#cyril – training room

[cordeliaculm]

"Wanna do the training simulator together?" Cordelia asked with a warm smile, gesturing vaguely to the tech she didn't quite understand. This was a good opportunity though, see how other people worked, where they'd strike to kill in the arena. Cyril was partnered up with Alecta, so she had a feeling she'd at least see more of him in the arena rather than less; or at least know what parts of him to avoid.

@sarccphagus

[dyns33]

Family's fever

I have so many, sooo many, Alfie and his wife stories waiting to be posted.

It was only pain.

For a moment, Alfie wondered if he had died and gone to hell, where his body burned and caused him a martyrdom such as he had never known.

The first time was during the war. Between the trenches, the bombs, the fighting, it had completely destroyed his back, and it had never healed. As if he had stayed there. Maybe it would have been better.

A panting breath was heard on his right, but fatigue was stronger than his survival instinct. So Alfie remained motionless, waiting for the intruder to strike.

It was impossible to tell how much time passed, until a light made him wince, immediately soothed by a cold, damp cloth placed on his forehead and eyes.

"My poor darling, you are even hotter than yesterday."

The soft voice and the hand caressing his cheek almost made him forget the torture he had been living for several hours, at least enough for him to find the strength to move his eyelids enough to see what was around him.

First, he discovered that the danger blowing was a dog, which barked happily at seeing him awake, resting its big head on his hand.

The animal seemed familiar, like the room, but Alfie's foggy mind forgot his questions when he laid his eyes on the woman who was now sponging his sweaty neck.

"… I'm dead."

"Not yet, Alfie. But if this continues I'll call the doctor, no matter what you say."

"Doctors are quacks."

"Like you've been telling me since you caught that cold. And yet you did send one to my house when I was sick."

"I couldn't leave such a beautiful angel to die."

"Ah, maybe you're feeling a little better, you're talking nonsense again." she joked, massaging his shoulder.

However, Alfie wasn't joking, and he didn't understand why his angelic vision didn't take him seriously. He was very serious.

Never in his entire life had he seen such a beautiful woman. If he could have gotten up without crying out in pain, he would have taken her hand to kiss it reverently, before apologizing for having the impudence to touch her without permission.

Maybe she wasn't entirely wrong about his fever, because he laughed, repeating that he really was saying ridiculous things.

Obviously he was mumbling his thoughts without even realizing it. Or maybe it was madness. Alfie had always been a bit crazy, and being stuck with his brigade in the middle of the bombs hadn't helped matters.

His mind was still lucid enough to see the wedding ring on his angel's hand, though, and to know what it meant. Of course, such a woman was married. All the men had to grovel at her feet, begging her to be their wife, and one of them had been given the privilege of being chosen.

"Lucky bastard."

"If I make some soup, will you try to eat it ?"

"Anything for you, видение рая."

"Good. Thanks for finally being reasonable."

"I'll need strength to question your husband." he sighed, patting the dog on the head as it came closer to lick his face.

"…Excuse me ?"

"I wouldn't kill him, I wouldn't want to hurt your tender heart, but I have to check that he deserves you. And if he's not worthy, I should train him until he is."

"… Okay, I'll call the doctor. Cyril, stay here."

Obeying his mistress, the dog guarded the sick man despite his protests and pleas. Alfie would have liked her to stay by his side a little longer. There was no hope that he would see her again.

He frowned when a small man in his lab coat entered the room, putting his briefcase on a table and asking him a lot of questions. Damn doctor.

The man only got his attention when he turned to the angel and called her "Mrs. Solomons.", which made him frown even more.

Hmm.

Alfie knew only three "Mrs Solomons", his grandmother, may she rest in peace, who had always hated being called that, his poor mother who was no longer of this world either, and his sister who had long since taken the name of her stupid husband.

Even if he was not well, he could still recognize these three people, he was certain of it.

"He talked about having a discussion with my husband."

"Mr Solomons often speaks about himself in the third person… As he often speaks to himself."

"I agree, but could the fever be playing on his memory ?"

"You are me wife ?"

The sad smile she gave him as she came back to sit next to him seemed like a sufficient answer, but Alfie couldn't believe it.

Him, married to this perfect being ? Impossible, there had to be a mistake. Someone was playing a joke on him, there was no other explanation, or the devil had decided to punish him for all his sins by torturing him with a twisted scenario, mixing pain, sweetness and vain hope.

But Alfie didn't really believe in this bullshit, and he didn't see anyone suicidal enough to play such a trick on him.

"But why are you married to me, love ? Did I threaten you ? Did your father have debts ? Would I have become rich ? No, an angel like you doesn't marry an old fool like me even if he is rich."

"Maybe I fell in love." she sneered, capturing his attention enough for him to let the doctor take his pulse on his other arm.

"Ah ! I tricked you, my poor treacle ! I blinded you and made you sink into madness to have you. Damn me ! I mean, I am honored that you love me, even if using such subterfuge to have you is terrible."

"I knew exactly where I was going, don't worry. Doctor ?"

"He is simply exhausted by the fever and his back, which makes him delirious. But he will be better soon, I will write you a prescription."

Still not convinced that he could have married the one who was called Y/N, Alfie stared at her with wide eyes in silence, captivated by her every move and accepting everything she asked of him, wisely eating his soup, taking his medicine and letting her change his soaked shirt.

He thought he was going to have a heart attack when she entered the room in her nightgown, lying against him, her head on his shoulder.

"Try to sleep, okay ?"

"But if I sleep, you might disappear." he whispered like a child.

"My sweet idiot. I promise to be here tomorrow morning, sleep now."

As promised, Y/N was still there when he woke up, noticing that his fever had gone down and his memories had returned.

She gently mocked the event when he had fully recovered, and even though he claimed not to see what she was talking about, unable to not make the pout that always betrayed him whenever he tried to hide something from his wife.

Alfie was not ashamed of having been sick. He was still human. He wasn't ashamed of saying strange things either, because it wasn't a change from his usual behavior, nor of falling madly in love with Y/N ​​again, which was perfectly normal.

What he didn't like was the expression on her face when she realized he wasn't joking when he said he didn't know who she was.

"I was worried, you know."

"I know, love. Sorry."

"You really need to stop covering up all over London when it rains."

"Tell your brothers to stop making trouble all over London and I can stay in my office."

"At least this time you were a decent patient. All the other times, you were impossible to hold, refusing to stay in bed and not scare the doctor away. Do you have to take me for someone else's wife to listen to me ?"

"Of course not." he mumbled, pulling her closer. "Other times, I was only able to handle myself, you didn't need to waste your time on me."

"I never waste my time on you, Alfie."

Ah, Y/N. His sweet love. Of course he had taken her for an angel fallen from the sky. That was kind of what she was, even if it wasn't God but Thomas fucking Shelby who had put her on his path.

No doubt her brother was still as shocked as he was that she could have fallen for the idiot he was.

Even in good health, Alfie sometimes wondered how he had done it, how fate had been able to give him such a gift.

"Stop mumbling nonsense, Ollie is waiting for us outside."

"Yes, мой ангел."

Y/N rolled her eyes with a smile, guessing what he had said and taking his hand to urge him to leave their house, because she knew very well that if she gave him time, he would have pulled her even further onto the couch, and they would have been very late.

[someone-will-remember-us]

A total of 51 men are on trial over their alleged attacks on Gisèle Pelicot, recruited by her then-husband Dominique Pelicot, who has admitted drugging and raping her.

The 50 men accused of rape and assault alongside Dominique Pelicot are aged between 26 and 74. They include a nurse, a journalist, a prison warden, a local councillor, a soldier, lorry drivers and farm workers. They each face up to 20 years in prison.

In total, 49 are accused of rape, one of attempted rape and one of sexual assault. Five others are also accused of possessing child abuse imagery.

