to trip on it and break his neck, honestly.”  

Would it were that easy, Etienne thought, but he took note of the step, just in case.  Maybe on the way back.

They soon left the refurbished parts of the house, plunging back into older, dusty passages. Bits of plaster had fallen from the walls to reveal bare stone.  Crates were stacked against the walls, and moth-eaten hunting trophies glared down at them from the high walls, their glass eyes disturbingly lifelike in their gaunt heads.  Frey and his guest had encountered no servants in their journey, and there seemed to be little chance of doing so now.  

“I must apologize for the state of this wing,” Frey said, shoving aside an old oak table to allow more room in the passage for his lady's copious skirts.  “My predecessors in the title were an unscrupulous lot, though I pray Saint Justicia had mercy at their souls' trial. They ransacked the house and sold most things of value.  I've only just gotten the present rooms in a fit state to live in.  It's something of an ongoing project—oh, damn.”  A suit of armor had collapsed on itself, scattering pauldrons and greaves across the hallway like the wreckage of an upset carriage. Frey reached back a hand to help his lady across the mess.  “Mind that spur, it can't be at all nice to step on.  In truth, when I took the house, it all looked like this, and there wasn't much left in the coffers.”  

“You've done splendidly with the manor,” Etienne murmured.  “I had no idea it was in such a state when you came to your title.”

“Well, to be honest, it was worse than this.  They were keeping pigs in the great hall, and had burned most of the furniture and banisters for firewood.  I'm only glad they didn't touch the library.  For one, I doubt they could read, and for another, Tobias locked the doors and claimed to have misplaced the key.  Lucky thing he did.  You enjoy reading, my lady?”  

“A great deal,” Etienne answered, with honest enthusiasm.  

Frey was delighted in turn by his bride's delight.  “Then you must see our library.  Do you know we have an ancient account of the binding of the Archdemon, in the very hand of the scholar D'Grassa?”  

“Do you really?”  Etienne said, his eyes wide, showing no sign that the leather-bound original D'Grassa was in his traveling case at that very moment.  “That's extraordinary.”  

“I can't read it, of course,” Frey said, apologetically.  “But you mentioned—in your second letter, I believe—that you dabbled in the pre-Justician letters?  I'd be honored if perhaps you could go over some of it with me. Some night after supper perhaps?”  

“I shall do my best,” Etienne said, hoping his smile wasn't too fixed.  He either needed to find a way to smuggle those stolen books back into the library, or to brain his fiancée before the subject could come up again.  Though it was a pity, he thought.  So few people want to learn the old letters in this day and age. I finally find one who wants to, and I have to kill him instead.

Frey was counting tapestries.  “Seven, six...  ah. Here it is.  The one with the hunt on it.”  Faded figures writhed across the wall-hanging, racing their dogs and horses pell-mell into the yawning holes made by age and vermin, all in the determined pursuit of a stained-looking stag.

“Was it always a hidden room?”  Etienne asked, as Frey shoved up the tapestry with his elbow, and jangled through his ring of keys in search of the right one.  “I mean, doesn't it strike you as a bit odd, that Evern would be playing cards in some hidden room?”

“Oh, no. It wasn't always hidden.  This is the old armory.  Evern had it converted into a games room, and Tobias tells me he always came here after dinner to play cards or dice with his friends.  There were no guests the night of the last hand, but he would dice on his own.”  Frey had found the key he wanted, a rather elegant one for such a room.  Etienne had been expecting a slab of iron with a rough tooth, the sort for locking manacles.  “The room was shut up and covered afterwards, by some superstitious second cousins of mine who inherited next.  They weren't here long; the lady of the house went mad and wound up drowning herself in the duck pond.  The staff insists her ghost’s been sighted regularly around the grounds ever since, not that I've run into her myself, but we did just have a scullery maid quit a fortnight ago after supposedly seeing her.”  The lock gave a surprisingly well-oiled click. “There. Mind the tapestry.”  

Etienne held up one arm to ward off the moldering folds of the hunt scene, and followed Frey's gesture into the fabled chamber.  The overwhelming impression was one of dust, but that was only to the eyes. There were other senses to be assailed, other messages to heed, and they presented themselves at once, to the detriment of all others.  

The moment Etienne crossed the threshold, the crimson tattoo on his wrist burst into pain, burning as though freshly inscribed.  Etienne could feel every needle-stroke of the protective seal upon his skin.  He put one hand to his wrist, grasping the mark hidden by his sleeve, and struggled to think past the agonizing warning.  For Etienne was far more than a common-garden villain and garrotter.  He was a sworn and bloodied member of the Order of the Crimson Seal, founded by Vynae himself after the defeat of the Archdemon centuries ago.  Etienne was an elite soldier standing against a tide of black magic and foul sorceries. His was a sword of brilliant reason in the darkness, and he was branded and oathed to Ephaseus and his cause.  

Frey left the door open behind him, though the tapestry tumbled down after and a few of the hounds lost their snouts in the crumbling threads.  “You see, it is truly not much to—” He broke off, in alarm. “Elsa!  You've gone white!  Are you ill?”

With effort, Etienne pried his fingers off his wrist, and his teeth apart.  The air of lingering evil was so palpable in the room, he marveled that Frey could stand there oblivious to it.  “It’s—it’s nothing,” he said.  “Only some dust in my lungs, it made me quite giddy.”  He pulled a kerchief from his artfully constructed bosom, and held it delicately over his mouth as he forced his mind to clear, to focus past the pain.  “I should be fine in just a moment.”  

“I should not have brought you here,” Frey said, scowling.  He had one hand on the small of Etienne's back, to catch his bride-to-be should she faint.  “Your bravery is commendable, but there's no need to go further—”

“I'm quite all right now,” Etienne said, tucking his kerchief away, and making a grand show of fussing with his cuffs.  “Now, we've come all this way to see this place, I should like to see it! Don't frown so, it was only a spot of stale air.”  Etienne put a finger to Frey's lips, teasing, and it was enough to startle a smile out of his betrothed.  

Etienne's head was clearing at last, even though the mark of the Order still buzzed like the stings of an entire beehive. The room was small, even cozy, though the air of neglect made it seem that much more empty and echoing.  He had always pictured the famous duel taking place in a bare chamber with a splintery wood table and two chairs, like in some hidden dungeon.  But this had been a delightful room years ago, one designed for leisure and pleasant pursuits.  The high, narrow windows had all been boarded over, but several of the planks had fallen in, letting in a watery light.  Dust lay thick and undisturbed on elegant tables and chairs; a settee sat decomposing in the corner, tapestry cushions lumpy grey in the colorless light.  The beams of the ceiling had once been painted in bright, lively patterns, now they only looked like faded graffiti.  A shadowy portrait peered down over the mantelpiece.  Logs still waited in a neat bundle by the hearth, where black ash was scattered around the gnawed rug in tiny trails.  

“Squirrels,” Frey said, following Etienne's eyes.  “They'll have the whole room nibbled to floorboards in another year or so.  I was going to have a grate put over the fireplace to keep them out, but I haven't found any workmen willing to do it.”

“Ah.” Etienne took a few steps forward, his skirts sweeping a clean spot through the dust.  “This is the man himself, I assume?”  He tilted his head far back to get a better look at the painting, but in the gloomy room—and under the dirt on the paint varnish—Lord Evern Reichwyn was a yellowed ghost, dark-eyed and fair-haired and elusive, sitting at ease with his hand on the head of a hunting dog at his knee.  He was handsome, even in shadows, and wore his shirt open.  Etienne could see an echo of Frey there, somewhere in his slightly-arrogant face, a whisper of familiarity beyond just coloring.  