Most lived in south-eastern France within a 60km radius of the village of Mazan, where the Pelicots lived. Six have previous convictions for domestic violence, two have convictions for sexual violence. A total of 23 have a criminal record for offences such as drunk-driving and possession of drugs.

Some of the accused men have admitted rape but said they did not set out with this intention, and have apologised in court to Gisèle Pelicot, 72, a grandmother and former logistics manager. Others have denied the charge of rape, saying they believed they were taking part in a game by the couple.

Gisèle Pelicot was unknowingly sedated and raped by her former husband, Dominique Pelicot, 71, who crushed sleeping tablets and anti-anxiety medication into her food and drinks and invited men to rape her over a nine-year period from 2011 to 2020.

Pelicot has admitted the charges against him and said that for almost a decade he was in contact with men on an online chatroom titled “without her knowledge” where he would organise for strangers to come to the couple’s home

“I am a rapist, like the others in this room,” Pelicot told the court.

The case is being heard by a panel of five professional judges in the southern city of Avignon and runs until December. Gisèle Pelicot has waived her right to anonymity in order for the trial to be held in public, saying: “Shame must change sides.”

As the men appear in court over the course of the four-month trial, the Guardian will detail their profiles and testimony.

Cyrille D, 54

Trained as a butcher, Cyrille D is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot in her home in September 2019. Cyrille D’s partner, the mother of his children, was on holiday at the time. He said he was sexually frustrated in his relationship and had gone on to the online chatroom to console himself.

In court, Cyrille D admitted rape, saying he had realised later that he had not gained Gisèle Pelicot’s consent, only her husband’s. He said Gisèle Pelicot was clearly unconscious but that her husband had been “insistent”. He said: “I’m sorry, I was naive, a little stupid, an idiot.” He told the court that while in prison on remand he had understood that “women do not belong to men”.

Gisèle Pelicot’s lawyer said video evidence had showed that the alleged rape by Cyrille D had put her life in danger as she had risked not being able to breathe.

Cyrille D detailed a violent childhood at the hands of his alcoholic father, who he said would wait outside school with a meat cleaver to attack him and threaten him. “My father was Hitler,” he told the court. After a brutal public beating by his father outside school, Cyrille D was placed in care as a teenager.

Lionel R, 44

A worker at the Pelicots’ local supermarket in Carpentras, Lionel R was a married father of three when he made contact with Dominique Pelicot. In court, Lionel R admitted raping Gisèle Pelicot on 2 December 2018 at her home, but he said he had not intended to commit rape.

“Since I never obtained Mrs Pelicot’s consent, I have no choice but to accept the facts,” he told the court. Turning to Gisèle Pelicot, he said: “I am sorry, I can only imagine the nightmare you’ve lived through … and I am part of this nightmare.” He said: “I never told myself: ‘I will rape that woman” but he admitted: “I’m guilty of rape.” He added that he should have left when he saw she was unconscious, and that it was cowardly of him not to have said anything.

The court heard that Dominique Pelicot had previously brought an unsuspecting Gisèle Pelicot shopping at the supermarket so that Lionel R could see if he was attracted to her.

Lionel R told the court he had been sexually abused at the age of 12 to 13 by the president of the pétanque club in his village.

Jacques C, 72

A former fire officer who had worked as a truck driver and then owned a pizzeria, Jacques C had been married for 25 years and had two children.

He told the court he denied rape. He said he had been “naive” and he thought that Gisèle Pelicot would wake up and it was a game by the couple.

Jacques C admitted touching Pelicot, but said there had been no penetration and therefore no rape.

Jacques C told the court he considered that his religious education had made him a “giving person” who did good and respected women. He said he loved women “in all their complexity”.

Jean-Pierre M, 63

A former lorry driver for an agricultural cooperative in southern France, Jean-Pierre M is not accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot. Instead, he is accused of using the same technique to drug and rape his own wife, and organising for Pelicot to rape her with him.

Described in court as a “disciple” of Pelicot, he admitted sedating his wife, with whom he had five children, and enlisting Pelicot to rape her.

The two men made contact in the online chatroom called “without her knowledge”. Pelicot is alleged to have provided sedatives to drug the man’s wife, explained the method and travelled to rape the woman himself.

Twelve rapes of Jean-Pierre’s wife are alleged to have taken place between 2015 and 2020. Jean-Pierre told the court that he admitted the charges.

Pelicot admitted raping Jean-Pierre’s wife on several occasions and said he regretted his actions. He said he had cut contact with the couple after Jean-Pierre’s wife woke up during one of the assaults while he was in her bedroom.

The court heard how Jean-Pierre’s childhood in the French countryside was marked by extreme poverty, extreme violence and he was the victim of sexual abuse within his family. “I was raised by pigs in the woods,” he had told his children.

Joan K, 26

A soldier in the French military, Joan K is the youngest man on trial. He was 22 at the time of his alleged raping of Gisèle Pelicot on two separate visits to her home in 2019 and 2020.

He told the court: “I’m a rapist because the law says I am” – but he said he had not intended to rape and “at the time I did not know what consent was”.

He said he had been invited to the couple’s home by Dominique Pelicot for an encounter and had not asked for Gisèle Pelicot’s consent, saying he learned only in prison what consent was.

He said he had found it strange that Gisèle Pelicot was snoring, and that he knew she was unconscious but he had not known that meant she had not consented.

In November 2019, Joan K was absent for the premature birth of his daughter on the night he was accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot for the first time.

Born in French Guiana, he joined his brother in Avignon when he was 16 before enlisting in the army. The court heard he had lived on the streets as a teenager and three of his brothers had died. He lost his army job when he was arrested. He was described by a psychologist as a chronic user of alcohol and cannabis, “depressive, impulsive and solitary”.

Hugues M, 39

A tiler, motorbike enthusiast and father of two, Hugues M is accused of the attempted rape of Gisèle Pelicot a few days before his then girlfriend’s birthday in October 2019. He denies the charge. He said he did not know Gisèle Pelicot was drugged and had not looked at her face, just her body.

His ex-partner Emilie O, 33, who met him online and lived with him for five years, told the court she feared she may have been drugged and sexually assaulted by him herself. “I don’t know if I was raped,” she said. “It’s terrible. I will always have doubts.”

She told the court that one night in 2019 she had woken up to find her partner attempting to assault her. She launched a police complaint, but it was dismissed for “lack of material evidence”. She told the court she had experienced “dizziness” between September 2019 and March 2020, but investigators did not detect any substances that might have affected her at the time.

Husamettin D, 43

A married father who had given up part-time work to care for his disabled son, Husamettin D is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot in June 2019. He denied the charge in court saying: “I don’t accept being called a rapist, I’m not a rapist.”

The court heard that Husamettin D had made contact with Dominique Pelicot in the chatroom and had gone to the Pelicots’ home the same night, telling his own wife he was going out.

Pelicot had told him he was looking for an “Arab” man for his wife – Husamettin, born in Turkey, used the online pseudonym “Karim”.

He admitted that Gisèle Pelicot “seemed dead”, with her leg dangling oddly, but he said he had thought it was a scenario or game and that she was pretending.

He said Dominique Pelicot had said his wife was in agreement. He said he had not known she was drugged.

The court heard that Husamettin D had become addicted to cannabis from the age of 11, and had lived in children’s homes. In 2000, he was convicted for dealing drugs.

Fabien S, 39

A man with 16 previous convictions ranging from armed robbery and drug dealing to domestic violence and sexual assault of a minor, Fabien S said he admitted the charge of raping Gisèle Pelicot in August 2018. But he said he had not gone to the Pelicots’ home with the intention of raping her.

“I didn’t go there to rape her. I didn’t know I was supposed to rape her, but I recognise the facts,” he said, adding he had “not paid attention” to whether or not she had consented.

He said he wasn’t interested in a scenario where a woman was unconscious because he liked to hear women scream. He apologised to Gisèle Pelicot in court.

The court heard that Fabien S allegedly raped Gisèle Pelicot in her dining room. Asked how this was possible, Dominique Pelicot said he had put drugs in her meal and carried her unconscious to the dining room table.

The court heard that Fabien S had been sexually abused by his father from the age of two, then placed in different foster families where he faced further violence and sexual abuse, and that he was admitted to psychiatric care at the age of 16. From 18 to 28 he lived on the streets in Toulon as an alcoholic.

Mathieu D, 53

The father of two had worked as baker for 25 years before having to leave his job because of an intolerance to wheat.

He is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot with Dominique Pelicot on 3 October 2020. He admitted the facts, saying he was high on the drug MDMA at the time and thought it was a game with a married couple.

Mathieu D accepted later that Gisèle Pelicot had not been in a fit state to consent. “I can’t deny it was rape,” he said.

The court heard that Mathieu D’s stepfather had been violent. Mathieu D told investigators he was inspired by Buddhism and “the balance of karmas”.

Andy R, 37

An unemployed agricultural labourer and married father of two, Andy R has two domestic violence convictions and is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot at her home on New Year’s Eve 2018.

He said he did not intend to rape Gisèle Pelicot, telling the court: “As the husband had given me permission, in my mind she agreed to it.”

Andy R arrived at the Pelicots’ home an hour after first making contact online with Dominique Pelicot on New Year’s Eve. He said he had “nothing else to do” that night because his brothers hadn’t invited him to their New Year’s Eve party. He said he had thought it was a sexual “game” between the Pelicots.

The court heard he had been addicted to alcohol since he was 13 or 14, and was a regular user of cocaine.

Simone M, 42

A builder, former soldier and father of five, Simone M lived on the next street to the Pelicots in the village of Mazan. He is the only alleged rapist whom Gisèle Pelicot recognised when she was shown video evidence by police.

She told the court he had come into their living room once to discuss cycling with her husband. “I saw him now and then in the bakery; I would say hello. I never thought he’d come and rape me,” she said.

The former mountain infantryman made contact with Dominique Pelicot in the online chatroom before realising they lived less than 200 metres apart. Simone M lived opposite the tennis club where Dominique Pelicot played. “Things were going badly with my ex-wife, I was looking for love, an encounter to calm myself,” Simone M told the court.

Dominique Pelicot suggested Simone M first come to the house during the day “to see how beautiful my wife is”, adding: “If she asks, say you’ve come to discuss my bike.”

Simone M is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot on the night of 14 November 2018. He denies rape. He said he thought Gisèle Pelicot was only pretending to be asleep and would wake up. “I’m not a rapist,” he told the court.

His ex-wife told the court he had once threatened her with an axe.

Simone M is from New Caledonia, where he grew up. As a teenager he was abused and raped by a man his parents had sent him to live with as a labourer. The court heard he had a complex about his penis size and needed constant reassurance. He had debts and periods of alcoholism.

He has a 15-month-old daughter with his current partner, who told the court she stands by him.

Thierry Po, 61

A refrigeration specialist and father of three from Bouches-du-Rhône in southern France, Thierry Po is also charged with possession of hundreds of child abuse images found on a USB stick after his arrest for the alleged rape of Gisèle Pelicot. He admits those charges but denies raping Gisèle Pelicot on 21 August 2020.

He said hadn’t seen anything abnormal about the night he went to the Pelicots’ home, believing he was meeting a couple. “I always thought Mrs Pelicot would wake up,” he said. “She wasn’t cold, she wasn’t dead, her skin was soft.”

He said he had not sought Gisèle Pelicot’s consent because he had lots of experience of encounters with couples when it was mostly the man who gave consent for the woman. He said he had had three “major” previous experiences where a husband had invited him to have sex with a wife and “she’ll be asleep, she doesn’t want to know, we’ll film it”. In one case, the woman had woken up. In two cases, he had left without seeing the women’s faces. He said he couldn’t tell if those women had been asleep or not.

He told the court: “After I leave prison, I’d like to create an association to get men like me to understand that consent is important. I’d go to swingers’ clubs and say: “Don’t forget to get consent!”

Jérôme V, 46

The former grocery store worker and father of three is one of the few accused men who admit the charges of raping Gisèle Pelicot with the knowledge that she was drugged. He told the expert psychiatrist in the case that he was aware she had not consented.

He allegedly went to the Pelicots’ home six times between March and June 2020 to rape her during the first Covid lockdown in France. A volunteer in the fire service, he lived 30 minutes’ drive away.

He told the court: “I didn’t keep going back because rape mode was my thing, but because I couldn’t control my sexuality.” He said he was at first attracted by the idea of having an inert body at his disposal and being free to act however he wanted.

He said his life was defined by sexual urges, and he was regularly unfaithful to partners because they “couldn’t meet my demands” and he tried extreme practices to break the “monotony”. He said he paid “less and less” attention to his partners.

Jérôme V said he was addicted to sex and that Pelicot took advantage of that. In court, looking over at Gisèle Pelicot, he said he was ashamed “to have done bad to someone who seems so pure”. At his home, a list of 89 names of sexual partners were found. “I needed to count my conquests,” he said.

His current partner told the court she stood by him and visited him regularly in prison.

He said he was never supported or protected by his parents. He was bullied at school and once forcibly stripped in public by other pupils at high school.

Thierry Pa, 54

A former builder who turned to alcohol when his 18-year-old son died in a road collision, Thierry Pa was an inpatient on a psychiatric ward after suffering from depression when investigators identified him as allegedly raping Gisèle Pelicot several months earlier in 2020.

He had separated from his wife a few weeks before his alleged rape of Gisèle Pelicot in July 2020 and had left his family home, saying he was unable to bear the photographs and memories of his son.

He said he had contacted Dominique Pelicot online for an encounter with a couple. He denied rape, saying: “I didn’t set out from my house saying: ‘I’m going to rape someone.’” He said: “I don’t understand how she didn’t feel anything, didn’t realise.” He said he thought Pelicot may have drugged him, and that he was manipulated and brainwashed by Pelicot.

His ex-wife told the court the alleged rape was out of character. She said she would like to get back together with him.

The court heard that Thierry Pa’s mother was an alcoholic and his father was often absent.

Adrien L, 34

Adrien L, a former building site manager from Carpentras, was convicted last year of the rapes of three former partners in a different trial and is serving a 14-year jail sentence.

He denied raping Gisèle Pelicot in March 2014. He said he had thought he was taking part in a game and did not think she was drugged.

Aged 23 at the time of the alleged rape of Gisèle Pelicot, he is one of the youngest men on trial. He was educated at private school before joining his father’s successful building business, and was described as coming from a higher-income background than many of the other men accused.

He told the court that when he was 21 he discovered after a paternity test that he was not the biological father of the three-year-old girl he was raising with his girlfriend. He said from that point onwards, “I had a hatred towards women”.

The night he was alleged to have raped Gisèle Pelicot, his new girlfriend was nine months pregnant and gave birth 10 days later. He admitted to court experts that he had mistreated his pregnant girlfriend and called her a whore.

The court heard that he was sexually abused by a cousin when he was 10.

Jean T, 52

A former roofer born on the French Indian Ocean island of Réunion, Jean T was in a nine-year relationship when he drove two-and-a-half hours from Lyon to allegedly rape Gisèle Pelicot in her bed on the night of 21 September 2018.

He had made contact with Dominique Pelicot in the chatroom, where he used the name “Bill”.

He told the court: “I am not a rapist”. He said he thought Dominique Pelicot had drugged him. “I don’t remember anything,” he said.