“I wanted to put him in the great hall,” Frey said, with a little sigh.  “But one of the chambermaids swooned at the very idea of it, so I'll have to wait a bit longer to dine with my uncle, I suppose. I can't really blame the servants. They've all become superstitious. I only hope the painting's not ruined by the time I can have it brought out.”  

Etienne took a step backwards to see the painting better, but his skirts bumped into something behind him.  “Ah!  I didn't even see...  oh.”  The something was a chair lying on its side, on the floor.  Etienne knelt to right it again, and noticed the dust heaped up against the toppled legs.  The chair had fallen decades ago, knocked aside from the delicate little table behind it. The matching chair on the other side was scooted a short distance from the table, as though someone had pushed it back to rise, maybe to refill his glass.  But it was the table that drew Etienne's attention.  Almost invisible under a thin film of dust, there were cards scattered on its surface.  They had curled with age and one—the ace of crowns—lay on the floor.  One corner had been chewed by a rodent.  Frey was on the other side of the table, looking down at the three crowns and seven suns that lay there, just to the side of a grimy crystal glass.  A bottle was on the table, empty save for some flakes of brown dirt, and the other cup was overturned, cracked and empty.  Its contents had made a darker patch, long ago, on the table and the carpet below.  

Etienne stood up without moving the chair from its resting place.  “This is it, isn't it?”  

“It is,” Frey said, heavily.  “Sad, is it not?  He even laid out another hand of cards and a glass.  I suppose the loneliness of the place in winter must have driven him mad.”

“So you don't believe the Devil sat here, and answered Lord Evern's challenge for an opponent?”  Etienne's fingertips hovered over the stack of undealt cards in the middle of the table. They had slipped sideways into a heap.

“Don't mistake me, Elsa.  Every Sabbath I've a grateful hymn on my lips for Saint Justicia.  But this speaks to me more of madness than of a curse. Though I suppose that's devilry enough, is it not?”  

“So why the tales?”  Etienne said, moving to the other side of the table and trying not to flinch as his tattoo went to pinpricks again.  

“Tobias found Evern in this room the next day.  Just like this.  The wine for two, the cards laid out so, and Evern out of his wits with his hair gone snow white.  Of course it went round to the servants in a flash that Evern was yammering nonsense about the Devil and a curse and payment due, and if someone asked him directly what happened, he would only gesture to the cards.  He wandered off into the moors the next night.  He's never been seen since.  All the servants except for Tobias left Easting right after.”  

“How awful,” Etienne said sadly, as Elsa would have.  “So the curse—”

“Is a myth, of course.”  Frey looked up at him, intently.  “I know my cousins had hard luck at Chancelion, but they made their own misfortune. I've been here six years now, and it has been nothing but blessed for me.  Surely, if there was a curse, I would have been victim to it?  No.  I show you this to put your mind at ease, Elsa.  It is a sad room, but nothing more.  No split-hoof prints burned into the carpet, no eternal ring of fire, no ghosts showing up on the anniversary of the game to replay it again in transparent pantomime.  You need have no fear of it.”  

“I'm not afraid,” Etienne said, though that did not mean he agreed.  If there was no curse, then Etienne would not be standing there, tricked out in green velvet, with murder on his mind.  If Evern had not gambled away his soul in that room, then why were there no coins on the card table?  Even a madman playing himself would know a bet had to be laid as well as cards.  

“I'm glad to see you are as brave as you are intelligent,” Frey said, and smiled at his bride-to-be.  “And as lovely.”  

Etienne turned away, wishing he’d thought to bring a fan with him to hide behind.  “You do me to much honor, sir.  I am only too curious for my own good, as my Aunt would say. But I thank you for being so honest about the room.  Another man would not even have permitted his bride to see it, for fear of making her hysterical or overwrought or some nonsense.”  

Frey's hands tightened on the back of the Devil's chair.  “Honest?” he asked, as though to himself.  “Hardly.  In truth, Elsa, I only agreed to bring you here so that for a moment we could be most assuredly alone, and unobserved.”  

Etienne's pulse tripped with warning.  What was this, then?  Surely Frey was not about to make an attack on his lady's chastity?  “Oh?”  He forced out a laugh, but it rang as hollow as a specter's in the room.  “You choose a strange place for courtship, Frey.”  

Frey did not warm to the teasing; if anything, he looked more grim.  Etienne wondered for a split second if there was a beast under his veneer, one who would prey on an unsuspecting female, but dismissed the idea at once.  If anything, it was Frey who should be worried about his bride's intentions.  

“Elsa,” Frey said, and his handsome face twisted a moment with dismay.  “I have...  there is something I must tell you.  Tobias suggested I wait until the wedding night, but that is dishonorable, and no lady deserves to be so willingly misled.  I would give you the chance to refuse me.  I don't think a sensible lady would reject my suit on such grounds, but you deserve the chance to do so.”  

Etienne took a step away.  For an assassin it was practical: he wanted some distance, something solid behind him if need be, and room in which to fight.  But in his gown and wig and paints, it looked perfectly authentic as trepidation.  “What are you talking about?”  

Frey pushed himself off the chair, and raked back the hair that was always slipping out of its ribbon.  “Elsa. Darling.  You know I think this curse business is nonsense, correct?  I'm a man of faith, believe me, but I will not be dogged by imaginary devils.  Nor would I see you live here in fear, when my only wish is for you to bring warmth to this place...  and... and children.”  His face was flushed with crimson, and to Etienne it was the only color in the entire room.  “For the two of us to give Chancelion life again.  I never dreamed of achieving such things when I was a fatherless boy growing up in a tavern, playing cards to earn my mother's bread, without even a home to call my own.”  He looked at Etienne in something like desperation.  “But the moment I came here I have loved this house from cellar to spire.  Yes, even this wretched room.  It grieves me to see it so.  All I have ever wanted was for fortune to shine on this place once more.  And for two years, it has.  Never have I been more convinced that there was no curse than I was the moment you accepted me as your future husband.  It was the most wonderful day of my life, even more so than the day I was informed of my inheritance.”  

Etienne felt his heart sinking, oozing down into his belly like the drowning wick of a tallow candle.  Frey continued on, as though his confession was being dragged out of him with an inquisitor's red-hot hooks.  

“But there is a reason—a trifling coincidence and one I give no credence to—that you might think such a curse exists.  I speak not of Evern's madness, or the foolishness of my late relatives. It is something about me, specifically.”

Etienne wished he could loosen his corset.  It felt like he couldn't breathe, and his one consolation was that his anxiety must be convincing.  “...What is it?”  

Frey looked at him, a long, searching glance, and then he took off his velvet coat. He flung it on the back of the Devil's chair, and sent his waistcoat after it.

“My Lord!” Etienne began, forgetting to call him Frey.  

Frey did not answer, but his silk cravat unraveled to the floor like a serpent's ghost, and then, with only the barest moment of hesitation, he pulled his shirt off over his head.  

Even the dim light of the room was not kind.  Etienne's wrist burst into flames of pain, and he put a hand over his mouth, knowing his noise of horror would not be a woman's cry.  From throat to wrists, and shoulder to belly, all over the smooth muscles of Frey's torso, tiny red lines writhed across his skin. They twisted and bent and curled like live insects held above a candle flame, and Etienne's stomach clenched with revulsion at the sight of them.  He struggled to hang on to his ruse, and in no small amount, to his sanity as well. Elsa would only be shocked at the marks, surely.  She would be aghast, but would think them only lines, blemishes.  