In court, he recalled many details of the evening, including the house, the rules of undressing in the kitchen and seeing Gisèle Pelicot on the bed. But he told the court he had no memory of the actual moment of his alleged rape of Pelicot, and recalled only getting into his car afterwards when he drove home.

Judges observed that he had not appeared drugged in seven videos, in which he was active and gave a thumbs-up sign. He was asked why, if he feared he had been drugged, he did not report this to police. He said at the time he had thought: “It was a bad encounter, forget about it.”

The court heard he had regularly sought encounters with couples for more than a decade and had paid sex workers but “it felt dirty”.

Redouan E, 55

A former anaesthesia nurse in hospital operating theatres in Morocco, Redouan E lived in Avignon, where he worked as a community nurse.

He was married for the second time and in the process of adopting a young girl from Morocco. He was disappointed that the adoption process was stopped after he was arrested for allegedly raping Gisèle Pelicot at her home on a Saturday night in June 2019.

Redouan E told the court: “I plead not guilty.” He denied rape, saying he was the “victim of a trick” and had been too “terrified” of Dominique Pelicot to say no. Confronted with video evidence of several alleged rapes of Gisèle Pelicot, he said: “I was terrified, but you can’t see it.” He said he did not leave because he feared that would ruin Pelicot’s Saturday night.

He said he had not known Gisèle Pelicot was sedated. Asked in court, how, as a trained aneasthesia nurse, he had not seen that Gisèle Pelicot was unconscious, he said he thought she was pretending to be dead “but never that she’d been drugged”, and he believed he saw her move.

Patrick A, 60

A former factory worker and video-club owner from the Alpes-de-Haute-Provence, Patrick A admitted the charge of raping Gisèle Pelicot but said he had taken part reluctantly because he was gay and had wanted an encounter with Dominique Pelicot, not his wife.

Patrick A met Dominique Pelicot in the online chatroom and they messaged on Skype, where Pelicot told him Gisèle Pelicot was a “prudish bitch who didn’t want threesomes” and said: “I’m looking for a pervert accomplice to abuse my wife, she takes sleeping pills and I take advantage.” Patrick A had replied: “OK.”

He told the court he had wanted so much to have a gay encounter with Dominique Pelicot that he was blinded by it and brainwashed. He said he raped Gisèle Pelicot “reluctantly” to “please” Dominique Pelicot. He questioned whether he may have been drugged.

“You are homosexual but you have committed a heterosexual rape, which you admit,” said Antoine Camus, Gisèle Pelicot’s lawyer. “In this trial we have already heard of rapes committed ‘by accident’, your specificity is to plead rape committed ‘reluctantly’.”

Patrick A apologised in court. He told the court he had known he was gay from his teenage years but sought to hide it from his homophobic parents. He married a woman, had two children and after divorcing at 43 regularly met men for sex in saunas and backrooms of sex-shops in the Avignon region, and truck-drivers in motorway laybys.

Didier S, 68

A former long-distance lorry driver and divorced father of two, Didier S said he went to Dominique Pelicot’s house “exclusively for a homosexual encounter” with him. He denied the charge of raping Gisèle Pelicot on 30 January 2019. He said he had thought she was pretending to be asleep.

In court, he said he had had no intention to rape Gisèle Pelicot and was simply following her husband’s instructions. “It’s not me you should be angry with, it’s your husband,” he told Gisèle Pelicot in court, trying to catch her eye. She turned away.

He lived a 20-minute drive away, had logged on to the chatroom at 8pm one night, and two hours later went to the Pelicots’ home.

Five years earlier he underwent bladder and prostate surgery for cancer and had begun meeting men. The court heard he was raped when he was 16.

Karim S, 40

A computer expert with two university degrees, Karim S denied raping Gisèle Pelicot on 27 June 2020. He is also charged with possessing child abuse imagery found on his computer during the investigation. He denied those charges, saying he downloaded the images “inadvertently”.

He told the court of the night he went to the Pelicots’ home: “I did not go there with the aim of committing a crime and I had absolutely no idea that Mrs Pelicot was not consenting.” Messages between him and Pelicot showed them discussing Gisèle Pelicot in crude terms, referring to her not being aware of what was going on. Karim S had been told that Gisèle Pelicot would be “asleep from alcohol and a sleeping tablet” but he said he had thought it was a game.

Dominique Pelicot, who told Karim he was a doctor, invited him back in August. Karim said he feigned food poisoning as an excuse because the June encounter had been “too bizarre for me”.

He grew up in Marseille and had moved to a picturesque village half an hour’s drive from Mazan just before the Covid lockdowns of 2020.

Vincent C, 42

Vincent C, a carpenter, was convicted of domestic violence against his ex-partner in 2021 and given a six-month suspended sentence. The court heard he had had an alcohol addiction since he was a teenager.

He is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot at her home on two occasions in October 2019 and January 2020. He denies rape. He admitted a sexual encounter but said he had had no intention of committing rape. He said he had thought Gisèle Pelicot would wake up.

He met Dominique Pelicot in the chatroom after a postcode search on the site to find people nearby. He tended to log on after his village bistro closed on a Saturday night.

“I was looking for sex,” he said, adding that he had not put much thought into it. He said he found the situation in the Pelicots’ bedroom “bizarre” but trusted the fact that he was “at a couple’s home, invited by the husband”. He said he felt no pleasure himself, but went back a second time because Dominique Pelicot had told him that he and Gisèle Pelicot had “enjoyed it”. Pelicot said Gisèle Pelicot had watched a video of his first visit and “liked it”, which for him, “closed the door on any doubt”, he said. He said he felt he had “satisfied” the Pelicots more than himself.

During his testimony, Gisèle Pelicot got up and briefly left the courtroom, appearing exasperated.

Jean-Marc L, 74

Describing himself as a former “international truck-driver between Paris and Baghdad”, the divorced grandfather is the oldest of the accused men.

He denied raping Gisèle Pelicot in May 2017. He said he had always thought that rape was “something violent … done by a madman, a brutal thing”, but that this had instead been a “sexual game”. He told the court he had only “obeyed orders” from Dominique Pelicot. He said: “She was going to wake up because it was a game.”

It was only after he left the house that he thought about whether Gisèle Pelicot had consented. He didn’t alert the police. “I should have done but it didn’t cross my mind.”

He said Dominique Pelicot, whom he had met beforehand in a supermarket car park, had told him he wanted to “punish” his wife for having had an affair in the past.

He said Pelicot asked him to come back another time “with a friend”, which he didn’t do, after mentioning it to another truck driver who said it wasn’t normal.

Jean-Marc L said he had often paid sex workers in Spain. “What truck driver hasn’t been to prostitutes?” he said in court.

Dominique D, 45

Dominique D, a lorry driver and former soldier, said he was contacted via the online chatroom in February 2015 by Dominique Pelicot, who said he was looking for a man as a “gift” for his wife “for Valentine’s Day”.

Dominique D is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot on six different occasions. Police found video evidence of five visits to the Pelicots’ house, but he told them of one further visit.

He denied rape, saying he had not intended to rape anyone. He told the court: “I didn’t wake up one morning and say to myself hey, today I’m going to go to a couple’s house and commit a crime.”

He said that before going to the Pelicots’ home for the first time in 2015, he had asked to see Gisèle Pelicot and was sent a video of her taken without her knowledge as she left the shower. He also briefly visited the home pretending to be an electrician and saw Gisèle Pelicot reading on the sofa. He said he felt he had enough guarantees from Dominique Pelicot, adding “I just forgot one big guarantee – Madame��s consent.”

He is the youngest of 16 children and was placed in care at the age of six months.

Mohamed R, 70

Mohamed R, a former discotheque worker from La Rochelle who in 1999 was sentenced to five years in prison for raping his 17-year-old daughter, is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot in May 2019 at the holiday cottage of the Pelicots’ daughter, Caroline, on the island of Île-de-Ré in the west of France.

Mohamed R denied raping Gisèle Pelicot. He told the court: “I couldn’t imagine for a fraction of a second that Dominique Pelicot did that without his wife knowing.” He had been in contact with Dominique Pelicot via the online chatroom.

Dominique Pelicot was asked in court why he had drugged and raped Gisèle Pelicot not just at the couple’s own home but at their daughter’s holiday home, where the Pelicots often went with their grandchildren. The couple’s daughter and grandchildren were not at the cottage at the time.

Pelicot said: “There was no symbolism, it could have happened anywhere.”

Ahmed T, 54

Ahmed T, a plumber and former champion boxer married for more than 30 years with three children, is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot at the couple’s home in June 2019. He denied rape and told the court: “I’m not a rapist, but if I had wanted to rape I wouldn’t have chosen a 57-year-old woman, I would have chosen a pretty one.”

He was in contact with Dominique Pelicot on a chat room, saying that at the time he was having less sex with his wife and he “did not want a mistress” but thought “why not” have an encounter with a couple. He said Dominique Pelicot had referred to Gisèle Pelicot as “la bourgeoise”, saying she was away a lot in Paris and home at weekends. He said he had thought Gisèle Pelicot must have been shy, and that he had trusted her husband.

Ahmed T said he travelled to the couple’s home by car after his own wife had gone to bed.

Redouane A, 40

Redouane A, an unemployed, separated father of four who has convictions for domestic violence, burglary and death threats and has served time in prison, went to the Pelicots’ home twice in 2019.

He denied rape. He said he had asked Dominique Pelicot if it was normal that Gisèle Pelicot was snoring and had been told: “Yes, we like doing it like that.”

He described the Pelicots’ home as “a beautiful house in Provence” with a “well-kept garden”.

He said he grew up on a housing estate, began smoking cannabis at 10 and was the victim of sexual abuse at this age, by an old man he met in the park who took him to his van. He left school at 16.

The question was raised in court of a possible diagnosis of schizophrenia, with one psychiatrist saying he instead had a personality disorder.

Mahdi D, 36

Mahdi D, a transport worker and father of one from Avignon, is accused of going to the Pelicots’ home once in October 2018.

He denied rape. He placed the responsibility on Dominique Pelicot, who he said had presented himself online as part of a couple who wanted to meet single men.

Mahdi D said of Gisèle Pelicot: “One can’t imagine what she has been through, she has been destroyed and I have thoughts not only for that poor woman but her whole entourage and family.” He said it was “terrible” for him to find himself caught up in something like this.

Cyril B, 47

Cyril B, a single lorry driver who described himself as a daily consumer of cannabis, is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot at her home in November 2018. He was recorded by Dominique Pelicot in a video called “With Cyril from Carpentras.”

He denied rape and said he had been manipulated and was not capable of committing a rape. He said he was also a victim of the situation, as he had been duped by Dominique Pelicot, whom he had met on an online chatroom.

He told the court he had previously had encounters with couples he met via websites.

Cyprien C, 43

Cyprien C, a former lorry driver and father of one, is accused of raping Gisèle Pelicot in her bed in Mazan in 2017.

He denied rape. During cross-examination, he accepted a sexual encounter had taken place and said he was sorry to Gisèle Pelicot but that he could “not say more than that”. He did not say the word rape, telling the court “I can’t say that it’s rape”, arguing that Dominique Pelicot had led him to believe that Gisèle Pelicot was playing a role in a game and “would pretend to be asleep”.

The court heard he grew up in children’s homes and foster families and later suffered from alcohol addiction as an adult.

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet + ch 45

a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... all chapters

WARNINGS FOR THIS FIC: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, VIOLENCE, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

45. halcyon daze

With Christmas on the horizon you take a break from your Persephone-inspired series to work on a present for John. There’s not a thing in the world you could buy him that he couldn’t buy for himself; but you have two hands, some talent and creativity: things that can’t yet be bought on Amazon. You’d noticed that he’s been working on an old set of Russian Fairytales. 

It still never fails to destroy your heart, that John favors mending the binding of children’s stories, as though he can recapture and sew back together some aspect of his own broken youth. 

Some of the illustrations in this edition are faded, one is even half destroyed, the paper torn. The writing is in cyrillic, you haven’t learned to read it yet, but with some [you hope] casually peppered questions, you manage to glean enough information to look up what they’re supposed to be. You make some replacements for him, and in the case of the Knight of Night in the story of Vasilisa the Beautiful, the warrior in black might bear more than a passing resemblance to your own dark assassin.  

When he opens this gift the wonder in his eyes is priceless to you. “I didn’t make you anything,” he apologizes guiltily, and while you are sitting amidst the piles of your freshly bestowed loot, which you still can’t help but feel guilty about. He bought you a stylish new motorcycle jacket, a fresh set of artist series gouache tubes and paper, an antique gold art nouveau lavalier necklace in the form of a flowing narcissus flower with glowing enameled accents and a dangling pearl –you are filled with so much love you fear your heart might burst.

You crawl across the floor, into his lap. He barely has time to set the drawings aside before your mouth is on his, and you are toppling him back almost into the Christmas tree with your ardor. By the time you are finished with him, you’re pretty sure he knows how happy he makes you, but just in case you tell him for good measure. “I love you more than I know how to say.” 

***

As winter drags on you look to John’s in-house gym to get exercise, even though you despise running on the treadmill. You feel like a hamster, jogging your ass off to nowhere. You try to keep up with your yoga practice, though you rarely get to finish a session. Somehow, John always manages to time walking in on you when you have your ass in the air. “Have mercy, I’m only a man,” he teases you, like this is an excuse for toppling you over and pinning you down with his body and his mouth on yours. 

It’s hard to get too mad about it, considering. 

You suppose you do still get a stretch and a workout, not to mention a belly laugh, in the end. 

Continuing your training stays interesting, although he wasn’t lying before when he said he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off of you. More often than not when you spar, you end up fucking on the floor. He’s never more beautiful than when his dark eyes glitter with anticipation of the hunt; you’ve learned a lot, but you know you stand zero chance against him. 

Maybe it’s not fair, when he loses patience and uses his experience and his size to put you down on the ground, sweeping your legs or twisting your arm behind you while he pulls down your leggings, baring your ass to the room. But he finds you soaking wet every time he claims his prize, guiding himself inside you, your growls quickly turning to moans for the way he fills you up and takes you down. “I fucking love it when you fight me,” he admits breathlessly, thrusting until you both cum loudly, your face pressed into the rubber floor.

It’s a game you love to lose.   

***

Winter starts to thaw, and you have cabin fever, ready to go outside. John is engrossed in a binding project: you finished your illustrations, and now he seems just as engaged in his side of the collaboration as you were yours. You find him smiling at a rendition of Dog as Cerberus with three heads when you pop into his workshop. “Want to go for a hike?”

He looks around at the mess he’s made on his worktable. “I’m not at a good stopping point,” he admits, and you understand that perfectly well. “You can go, just don’t be gone too long, alright?”

He could have pushed you over with a feather, you are so surprised to receive this clearance for a solo trek. 

You kiss him on the cheek in thanks. “I’ll be back soon,” you promise, still hardly able to believe your luck. 

“Y/n?” he calls as you’re at the door. “Take Dog?”

“I’m going too far for him.” Long walks hurt his paws.

“Then take your pistol.” You nod before disappearing up the stairs. Once upon a time, the thought of going around casually armed would have seemed like pure insanity to you. Now it’s simply a fact of life. You don’t have an official license for concealed carry, but after your intensive training at the Continental you feel perfectly confident that you won’t shoot anyone–unless you mean to. You live in John’s world now: survive first, worry about getting caught later…and pay off the appropriate officials if you have to.