But Etienne could read them.  He knew the horrors inscribed across Frey's skin, and understood the terrible doom they foretold as they burrowed down Frey's ribcage.  Death and chaos had been dragged over Frey's body like corpses behind a charnel wagon, leaving bloody paths behind.  The letters screamed with rage inside Etienne's mind, the rage of a demon from the depths as he wrenched at the splintering bars of his cage. Those splinters made those awful letters, scribed in the highest tongue of hell.  When Etienne could tear his eyes back to Frey's, he found them shining with grief.  

“You refuse, then,” he said softly.  “Lady. I do not blame you.”  

Etienne gulped past the taste of bile in his mouth.  “No!”  he gasped, but he looked away and could not bring himself to look back again.  “I am not so shallow, Frey.  But they—what are they?”  It was all Etienne could do to feign ignorance.  He was possessed with a wild urge to take a blade to Frey's skin, to peel away the marks as one would a rotten spot on an otherwise perfect and luscious peach.

“Birthmarks, I assume.”  Frey answered, subdued.  “I've had them my whole life, though when I was a child they were mere mottling.  My mother told me I looked as though I had been born flayed, they were so thick on my skin.  But as I have aged they have thinned, sharpened.  It's my hope that some day they will fade away entirely.  But save for my head, my hands, and my feet, no part of me is unmarked by them.  I believe them to be mere lines, like the strain of a vein broken beneath the skin, but—-tied to Chancelion as I am, they easily seem to take on a more evil meaning.” Frey had pulled his shirt back on, and though the demonic scribbling was still visible at his neck and wrists, Etienne felt a good deal saner without them shouting their horrific threats at him.

Etienne forced himself away from the side table, tearing his hands away from its marble top.  His fingers had left damp, sweaty patches in the dust.  “I am your betrothed, am I not?  I fail to see how that should change.  You do me little honor, Frey, to think such a small thing would sway me.”

The gratitude and adoration in Frey's eyes was heartbreaking, even to so small and shriveled a heart as Etienne's.  “When you asked to keep our engagement quiet, out of respect to your aunt's endeavors to find you a suitor on her own, I admit, I was grateful.  I knew then you could refuse me without bringing undue shame on yourself.”  

Etienne drew himself up straight.  “Shame? My shame, Frey, would be to refuse the heart of so worthy a suitor.”  

Frey took a step forward, arms outstretched, and Etienne knew he must do the same.  If he was to continue his role, then he would have to submit to being kissed, and kissed he was.  Earnestly, and as chaste as a blushing milkmaid's dream.  Etienne’s thoughts, however, were elsewhere.  Frey had the marks, and only that confirmation made Etienne realize how desperately he had hoped otherwise.  But it was so.  Frey was the Heir, his doom was sealed by Ephaseus' decree, and Etienne was sorry. More sorry than he'd ever been for any blackguard nobleman seeking black powers, or for heartless beauties who cursed the lovers who spurned them.  Those he had snuffed without a thought, serene in his duty.  But once, just this once, Etienne had been beginning to hope Ephaseus was mistaken.  

He should have known better.  Ephaseus was never mistaken.  

Etienne's duty was clear.  Frey must die, and quickly, before the fate inscribed on his flesh could be allowed to manifest.  And really, what better place to do that than in the hidden chamber?  Frey was the only one with a key to the room, in a distant and unused part of the house.  No one had seen them pass this way.  Etienne could dispose of Frey here, lock the room, and then Elsa could protest that she had not seen her beloved all day.  Who would look for him here?  In the chaos it would be easy enough for Elsa to take her leave of Chancelion, for good. With any luck, by the time Frey's body was found, he wouldn't be in a fit state to show how he had met his untimely end.  He would be another victim of Chancelion's curse, and would follow Evern into legend.

Etienne leaned harder into Frey's kiss, trying not to think about the state that warm mouth would be in, in a few days’ time.  He'd sent enough men to the worms, there was no reason to go getting squeamish about it now.  He was doing Frey a mercy, though the man didn't know it.  The only question was how best to go about it.  Poor bastard, Etienne thought.  Probably it was best to be quick and painless, so he wouldn't know what had happened.  He could go straight to Saint Justicia's arms with his true love's kiss still on his lips, dreaming of all the sons that would not be born.  

Etienne put a hand back to the table, as though to steady himself.  The other he tangled up in Frey's hair.  To Frey, it must have seemed quite an ardent gesture. Etienne, however, was only looking for the best place to clonk him.  Evern's empty wine bottle on the table was dusty and cold against Etienne's other hand, and he grasped it.  Sometimes the best weapons were already provided.  One blow to the head, and then if Frey was still breathing, the gentle pressure of his lady's hand over his mouth and nose would end that.  It was perfect, really.  As sweet a setup as Etienne had ever dreamed of.  Etienne felt his belly tighten, and he brought the bottle up in an arc that would end at the back of Frey's skull.  

Death was an eventuality for everyone, Etienne thought.  It was only his job to speed things along.  

It was at that moment, just when the murder was shaping up so splendidly, that it happened.  Actually, it was several things, happening all at once.  The first of them was only a tickle, a little tug on the strap of Etienne's ladylike shoe.  It was not worth note until it was followed, alarmingly, by the unmistakable sensation of something large and alive wriggling under lace-edged linen drawers and crawling up Etienne's leg.

It was instinct; it was involuntary.  Etienne shrieked and the bottle flew out of his hand before it was even a third of the way through its course.  It crashed into the fireplace and exploded; the overturned table scattered cards up into the air.  Frey started back with an oath on his lips, still quite alive, and Etienne was forced into a frantic kicking jig, at last flinging a bewildered and very much offended squirrel out of his undergarments.  It shot beneath the settee and up the chimney, leaving Etienne swearing at it in words that Lady Elsa should by no means have even known, much less dreamed of using.  

Etienne caught himself halfway through a tirade involving fornication, the nine fires of hell, and leeks, and whirled to face Frey.  Surely, what with that and murder and misfortune and squirrels for the love of reason, Etienne's mission and his ruse were both lost.  

But Frey, honest, guileless Frey, was only hanging off the Devil's chair, laughing until he couldn't breathe.  For a moment Etienne hoped he might laugh himself into the grave and spare Etienne the trouble, but there was no such luck.  

Actually, there was plenty of luck, and all the wrong sorts.  

It was not a pleasant evening for Etienne.  Not only did Frey tell the story of the squirrel to Tobias as he served the couple dinner, but Frey was only more enamored of his bride for their adventure, and for her presumed acceptance of him.  He spent the meal gazing at Etienne in pure, unashamed adoration, and that evening kissed him again before saying good night: a frustrating experience for Etienne as there was no good opportunity for death in it.  At nine thirty, he was left in his garish bedchamber with no company but his own frustration and that hideous cherub.

And then, of course, to top it all off, Etienne had to sneak out in the middle of the night and put the D'Grassa volume back in the library.  

[uraharasandals]

Loneliness / Hunger Games AU

Another Hunger Games au that no one asked for! I was tired of reading the books on my reading list so I tried something...more relaxing and got into the amazing world-building again. With that cheery thought, let’s have some more behind the scenes! 

Title: Loneliness

Word count: 2325

Dazai, Mori (other side relationships)

Character study

Weak. Fragile. Worthless. That was what Dazai have been hearing his whole life,  growing up around the other kids in District 2. The other kids were all sturdily built, each of them made up of pure courage, bravery, grim determination and muscle. The other kids could run ten miles without sweating, and still scale the training wall with ease. The other kids could handle basically every weapon without fumbling or letting the sword fall out of their hands. 

Dazai could do none of these things. 

He stopped caring early on, however, mainly because he had other things to worry about. For one, the other children at the orphanage he was at. The staff there told him that his parents were dead, which was why he ended up there. Somehow, his version of the truth was never sugarcoated. He thinks the staff there understood that he could bear the truth, and the truth was given to him. More like shoved; he didn’t have a choice to accept or not. 

At any rate, because of his skinny frame that couldn’t be filled out no matter how hard he tried, Dazai was small, even for his age. Which resulted in a boatload of bullying from the older kids, kids his same age, even younger kids, because at the orphanage there never seemed to be enough, despite it being District 2.

District 2. They were taught that it was one of the Capitol’s favourites, and one of the most-fed. It was also the district of peacekeepers, the white-uniformed blank-faced guards that stood at virtually every corner he could see. Everyone aspired to be like them. Not Dazai.

Everyone also aspired to be a victor in the Hunger Games, and everyone who was someone (which was basically everyone except Dazai) signed up for training. Dazai didn’t bother to, not only because he had no interest in the Games entirely, but also he knew that the moment his name was called, someone more brutal, more bloodthirsty than him would take his place. No one in their right mind would let him go to the Hunger Games.

That is, no one in their right mind until he was eight. For some reason, that was when he got tired of being kicked around and bullied. Dazai soon found that he had a way with words. With manipulating others, and talking his way into anything and everything. His brain became sharper, and it was as if the world’s opportunities opened themselves to him. He was still scrawny and thin, but for once, he stood with confidence. 

The constant manipulation came with a pleasant surprise, too. Rumours spread and soon people started steering clear of him. That was perfectly fine with Dazai; he wanted no company and didn’t bother with any. The staff let him keep the pet snake that somehow followed his commands, and thus he lived peacefully like that. (People called him ‘The Devil’s Child, but what did it matter? He even liked the ring of it)

Fourteen. Two years into the Hunger Games circuit and he started to get bored of just manipulating ordinary people. Dazai started stealing things. Well, not stealing per se, but talking people into giving him things. Mostly women, because he had seen in the mirror that he had a distinct sort of charm. Not conventional, but still charming. With his stature, he could even play the part of a pitiful child. So he talked the rich into giving him things. A jewel here, a ring there. Not much. Mostly he got bored with it and pawned it off, throwing in an excuse to avoid suspicion. He never got into trouble with anyone or anything either, and was beginning to think into making this into a living when he was approached one day. 

Where did you learn to manipulate people like that? At first, Mori was just a friendly face. Dazai even bought into his lies, and started manipulating him. He quickly realised the man was more than that though, and somehow Mori was interested in taking him under as a disciple. What he did for a living, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was Mori socialising with important people and doing important things. Dazai also soon realised the gravity of what he was negotiating on a daily basis; the stakes were higher, meaning that more charm was laid on thick. He started to burrow deeper into the job, deeper into the underground network, and deeper into the lies. He also started enjoying it more, because when these people started losing, they fall deeper. 

Dazai soon learnt a word for this; ‘sadistic’. 

At any rate, it soon vanished into reality when his name was called at the Hunger Games drawing when he was seventeen. Seventeen. Just one more year and it would all be over. But no. Just when he turned seventeen, he had to be carted off to the Capitol and fight to the death for the entertainment of other people. The mere thought of it made him boiling with anger, for the first time in his life. 

He held out as long as he could though, until he realised no one would volunteer for him. Dazai, the person who long ago already graduated from being ‘The Devil’s Child’ to probably personifying the devil himself. Dazai, having lurked in the underground connections so long even the light could not purify him. Dazai, Dazai, Dazai. Everyone in the seventeens crowd probably wished him dead from their loathing and their disgust, and he honestly wasn’t surprised. Another name was drawn and a lovely girl with two braids, though obviously one of the best trained of Two’s, hopped onto the stage and the crowd cheered. Dazai shook her hand and could only think of ways to corrupt her as he stared into her eyes. 

They were soon on the train and lo and behold, Mori appeared, along with an unrecognizable woman. Dazai gave him a wan smile, which was mistaken for what passed for friendliness for him by the other two and their escort. He knew that Mori knew better though. After all, he was the only one present who knew his underground personality. 

The days before the Games then flash by in a blur. Time with his prep time. Dazai was already naturally handsome and one of the assistants, a woman with blond curls dangling above the floor, poked his cheek good-naturedly and commented on his looks. His stylist gushed over how lucky he was to have a camera ready tribute on his hands, and he handled the fabric draping and costume testing with ease. 

Mealtimes. Dazai was a natural speaker and commented, gushed, questioned and reacted with appropriate timing and impeccable style. He won over their escort, the female mentor, and even, he suspected, his fellow tribute. The girls were trained for direct confrontation, strength, battle. They weren’t equipped to handle such flattery or the male attention. Dazai had the girl falling at his feet in no time.

He also had the Capitol audience falling at his feet in no time, too. During his time with Caesar Flickerman, he played off his image as a charming young man who was shunned because of his naturally slim frame and background. Sympathy rose from the crowd, and he could see the rich women dabbing at their eyes with lace. Dazai managed to slip in a puppy look here and there, and he could practically see the sponsors lining up, just for him.

The only problem was his strength, as always. At Mori’s instruction, he tried out every weapon at the Centre, and found out he apparently excelled at throwing and aiming things. A side glance found his fellow Careers showing off around the other malnourished tributes, and he secretly added in some hunting skills, as well as trapping skills. A show of throwing knives got him a decent eight in the Gamemakers’ eyes; he suspected some of it came from his interview.

And of course, he was laying down the charm thick as usual. Dazai befriended everyone and accessed them, before accepting only one tribute for an ally - a tall eighteen year old called Oda Sakunosuke from District Four, who luckily was also part of the Career Gang. Thank god. Otherwise he would arose suspicion.

All too soon he had to take part in the Games. The morning of the Games Dazai felt anxiety clutch at his chest, and nearly lost his confident demeanor in front of the hovercraft personnel. He reminded himself that Mori had won through his wits, and not his strength, though doubt clouded his mind and would have continued if not for the note slipped to him via his stylist. At that, his lips curled up. As always, Mori thought of everything. 

Killing turned out to be surprisingly easy. As long as you dismiss the fact that you were slaughtering live humans it came so much easier. And besides, Dazai was rear guard. He didn’t have to do much except take down the enemy from a distance, and it was easy as long as his opponent didn’t have a long-distance weapon at hand. 

It soon became clear to the rest of the gang that Dazai had brains, and for some incredibly foolish reason they trusted him enough to come up with strategies for gameplay, not thinking that he might even betray them. Once again, his scrawny frame and charm became his assets. 

Soon his allies started dropping dead, but subtly. He made sure they die when they were out hunting in small groups. Having assessed his fellow tributes, he knew which one of them were strong enough, and turned his allies on them. The battleground thinned quickly.