That’s just the thug life, you suppose. 

The air outside is crisp and fresh, leaves and pine needles perfuming the woods in a way that intoxicates you more than any man-made scent. You take off down the trail at a brisk pace, feeling like you have wings on your feet. Knowing you could walk for miles and miles in this mood, you set a timer on your phone so you don’t forget yourself. Scaring John after he’s given you this confidence will not bode well for the future. Once upon a time such a leash would have chafed, but now you understand so much better what his fears are rooted in. You’ve peered into the darkness behind the curtain; there’s no going back. 

It’s the middle of the day in the middle of the week and you haven’t seen a soul, and on such a fine day as this, it is easy to forget that there’s a bustling, seething world of human strife out there. Or so you imagine, as you are sitting on the outcrop of your favorite overlook, your feet dangling out over oblivion. Yet, when you think you hear voices coming up the trail a sudden instinct kicks in to hide, to avoid being seen. Without really even thinking about it you tip yourself off the ledge, grabbing a branch of an ancient tree growing out of the rocks to break your fall, and dropping down to conceal yourself flat upon a narrow ledge.

“Dude, where’d she go?” you hear from above, your heart pounding in your chest, the blocky hardness of your little Beretta pressing into the small of your back as you lean against the stone face of the cliff a reassuring comfort. You realize then that John is not the only one with a residual paranoia from your misadventures. As you listen to the obviously harmless hikers above, you feel utterly ridiculous, and you wait for them to go so that you can make your way back in peace. 

Maybe it’s good to be alert, but at what point does one just have to get on with one’s life? If you live like a paranoid little rat scurrying around out of sight, then Dante has won in a different way. You think about this a lot, as you make your way home up the mountain. 

***

Perhaps it’s fitting, that with the renewal of spring all around you, John finishes the binding of your book. He calls you into the basement to inspect his workmanship, standing behind you as you behold the finished tome. The cover is embossed black leather with gold leaf. There is no title, just a design of an upturned skull grown through with blooming narcissus flowers. Slowly, you flip through the pages, enchanted with how he transformed your loose paintings into something so refined. 

“I love it,” you tell him, caressing a page bearing his likeness, the God of Death embracing his consort (that may bear a passing resemblance to you) in a Klimt-esque kiss. He nuzzles into your neck, kissing behind your ear. “But you didn’t sign it,” you complain, noting the lack of his usual This Book was Bound by John Wick plate. 

“I thought…we could do it together, as a wedding present?” he offers. You realize he means signing it with your joined name, and maybe it’s silly, but the thought makes your belly erupt into butterflies. You haven’t really talked about the wedding much. Though you wear the ring happily, he hasn’t really mentioned it at all, giving you space or otherwise occupied, you’re not entirely sure. 

“I would love that,” you agree, tilting your head for a kiss. His fingers dig into your hips as it deepens, a low moan called up from his throat. 

“Have you thought about what you might like?” he asks, kissing your neck again, his hands slipping under your shirt. 

“I don’t want anything fancy,” you admit breathlessly. “All I want is you.” You find the thought of bringing your dysfunctional family together in celebration only inspires anxiety. You have no lasting affiliations with any church–you do not feel the need to seek any god’s blessing of your union. You find you are just ready for it to be so. 

You feel him pause behind you, letting out a shuddering sigh. You wonder if he’s thinking about the journey you’ve taken, to get where you are today, together. You certainly are, looking at your book, and the allegory it tells of your tumultuous courtship. It wasn’t easy, and you can’t say anything so trite as you knew it would turn out–but you realize you did have the naivety to hope. For once…maybe your forgiving nature has finally paid off for you. You feel like you’ve been living in a halcyon daze, you are so happy. You hope it never changes, even if deep down you know it will. 

Change is the only certainty we’re ever afforded.

“Surely you want something nicer than a trip to the courthouse,” he pries, certain there’s something you’re not telling him. You do still feel embarrassed sometimes, about spending his money on things, even though he gives you free reign with unparallelled generosity. 

“I really don't want a big ceremony,” you assure him. “But…would you like it, if Winston married us?”

John huffs behind you, and you hear the smile in his voice. “I'm not sure that's something he does.”

You giggle at the thought, and you can tell John at least likes the idea of his father figure–one of his few remaining friends, being there. And, you like Winston too. “I bet he’d do it for you, John.”

“Hmm. We’ll think on that.”

It’s not a no.

“You know what I do want?” you pose, turning a page of your new book.This illustration is a rather explicit one, Death kneeling at her feet with his face buried in her pussy, her back bowed in sweet agony, the dark waters of the river Styx glittering behind them. He offered her the most exquisite pleasures, but withheld release unless she agreed to be his forever. Though deep in her heart she knew she loved him immeasurably, still she refused.

Neither John nor you are immune to the effect of perusing this pornographic work together; his long fingers dip into the waistband of your jeans, his fingertips just nearly caressing your mound.   

“Anything,” he tells you, nibbling at your ear. It takes you a moment to remember what you were talking about, your clit throbbing in answer to his seeking fingers and his other hand up your shirt. As a result your answer comes in breathy bursts. 

“I want…to go on an adventure with you. A long honeymoon,” you tell him, writhing against him as his hand finds your breast, toying with the taut peak of your nipple. You know he likes to travel as much as you do. Wouldn’t it be novel to go somewhere and not even need to assassinate someone in the interim?

You feel him chuckle behind you, more than hear it. “I might have guessed. Where do you want to go?” He asks you this while his fingers tease your curls, so close to touching you where you need him most. You are past shame, when your voice cracks. 

“Where can we go?” You assume most of Europe is off the table these days. 

“Hmm. You still have a yen for South America?” 

You nod, and he laughs again, though he catches your mouth in a tooth-counting kiss before you can answer–ie defend yourself from the usual allegations. At last his middle finger dips into your wet slit, and the sound of relief that escapes you is barely human.  

“Young lady…” he growls, nipping at your ear. “This is quite a dirty little book you’ve drawn. Do you know how many times I had to come find you while I was working on this?” You moan as he swipes up your juices, finally circling your clit as his other hand dips into your bra. You feel his erection straining against the curve of your bottom; you press yourself back against him, wanting what’s yours. Your answer is part laughter, part moan–for the umpteenth time, you feel like life is perfect with this man. 

“Probably as often as I had to come find you while drawing it,” you answer cheekily, arching back to hold his neck, opening yourself completely to him. Your knees threaten to buckle as he touches you, but soon you find yourself bent over his table, his corded forearms braced like columns on either side of you as he fucks you silly amidst the smell of old books, leather, and binding glue.  

It really doesn’t get any better than this.

***

When warmer weather comes you start to take out the bikes again. After a few outings you feel sufficiently refreshed, and more than ready to take your test. You make your appointment for next week, and you feel like a teenager again, full of nervous energy for the impending exam. John finds this amusing. “You can ride, sweetheart. And if you fail, you can just take it again.” 

But the perfectionist academic in you wants to ace it on the first go. When you express the desire to go for a practice ride while John is working on a new project he nods, not even looking up from his worktable. “Be careful.” 

“Take your pistol. I know,” you tease. This has become a broken record between you two–remembering a time when he wouldn’t have dreamed of letting you out of his sight, you do not mind. He narrows his eyes at you playfully, before letting you off with that slight smile that still squeezes your heart in your chest. 

You gear up in your kevlar jeans, boots and jacket, gloves and helmet. Concealed carry is ridiculously easy, with such bulk about you. You feel a bit like a commando, every time you put on the jacket with its armored panels. You fire up the Kawasaki and potter down the driveway. You like this bike, it’s been great to learn on, but John has been teasing you about an upgrade if you’re a good girl. 