One element he hadn’t counted on affecting him, however, was Oda Sakunosuke. Initially he deemed him the only trustworthy one in the arena, but the more they spent time together the more he found himself dreading losing him. Dazai wasn’t sure what to do with this knowledge. He hadn’t exactly promised to win, but he was desperate enough to live (or at least die by his own methods) that he managed to keep himself alive. Should he allow Oda Sakunosuke to live instead of him? 

The answer came on the fourth day, and it forced his hand. Having let his guard down, he hadn’t realised the arrow until it was too late. Flicking a knife at the direction and successfully hearing the cannon, he immediately rushed back to Oda’s side, blaming himself for not learning healing before, but it was no good. Well, at least he didn’t die by his hand. Dazai found himself, for the first time, ashamed of his thoughts and constant self-preservation. 

Something else began to set in after Oda’s death too, a feeling he wasn’t familiar with until he realised, on the sixth day, what it was after killing another tribute. Loneliness. Desire for company, which was strange, because he had always been a loner. Staring down at the braids in the pool of blood, he silently, for the first time, bid his fellow tribute goodbye.

Twenty-two down, one to go. At this point, the audience was surely at the edge of their seats. Dazai hadn’t thought of the audience since day one and the melancholy after Oda died made him neglect nearly everything else except basic needs, but afterwards he realised the reward he got for charming the audience. A new set of knives after he pinned the Six tribute to a tree resembling crucifixion. Medicine for the mild burns over his hands after tricking a tribute into eating nightlock. Really, his list was endless.

His last tribute died unexpectedly though, and frankly, somewhat disappointingly. Dazai had perched himself on the Cornucopia as an easy target (and close to the lake too, for insurance) and he watched as the wild dogs chased the burly One male tribute down, before they leaped on top of him. The sounds stuck to him ever since, and Dazai thought honestly that no amount of time would erase the trauma. 

The trumpet blew, he was patched up with no more burn scars on his hands, and soon he was waxing poetic about Mori and how much he owed him and all of that bullshit in front of a live audience, but not before holding in tears watching Oda Sakunosuke’s death replayed on a screen in front of him. 

The part about Mori was true, in a way he did owe him. After experiencing the Games himself though, he started doubting whether the man was entirely sane with his methods, and began steering clear of him, though still being in the same industry. Dazai had navigated those waters before, and he continued doing so with ease, thinking he could continue with that lifestyle.

Before realising it was futile, of course. Despite his continuous charm and lies, there was a gnawing at his chest that was confirmed when one of the girls told him there was no heart left behind his words. But what else could he do? No companion would accept him, besides his fellow victors, and most of them were too old anyways (not that he minded sleeping with someone older but for a friend, perhaps the same age was a good start. At least, that was what he heard), or too wary of him. Apparently, even the gossip spread fast in the Victor’s Circle.

That was, until the mess of a Seven tribute was deposited into the Victor’s Circle during his first year of mentoring. The moment Dazai saw his bright orange curls, he knew Nakahara Chuuya would be worth the trouble. 

[another-sonic-blog]

Stages: The Team Dark Rose

Stages: Acquaintance Pt.3: The Team Dark Rose (Chapter 4)

ShadAmy (Lovers or friends, slow burn)

2K500

Previous: https://another-sonic-blog.tumblr.com/post/190053368955/the-bike-shadamy

A/N: Alright, alright, I am making a series out of this. I am still thinking of titles lol.

.

"No, and that's final."

"This team works on democracy, honey, and Omega and I vote that she can come with us."

"I won't let that pink ball join us, it's not going to happen."

Currently, Rouge, Omega and Shadow were discussing whether to let Amy come with them to their mission. There was no problem with Rouge of course and Omega liked the pink one as well.

"You know that we need her, she is the best person for this job."

Shadow was very well aware of that. Their mission was simple, Sonic was missing and the last thing G.U.N received from him was an emergency help message.

And of course, Amy was just made for that job.

But even so, Shadow refused the idea.

"I don't care, she is not coming with us," Shadow said, he looked around at Rouge's apartment, trying to avoid eye contact.

"My logic processor can't understand why you don't want Amy Rose to join the team," Omega added.

"It's only for one mission! Stop acting so childish." Rouge added. She had the best for Amy on her mind. Amy wouldn't do any job for G.U.N, but if Sonic was involved, she surely would. Not only that, G.U.N. would pay her handsomely and that will help her financially as well.

Rouge saw no reaction coming from Shadow, he looked away, denying the facts.

"If you don't accept Amy Rose as a temporary member of Team Dark, then we will talk to the Commander..." Omega added, "I am positive he will accept our request as he is aware of Sonic's relationship with Amy."

Shadow hated that they were speaking the truth. The Commander was good friends with Sonic, he even knew of the close relationship Sonic has with Amy. The Commander also knew that if there was anyone who could find Sonic anywhere in the Universe, it was Amy Rose.

"Why are you even supporting her?" Shadow added, "You don't even know Amy."

"She dismantled the Resistance HQ's main computer so Tails could repair me after you turned into a Zombot." Omega made a pause as Shadow looked him, daring him internally.

"Don't you dare say it-"

"You were a clown."

.

"And Shadow doesn't want to!"

"She is incapable of taking care of herself!"

"You talk about her as if you didn’t know her! She's fought alongside us during the war with Eggman!"

"That doesn't prove anything!"

"My detector says: Shadow is acting as childish."

"I am not!"

G.U.N.'s Commander looked at the famous Team Dark screaming at each other, which was normal but it usually lasted for 3 minutes, it was 7 minutes now. A new record.

"Agents!" the Commander raised his voice and it made the team quiet down almost immediately.

"Agent Rouge...Agent Omega." the Commander said and the two agents got his hopes up too quickly. "Let me talk to your leader about this."

Omega and Rouge looked at each other and nodded. They exited the room, thinking the worst.

"Do you think the Commander will listen to Shadow?" Omega asked Rouge as they both walked away from the door.

Rouge gave it a thought, Shadow was more than Team Dark's leader. He was the top agent of G.U.N., he set the example for the other agents, and whether Rouged liked it or not ...

"Shadow has the Commander's trust..." Rouge sighed. “Goddamit, Shadow."

.

.

.

"Now, tell me the truth ... Why are you so against Amy Rose joining Team Dark for a couple of days?,”The Commander asked he looked at Shadow as he crossed his arms.

"She is unable to defend herself," Shadow said quickly.

"...She is a war hero. You were with her when she was leading the Resistance against Eggman."

"She is an unnecessary asset to the Team, we are professionals, we can find Sonic by ourselves," Shadow gave another answer.

"Miles 'Tails' Prower was unable to find Sonic. If Team Dark was with him, maybe we wouldn't be here. Now, both of them are lost and we need to help them. Amy Rose is our second-best option to find out where these two are." The Commander answered.

"...She is annoying."

"That's not a reliable reason, agent Shadow."

Shadow had to admit that he was defeated. He literally didn't have any good reasons whatsoever. He stood quietly as he broke off eye contact with the Commander.

On the other hand, the Commander knew that Shadow was hiding something from him. He knew him for a long time now and he knew that for a fact that Shadow wasn't telling him something.

"Agent Shadow ... What is the real reason you don't want her?"

Shadow sighed, his crossed arms were now softened. He knew for a fact that this was coming, the G.U.N. Commander wasn't in his position just for nothing and he could read him too well.

"The real reason ... is ..."

.

 Amy found herself in front of Shadow's apartment. Right in front of his door. She thought she was ready. She was Amy Rose, a strong, independent woman that wasn't afraid to speak her mind.

"Are you going to enter or not?" Shadow said as he suddenly opened the door.