Considering you feel where he’s been inside you every time you sit down, you’re pretty sure you’re meeting the requirements. You think about this with a smile as you hit a straightaway, and let the machine open up beneath you. 

It really is the closest you can get to flying on the ground. 

Exhilarated, maybe even feeling a little cocky, you make your loop of the mountain roads and then decide to make a quick stop down in town. You’ve worn out your three favorite paint brushes, the chisel tip, the angle shader, and the tiny 3/0 you favor for small details. Mr. Morton will get you squared away. 

You park in the lot behind the art store, and carry your helmet inside. You don’t dally long, even though the smell of oil paint and linseed oil inside the little store is a marvelous thing. You chat with Mr. Morton, pet the shop cat, and tuck your score into your inside pocket before walking back out to the parking lot. 

It’s totally cliché, but the rest goes by in a blur. 

A black SUV rolls up beside you, screeching on its brakes, a man jumping out of the backseat making a B line for you. Too late, you realize your rookie mistake. Your jacket is zipped up to your chin–you can’t draw your pistol under your arm in time. But you have your helmet in your hand, and without hesitation, you introduce it to his face as hard as you can. 

“At least offer a girl some candy first, asshole!”

The driver spills out next, cursing and trying to grab you, dodging your second swing with the helmet. You side-step him, but he manages to snag your jacket. Rather than pull against his hold you let him drag you to him, meeting his groin dead-on with your knee. As he crumples you hit him in the face with your armored elbow, and run for your bike while shoving your helmet onto your head. 

Maybe you should have run back to the shop, to the thoroughfare, to the safety of witnesses. But all you can think in that moment is that John might need you. You have a terrible feeling that something bad could be happening at home, and so you start your bike and tear off faster and more recklessly than you ever have before. The handlebars wobble in your haste but you manage to get a hold of the machine, concentrating on working the clutch and the gears to pick up speed as fast as you can. If you look back, you know you’ll crash. You run a stop sign, veering around a car by the skin of your teeth, leaving the sound of screeching wheels and honking horns behind you.  

Out of town, you drop a gear and take off like a rocket up the mountain, passing cars where you definitely shouldn’t. I’m coming, John. Maybe it’s ridiculous. How much help could you possibly be to John Wick? But you won’t rest until you set eyes on him again. 

Maybe you shouldn’t be surprised, when the G Wagon roars up next to you again. In your peripheral you see the passenger in the window, his extended arm, the blocky black shape of a gun. They veer at you, trying to run you off the road. You brake the bike, letting them whip past you, nearly going off the pavement themselves in the confusion. You decide to turn off onto a sideroad, a winding death-trap of a paved goat trail that you know like the back of your hand, though you’ve never ridden it before, only drove. You hope you’ll lose them in the snarl of tight curves. It will take longer to get home, but if worse comes to worse maybe you can abandon the bike and lose them in the trees. 

Home turf advantage, you tell yourself, not entirely convinced. These guys mean business–and you’re fairly sure the driver’s accent was Italian. 

You don’t really hear it past the roar of your engine and your heartbeat in your ears, when they come up behind you. You do hear the shot, and you flinch, ducking low to make yourself a smaller target. But he wasn’t aiming for you. 

He was aiming for your tire, and when it blows the bike goes wild–and you really get to experience flying.

It’s almost exhilarating, sailing through the air, until you hit the pavement hard, skidding across the unforgiving asphalt, rolling to take some of the momentum. You lay there on the tarmac, alive, but completely stunned. You tell yourself to get up–but your body doesn’t listen. You see the shadow of a man over you. It’s Helmet Man–his face is a mask of blood; it looks like you broke his nose, and he’s pissed about it.

He kicks you in the side before shoving a needle through your jeans, into the meat of your butt. On the verge of puking in your helmet, the world swims, then goes black.

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

*author's note: Full credit to @discoscoob for suggesting that Winston should officiate, I love it, you're brilliant! 😘 And the yoga scene is totally @treedaddymcpuffpuff 's fault. I love our unhinged conversations boo 🤣 The Brain Rot would not be so strong or so FUN without you!❤❤❤❤❤❤❤ :)))))))))))))))))

**maybe i should also add that certain eXplicit panels in the BRZRKR Bloodlines comic inspired a great deal of this dumpster fire 🥵🤣🤣, y'all should definitely check it out, the artwork is great!

--------------- 

all chapters

[mxtantrights]

Bounded by shadow and blood (2)

azriel x magic!fem!reader

You set your bags down on the palace steps. It’s weird. Something is definitely wrong. Its not like you were expecting a warm greeting home but you were expecting a little something. 

The towns people were normal. They all greeted you like everything was fine, and that’s probably because everything for them is fine. Projected security and all. 

You handed out the treats to the children and talked with some of them. Specially your favorite of them all, Semaj. He had missed you while you were gone, and you had missed him all the same.

“Hello?” You call out.

If everything were normal, a palace person would have greeted you already. Someone might have actually greeted you in town before you made it up the steps. 

You push open the door and find it to be empty inside. Empty and quiet. Which is unusual for a place that holds at least fifty people inside at all times. 

You grab your bags and head inside. 

First you go to your room to drop off your bags. It’s quiet the whole way there too. Two long hallways then a right turn later. You haven’t seen or heard anyone.

When you drop your bags off you leave you room immediately. Closing the door behind you, you wander the halls. Checking in each room and finding no one. It was almost as if no one had ever lived here.

There is one room that should be busy. You make quick work to get from the east to the west side of the palace.

The council room. 

When you reach the double doors you halt. That bad feeling you had intensifies. You pull on both doorknobs with both of your hands and yank the doors open.

At the sound screech you don’t flinch. But at the table filled with council members you do. They all look at you, bewildered, shocked, confused.

“Nice of you to show your face.” Cyril says.

Cyril is the oldest member on the council. He practically raised you and your brother. You parents were too busy ruling over the people to actually raise their children. 

Cyril was the man who should have ruled. Your father’s oldest friend with a penchant for people and solutions. He never had kids of his own, always claimed that you and your brother were enough to last a lifetime. 

You smile at him, “You’ve grown older since I last been home.”

“Watch your mouth, I have embarrassing stories of you.” He answers. 

“While it’s good to see you two catch up, we have urgent matters to discuss.” Another council member says.

Cyril pushes out an empty chair. For you, you think. You close the doors behind you and walk over to it. You take a seat and set your hands on the table like you were trained.

“Welcome back to Sangri, princess.” Another member greets you.

You smile, “it’s good to be back, but I’m only visitng.”

“I fear that the days of you coming and going will soon be over princess.” Cyril says.

You look at him, confused. “What do you mean? Where’s my brother?”

“We don’t know. We haven’t seen him since he left on a expedition a month ago.” 

“A month?!” You shout.

You try to compose yourself. A whole month has gone without anyone seeing your brother and you’re only hearing about it now? You can understand that he was on an expedition but you should have been told of it beforehand. Now he’s gone and— 

“Princess, we fear the worst.” Cyril speaks. 

The worst that could happen to your brother would be death. But even that would be hard to do because he’s not built for it. You’re not fae, you’re blood benders. It would require a lot of knowledge and power to kill a blood bender. If even a drop  of blood remains in their body, they can be resurrected. 

“Have you searched for him? Have you sent out an inquiry to his last location?” You ask.

“All have been done, no word.” A council member says from your right. 

You sigh, “okay so then what does this mean? Do we disintegrate the monarchy? Is there a cousin or a spawn I don’t know about?”

“No, princess. There’s no one else.” Cyril says.

“But you.” Another voice adds.