You know what? Nevermind, she was going to look for Sonic and Tails by herself.

She turned around and tried to walk away but Shadow immediately grabbed her by the arm and stopped her.

"Why are you here?" He asked.

"It's none of your business!", Amy said immediately.

"You were outside my apartment, it is my business."

"I thought you said you didn't want me here...like ever again." Amy didn't mean to mock him but give him a reason to leave her alone.

"Yes, I said that." Shadow said as he let go of her arm, "So why are you here?"

Damn, Shadow was good. Amy looked around, nervously.

She sighed, she might as well just try.

"I came here..." Amy added, "I came here because I wanted to ask you ... to let me go with you ... with Team Dark, to go look for Sonic and Tails."

"Oh, that..." said Shadow, "No."

Shadow immediately turned and headed back to his apartment.

"Wait! There's must be something I can do! Something to prove that I can be a good temporary asset for the team." Amy walked behind him. He was about to close the door on her but she stopped him from doing so as she put her foot between the door and the entrance.

"Please."

"Look...um Amy," Shadow said sarcastically, pretending to forget her name. "I have already talked to the Commander, he agrees with whatever decision I take."

"And your decision... is it definite?"

"Yes."

Amy sighed as she placed her hands on her forehead, out of frustration.

Amy moved her hand away and looked at the apartment, randomly her eyes laid on the table. She noticed keys. Motorcycle keys.

"Let's make a deal." Amy added, "You and I ... a motorcycle race. I win, you let me go with you and Team Dark. You win, I never bother you ever again."

"You are joking, right? I don't race losers."

"Well, maybe I will be the one racing a loser today."

"Listen pink one, you are wasting your time, just leave."

Amy smiled, she knew she got him. "Fine...I'll just tell everyone Shadow the Hedgehog was afraid to race a small defenseless girl."

"I am not afraid," Shadow said angrily.

"Then why don't you want to race me? You got nothing to lose."

.

"The rules are simple: We need to do one lap around Star park. The first one who finishes win. No short cuts." Shadow said simply as he turned on his favorite motorcycle, more well known as BB.

"Sounds good," Amy said as she turned on the bike she gave to Shadow. She had to admit she was surprised that Shadow kept the rose keychain that she put on the keys.

"Here." Shadow looked away as he handed Amy a head helmet. She accepted it, smiling at the gesture.

"What about you?" She asked.

"I don't need a helmet."

"Everyone needs one, you-"

"Do you want to race me or lecture me?" Shadow asked annoyed.

Amy sighed, he just could be so stubborn sometimes.

 When Shadow noticed Amy was ready, he began to count down.

"On your marks,"

"Ready,"

"Go!"

Amy had to admit that she wasn't the most talented with bikes. She learned how to ride a bike but never raced anyone. Shadow had already passed her, and she began to start to feel anxious. She really wanted to win, she needed to win.

She removed her helmet with one hand and that made her have a clear vision, making her concentrate more. She made a mental note, to payback Shadow for the helmet.

 She tried to go as fast as the motorcycle let her go. From the beginning she knew she wouldn't be able to beat Shadow, but it wasn't about that. It was about proving herself, if she only could go past Shadow, even for just a few seconds...

it was her win.

She spotted her chance, Shadow was going to make a turn. Shadow, confident in his skills, made his turn too big.

Amy then rifted as close as she could to the curve. Getting ahead of Shadow for a few seconds.  

They were on a straight line again, Shadow kept looking straight ahead, eyes always on the road. He had to be honest that this race was a bit unfair. He knew the road too well. He always came here to race. G.U.N agents will challenge Shadow and he will win each and every race. Eventually, everyone gave up and Shadow didn't have anyone to race.

Until Amy came along.

But one last turn and it all be over.

Shadow wanted to appreciate the moment and he let himself lose a little. He turned his head to look at Amy. Her face was fierce, her arms strong and her hair freely moved along with the air.

Freely ... With no helmet.

"Wait-"

Shadow missed the curve. He didn't turn as he wanted and when he realized he had messed up, it was too late. The motorcycle's wheels crushed against the cement path where the pedestrians walk. Shadow flew out of his motorcycle and landed on bushes.

Amy panicked she stopped her motorcycle and dropped it immediately.

She ran towards Shadow who laid on the grass. His eyes closed.

"Shadow!" Amy softly grabbed his head and put it straight, she grabbed him by his cheeks and inspected him.

"I told you to wear a helmet! I-I will call an ambulance." Amy felt her voice crack as she noticed Shadow was bleeding from his head. She felt guilty, if she didn't insist so much, Shadow wouldn't be in this situation. "If you leave me, I'll never forgive you!"

.

Shadow opened his eyes and found himself in his room. Amy was next to him on a chair.

"You weren't wearing a helmet," Shadow said as he sat down on his bed. His pain was gone.

Amy tried to contain her tears, relieved and angry at the same time. "You...idiot! You scared me!" Amy softly punched him in the shoulder.

"I am the ultimate life form, I heal really fast." Shadow felt like he touched a soft spot in Amy and thought she was ready to take out her hammer and punch him. He closed his eyes, ready for a punch or kick but that didn't happen.

Instead, he felt soft arms around him.

She was hugging him.

He didn't hug her back, he pushed her away instead.

"Don't do that," Shadow added, "Never again."

"Sorry, I was worried," Amy said. "I called an ambulance and they said you were fine. They brought you here. Rouge and Omega came by to see if you were ok."

"I was worried too," Shadow said almost in a whisper but Amy heard him clearly.

However, Amy didn't understand. What was Shadow worried about? Himself? The Helmet?

Oh.

"Don't worry about the helmet, I'll pay you back for it."

"It's not about the helmet! It's about ... about-" Shadow looked away, he just couldn't do it. "Nevermind."

"Did Rouge and Omega said anything of importance?" Shadow asked.

"They told me to tell you to be ready for the mission tomorrow." Amy simply said, "I should be getting ready to go too."

"Go where?"

"To look for Sonic and Tails. I don't care if I am going alone. I wanted to go with you guys because I thought it will be better to stay together."

Shadow sighed, he should know better. Amy was going to go regardless if she went with Team Dark or not. There was only one reason why he didn't let her come with them and if she goes alone, that messes his whole plan.

" ... Be ready tomorrow at 8 a.m. sharp or we will leave without you." Shadow said as he noticed Amy smiling cheek to cheek.

"Thank you so much, Shadow," Amy said, "Also, you don't have to worry about me. I promise I will be safe. I can take care of myself."

Shadow eyes widen, what? Did she know? Who told her-

Shadow gulped, "What?"

"You are worried about me? Right?" Amy added, "Rouge told me she heard you talk to the Commander about-"

Oh Chaos no. Shadow remembered that conversation, perfectly.

.

"The real reason... is... Whenever I try doing something good for her, or whenever we are together ... I end up messing things even more. I don't want to cause her any more problems."

"You actually, enjoy her companionship don't you?," The Commander asked.

Shadow sighed, feeling relieved to finally say it.

"I do... I really do."

.

"My helmet! Yes! It's about my helmet!" Shadow said, not wanting for Amy to continue. "I was worried about my helmet when I didn't see you wearing it."

"Oh, as I said, don't worry about it. I'll pay for it!" Amy said smiling. "I have 200 rings I can use. It's just a helmet, it shouldn't be too much right?"

"That was an Arai Corsair V Race Carbon Fiber Helmet...." Shadow said. Amy had a confused look and for which Shadow only replied ...

"It cost me 3,595 rings."

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Next part: https://another-sonic-blog.tumblr.com/post/190377013355/stages-the-deal

[romanticatheart-posts]

The Winds of Change

@cora-nova @allaboutchoices @ao719 @emichelle @kingliam2019 @bbrandy2002 @cordonianroyalty @dangerouseggseagleartisan @eadanga @texaskitten30 @janezillow @jared2612 @dcbbw

A message from the author -- The following is nothing more than my attempt to recreate a fictitious tale that has been written and re-written a million times and in a million different ways (by some very talented writers I might add) since Choices aired its first chapter of The Royal Romance in April 2017.

The short prologue below will hopefully give you some idea about how the story will unfold and just for reference, it’s part canon and part AU, but all of it centers around Riley and Liam. Thank you in advance for liking or commenting and just know that doing one or both is the sweetest form of flattery and also keeps me motivated. Though, if you truly enjoy this first chapter, a re-blog would just put the icing on the cake!  -- 

Prologue After her fall from grace, Riley was forced to board a plane headed for New York City. Back to her origin of birth. She returned with little more than a broken spirit and a broken heart, but what she left behind was a trail of shattered hopes and dreams with no possibility of restoring all that was lost. As difficult as it was to believe that her name had been smeared because of false accusations against her, it was even harder to accept that the man she loved had rejected her because of it. 

It had only been a few days since her arrival from Cordonia, but even so, it seemed like a lifetime ago. She realized the big city no longer held promise for her, nor did it feel like home anymore. And while earnestly seeking refuge in the concrete jungle once more, she encounters one obstacle after the other, forcing Riley to face a hard reality. With her resources shrinking as fast as her optimism, if she doesn’t catch a break soon, not only will she be standing in front of a breadline waiting for a handout, but by that point, she will already be homeless. However, as the winds began to shift in her direction yet again, this time they would blow in her favor bringing a welcome reprieve from the hardships that had befallen her recently. This much-needed relief and support would come swiftly, and from a very unexpected source. 

Back in Cordonia, Liam had just been crowned as king when all hell broke loose. And the award for most fortunate that night goes to the culprit who rained all-out chaos on an otherwise civilized ceremony because their timing was impeccable. But not so lucky, was the one who’s plans for the future came to screeching halt when his closing speech was interrupted by a devastating news release. It just had to be that moment when photos of his beloved Riley surfaced that captured her in a compromising position with another man, deeming her unfit as the potential queen. 

Liam knew immediately it had to be staged and most likely part of a conspiracy, but who would do such a thing? And why? Needless to say, he was shocked, confused and angry all at the same time, but as the mayhem tapered off and old fears began to emerge, he made a split-second decision to protect her the only way he could. Under the scrutiny of his peers, the people and the press, he unwillingly fulfilled his last obligation by becoming formally engaged just as Riley is being forcefully escorted from the ballroom. When he learns later that she is on a plane headed for New York, his despair is replaced with overwhelming desperation. And as the old saying goes, ‘desperate times call for desperate measures’… Well, in spite of the circumstances, Liam found the courage he needed to assert his first official command as reigning monarch. It was a decision that would shake Cordonian tradition to its core.

Without further ado, let the chaos... Ahem. I mean, let the story begin!

The Winds of Change is a term used to describe various instances in which our paths are altered by unseen forces. A metaphoric phenomenon that will touch the lives of every living, breathing soul on the face of the earth. It is believed that change is inevitable and oftentimes occurs without a noticeable impact. However, when this invisible dynamic begins to whip and thrash around its next victim, what’s left in its wake can either bring joy or it can bring misery. And no matter which way it blows, no one is immune. 

That cliché holds a particular truth for one spirited young waitress who, because of one incredible night, decided to follow her heart in pursuit of true love. If anyone had told her even a year ago that she would live amongst royalty as a member of the elite, and perhaps win the heart of a prince, she would have declared them insane. Ironically, she had little to none of the typical childhood fantasies about knights in shining armor and happily ever after’s. Her approach to life has always been more... down-to-earth. Even if it seems extreme, be open to adventure and embrace every opportunity that presents itself. But in the process, keep your head out of the clouds and remain true to yourself. Everything else will just fall into place. And when fate decided to test that philosophy by throwing a handsome stranger and the chance of a lifetime into the mix, without hesitation, she accepted the challenge. Although unaware at the time, Riley Brooks came face to face with a real-life prince and his three unlikely cohorts on a not so typical Saturday night. This was just the beginning of what would set her on the course for an adventure of a lifetime. So, let’s go back to where it all began... 

Living in New York City and working at a local bar gave Riley ample opportunity to meet people from all walks of life and most of the time, they’d come and go without ever leaving so much as a smidge of an impression on her. Though, when these four men walked in, she could tell right away they were... different, but in a good way. And maybe the word unique would be the best way to describe them. 

It was clear that they were not native to New York, or even anywhere near, but there was a distinct brotherly bond between them that was rather endearing. Not only was their comradery entertaining to watch, but they would often draw her into their trivial disputes and discussions as she brought food and drinks to the table. And for once, working an extra shift didn’t seem so bad after all. These men were so completely different in terms of character that she wondered how they managed to become acquaintances, much less friends, to begin with. But even so, she sensed right away that they’d be fun to hang out with. Though, only one of them had awakened her other senses. 

His name was Liam. The man whose eyes were like mystic blue orbs that seemed to flash more vibrant each time he looked at her and when combined with that radiant smile he wore, well... let’s just say she tingled from head to toe. Throughout the evening she did well in her attempts to keep from staring, but that didn’t stop her from tossing a few subtle glances his way when she thought he wasn’t looking. It was hard not to, especially since he was so unbelievably handsome. Each time though, she was met by his hypnotic gaze that almost made her go weak in the knees. Riley found that even though her motto was to never get personally involved with any of her customers, there was just something about him that made her want to forget that small detail. There was no denying the connection that existed between them and if given the opportunity for something more, she would gladly seize it. But, since the bar was about to close and neither had made a move in that direction, she resigned that this would just be another classic tale about the one that got away. However, fate had other plans. 

While Riley was busy finishing her tasks for the night, as luck would have it, the bachelor party was wrapping up at the same time. It was then that Liam approached her with an apology for keeping her so late and offered to buy her a drink as a thank you. The look in his eyes told her he was sincere and trustworthy, so without hesitation, she followed her instincts and agreed to be their tour guide. 

Instead of the usual club scene that had been suggested, Riley decided to charm them all with a visit to a place she called her secret spot. It was a cove just off the beaten path that she frequented for the peace and serenity that came from being near the water. That night though, it provided the perfect backdrop for her impromptu date with destiny. While the others cavorted in and around the shoreline, Riley led Liam on a short walk to climb a small cliff overlooking the ocean just to show him an amazing view. Although, the only view he was interested in at the moment was literally standing in front of him. Afterward, they wandered over by the bonfire Drake started upon their arrival, both thankful for the warmth of the crackling embers. They sat side by side and spent that time just getting to know one another better. This is when she learned Liam was a prince of some country in the Mediterranean. The Crown Prince of Cordonia to be exact and seeing that his mood had shifted as soon as he mentioned it, it was obvious the subject was a source of contention for him. Instead of focusing on the noticeable conflict that was written in his expression, Riley thought a change of scenery would be the perfect distraction and might do them both some good. So, after stating his desire to see the Statue of Liberty on his last night here, she cashed in a few favors and fulfilled a lifelong dream and in the process, brought the spark back to his eyes. 

This was a pivotal moment for Liam when he recognized she wasn’t just some pretty face that used her wiles for personal gain. She showed him a side of human nature that was as sincere as it was unfamiliar, and yet something he craved all the same. It was simple really. His greatest desire was to be regarded as Liam the person, instead of a title that he was born to bear, and that is exactly who he was to her... just, Liam. The longer they talked, the more he realized that the feelings she’d stirred in him at the bar were multiplying by the second and once they shared their first kiss he immediately began dreading the moment they would have to say goodbye. Though the time did come, and it was much harder than either could have imagined. 

At the point when they reached her apartment, Maxwell, Drake, and Tariq had all but crashed after their trip to the cove and were fast asleep as the limo rolled to a stop. Liam and Riley shared amused glances and then edged quietly out of the vehicle while stifling laughter at the sight before them. Though, once they both stood facing the apartment building, their expressions became more passive as neither was ready for the night to end. But after a few silent moments of contemplating the inevitable, Liam smiles ruefully as he gently takes her hand into his and they began the long trek down a short footpath that led to the front door. The entrance was not that far from where they were but wanting to hold onto these last precious moments together, they walked at a slower pace. 

Upon reaching the threshold, the two stood looking at each other and for a brief moment, neither knew exactly what to say. Liam finally broke the silence, but not before lifting her hand to his lips for a sweet kiss and then held it tenderly to his chest, forcing her to take a half-step forward. 

“Thank you for tonight, Riley. Believe me when I say that I thoroughly enjoyed every moment I’ve spent with you.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Liam. I had fun too.”

“That’s... I’m glad.” 

With emotions running high and hearts racing, their eyes were locked solely on each other. Knowing their paths would never cross again, Riley leans in and captures his lips in hers one last time. It was a long, deep kiss and without hesitation, Liam wrapped his arms tightly around her as though he’d never let her go. But then, it was over way too soon and both knew the time had come to part ways. He reluctantly let her go and took a small step back. 

“I’m glad to have met you, Riley Brooks. I’ll never forget this night...”

“Neither will I.” 

And with that, she turned to go inside as Liam waited until she was safely behind the glass entrance and then headed back to the limo. As he opened the door, he took one last moment to look back only to find that she was no longer there. It was a bittersweet moment, to say the least. 

The next morning, only seconds after reaching the bar where she was just about to begin her shift, Maxwell, one of the four guys she’d met the night before, showed up with an off the wall proposition. It was an invitation to join a contest of sorts, where she would rub elbows with royalty, ski the Alps, and visit places she’d only ever imagined... but the best part of all was the fact that she would get to see Liam again. And if their connection the night before held true, it would definitely be worth the trip. And then there could possibly be a proposal at the end which seemed a little farfetched, but she was game. With Liam being from a sovereign nation, it was a tradition and expected that its Crown Prince would choose a wife from those that came from noble houses in and around the kingdom. Since Riley didn’t meet this small requirement to participate, Maxwell gladly offered to be her sponsor. Within an hour after receiving the invitation, she was on a plane headed to a place she’d never seen before. And before she met Liam, she’d never heard of it either. 

From the moment she stepped foot inside the palace of Cordonia, until tonight, the time just seemed to fly by. And with good reason. Beginning with one ball and now ending with another, the social season had been a continuous string of parties and social gatherings where she sailed a boat, danced with royalty and even got to show off her skills on the slopes. As soon as one event ended another began, and each was more dynamic than the last. Aside from sleeping, not one minute was spent idly. Although her ability to hold stamina in this fast-pace environment was no different than growing up in the hustle and bustle of New York City, that is where familiarity ended. 

It wasn’t a secret that she was an outsider with no formal education in navigating through this strange yet exciting world she willingly leaped into. And as such, it put her at a slight disadvantage over the born and bred noblewomen that came with their pedigrees primed and ready. But with guidance from a few close friends she’d made along the way, coupled with her God-given strength and determination, Riley was quickly thrust into the spotlight, becoming favored among the others. Not only did she find success in every event of the social season, but she also earned well-deserved respect in the process. Surprisingly, nothing about the methodology ever made her feel as though she was out of her element. In fact, it gave her cause to believe that this is where she was meant to be... the place where she belonged. 

Though, her growing fondness of Cordonia was only secondary to the increasing affection toward its prince. And by the third or fourth event, there was no doubt that she had fallen deeply in love with Prince Liam, and as much as he tried to be fair to the others, it was evident from the way he looked at her that the feeling was mutual. Tonight marked the end of the social season and a hopeful beginning for the future. But, before she could seize her moment of triumph, she was literally carried away in a hell storm. 

Sitting idly inside the Cordonian airport, Riley’s expression can’t hide the true depth of confusion and pain she feels at this moment. And how it runs all the way to her soul. How could one misunderstanding get distorted and be so far from the truth, that she was forced out like a common criminal? On second thought, at least a real criminal would have gotten to make a phone call before being exiled. There is no doubt she has a lot on her mind... and her heart. As she sifts through the scattered fragments of what brought her to this moment, a flashback of the not so distant past streams through her mind... 

“Right now, I want to have this moment just with you. Not in front of the entire court. Not with nobles and servants watching. I want to remember this moment... before our lives change forever tonight. And when I remember it, I want it to be just for us. Riley, even if I didn’t need to choose a bride tonight, I’d still be proposing. Because I don’t need any more time to decide. I already know.” 

“Liam... What are you saying?” 

“Riley, I never expected to feel this way about anyone. I never expected to meet anyone like you. These past few weeks have been torture... wanting desperately to spend time with you but being held back by this damned process. Wanting so badly to hold you... to tell you that it was always you in my heart. You’re the brightest spot in my world. When I’m near you, I can’t help smiling, laughing... you’re the funniest, sweetest, most daring person that I know. And every time I see you I find myself thinking how lucky, how incredibly lucky I am that I’m the one you’re spending your time with. Ever since my brother abdicated, I was worried about finding a woman worthy of being the Queen of Cordonia. But since I’ve met you, I worry about being worthy of you. Riley Brooks, you’re incredible in every sense of the word. And I don’t want to spend another minute without you knowing exactly how I feel. I’ve never said this to anyone before, but I know it’s more true than my own name. Which is all to say... Riley, I love you.” 

There was so much sincerity in the way he said those three little words, and as pure and unwavering as the look in his eyes when he said them. Leaving no doubt, that they were spoken from the heart. In vivid detail, Riley replays those tender moments she and Liam shared inside the garden maze tonight and can only be described as magical. At last, a spoken confession of deep and abiding love, one to the other. Then followed by the most beautiful display of affection that neither had ever known before... making love under the stars for the very first time. Their devotion to one another, sealed in that moment. No more hesitations... no more doubts. Just two hearts, two souls, converged as one... Even now, his intoxicating aroma is still fresh on her skin. Oh, God... I just can’t believe this is happening... 

These were the sweet moments prior to her world being torn apart and there was nothing she could do to stop it. What began as a dream, suddenly turned into her worst nightmare and no words can describe the pain in her heart. Was it not enough to be falsely accused as unfaithful and then publicly chastened while guards practically dragged her from the Coronation Ball? Fate obviously thought not and had one last, cruel trick up her sleeve. Just as the doors to the ballroom were about to close, Liam’s voice echoes above the crowd, delivering the final blow... 

“I choose... Lady Hana.”