You look around the room in shock. No. You weren’t made for this. You were specifically not made for this role. All your life you’ve ran from it. You let your brother have it because he’s oldest and he knows best. He doesn’t mind the boring and stiff lifestyle. 

“I’m not going to take the throne.” You speak plainly. 

“Not right now. Within the charter the council has three months to rule on it’s own before appointing a successor.” Cyril explains.

You begin to shake your head, “Cyril, I am not taking the throne ever.”

“You must.” A voice says.

“No, you haven’t proven my brother dead. And if I were to take the throne and he were still alive we’d all be in breach of the charter.” You argue.

They had thought that you didn’t read the charter. You hated it, absolutely loathed it. But Cyril always made sure you knew exactly what your role could be.

“We think within that time we will have evidence that your brother is dead.” Another voice says.

“Well I don’t. And I’ll go and find him myself if it means I don’t take the throne.” You respond.

“You are free to do so, princess. But you must return if we find something or the three months have passed.”

You get out of your chair, the wood screeching against the marble floor. You don’t say a word to anyone as you walk out of the room. 

You should have never returned home.

-

Nesta isn’t interested in the conversation happening around her. Not for nothing, she wanted to be. She just couldn’t get you out of her mind. No she didn’t know you, but she felt like something about you was off when you first met. 

She couldn’t see your ears.

“There aren’t any humans in Prythian, right?” She asks out loud.

The conversation being had stops. All eyes on the table are on her. It’s not like she isn’t used to it.

“Of course not, you know that.” Mor answers. 

“She’s talking about the women we saw at dawn.” Cassian explains.

“I just don’t get it. She didn’t smell like fae either.” Nesta goes on.

“Maybe she’s Illyrian.” Feyre tries.

“No, I know what they smell like. We all do.” Nesta counters.

“Why does it matter to you so much girl?” Amren asks.

Nesta looks at her. She’s right, it shouldn’t matter to her. There are more important things to care about right now. Like the battles that lies ahead, an unknown enemy. She just can’t shake the feeling that this woman is a part of it somehow.

“It doesn’t.” Nesta lies.

Amren hums her response and goes back to drinking her wine. Everyone at the table starts dispersing and talking amongst themselves again. Nesta doesn’t, she can’t. 

She leaves the dinner table a few moments after that, no one stops her. When she leaves the room she runs into Azriel, on his way in from a mission no doubt. She passes by him and thinks to self that maybe she could ask for his help. 

She turns around before she can think against it. 

“Azriel?” 

He turns around without a word. He looks tired, and if Nesta weren’t so suspicious and inquisitive she would let it go. But she isn’t, she can’t.

“There’s some information I’m looking for…”

[inkwolvesandcoffee]

Breakfast in Margate (Alfie Solomons x Reader)

Genre: Romance, Fluff, Modern AU

Pairing: Alfie Solomons x Fem!Reader

Word count: 3.2K

Warnings: A grumpy Papa Solomons (yes, that is a warning) and a whole lot of tooth-rotting domestic fluff

Summary:

Mornings aren’t always easy. For example, it’s terribly difficult to not be caught making breakfast for your fiancé, a workaholic who always takes the task upon himself.

However, what makes it harder today is the fact he loathes food made with recipes found online. Fortunately for you, though, Alfie isn’t the only one who’s good at playing games when he wants to push his own agenda.

Especially those that concern a sweet reward.

Author’s note: I've kept Alfie's adherence to his Jewish heritage quite loose. Nevertheless, I hope that the aspects I did incorporate in this work have been done so properly. If not, let me know and please don't hesitate to educate me (in a polite and respectful manner) because I love learning about different cultures and religions.

Tag List: @potter-solomons @zablife @wandawiccan60 @dreamlandcreations @liliac-dreamer @buttercupsandboys @vir-tual @rose-like-the-phoenix @hoodeddreams13 @mollybegger-blog @solomons-finest-rum @hecatemoon87 @babaohhhriley

TH Masterlist

Mornings like this are rare, these quiet moments unbroken by the usual ruckus in the kitchen. Now, it’s solely my bare feet on the wooden floor and the waves crashing onto the shore. No clanging of metal, no muttered curses in Yiddish or Russian, nor the scent of freshly brewed coffee. 

In the living room, Cyril lays in front of the hearth. The first rays of sunshine fall over him like a warm natural blanket, highlighting the ginger undertone in his fur. One of the many features he shares with his owner. 

As soon as I pass by, he lifts his head, tilts it in wonder, and lets out a low bark. After all, it’s Alfie who’s more often than not the first one to wander around the house at the crack of dawn. That is, if he’s slept at all. However, recently he’s started properly adhering to the Shabbat. Although, as much as he allows himself to because if Alfie Solomons is one thing, it’s mighty stubborn. Moreover, he’s an incurable workaholic. As hard as he works at The Old Rum House Bakery to let the business flourish and maintain his position as the fearsome Mad Baker of Camden, just as much effort does he put into our relationship. In fact, it’s not only towards Cyril and I his attention goes, but also to the house.

Our home.

Alfie has become a lot more domestic since we started dating, shortly after meeting one another on a train to London. Disregarding his tendency to walk around naked, he cooks and cleans, assuring me time and again I don’t have to help. When we go out for our weekly grocery trip, no matter how tired he is, he carries the bags to the car so that I don’t have to. Neither do I have to put away what we got, more often than not shipped off to the luxurious red sofa in the living room with a cup of coffee or tea to pair with whatever he’s baked at night. 

Nevertheless, regardless of the otherwise very loose relationship with his heritage, Ollie and I are glad he’s at least taking a day off in the week to rest up. The bakery has recently started taking its toll thanks to an influx in customers, which means extra stock as well as staff is needed. In turn, this means more part-timers to train and more admin work. In other words, everyone has to pick up the pace to meet the current demand. Such is the power of marketing, especially on social media. Alfie is loath to admit it, but Ollie and I can tell he’s secretly grateful we managed to convince him to let us handle the bakery’s socials.

We don’t get cinnamon buns on Monday anymore, though.

I stop in my tracks, turn to Cyril, and put a finger to my lips. “I know, love, but Papa is still sleeping. It’s finally Mama’s turn to make breakfast again.”

Seldom do I get the chance to experiment in the kitchen, let alone try a recipe I’ve found online. Or worse, via Youtube or Instagram. Now, that’s usually enough to make Alfie bristle. Nevertheless, mention the word ‘viral’ and a scowl will twist his lips.

Sometimes I wonder whether or not Alfie and Cyril are the same person because he lowers his head onto his paws and lets out a deep sigh that sounds like sarcastic resignation.

Thanks for the faith, buddy.

“It’s gonna be okay. No fire in the pan this time, I promise. How about we go stretch our legs after brekkie, hm? That sound good?”

Cyril huffs in agreement and closes his eyes, back to enjoying his luxurious pillow. 

We bought it for him when we went antique shop hopping in London last week. Although, perhaps it’s better to say I bought it after convincing my grumpy companion we should occasionally pamper our adopted four-legged child and I couldn’t fix his old pillow anymore. Of course I could, but I was more than done with constantly needing to fix the seams and re-stuff the thing.

Borough Market has become a regular stop on our weekly grocery trip, mostly because I used the splendidly efficient strategy of batting my lashes and pouting. Artisan goods and fresh produce can be luxuries, something to only occasionally splurge on. After all, why spend a fortune when there is a cheaper alternative that’s just as good? 

Nonetheless, Alfie developed a taste for supporting local businesses soon after our first visit. To some he has proposed contracts, offering them a position as a supplier to his bakery. Granted their goods are kosher, of course.

Yesterday, we got some wonderful fresh bright yellow bananas, eggs from a local farm, and oat flour from a mill a little ways away from London. Alfie thought little of it when I plonked them triumphantly in our grocery bag, having occupied himself with the fresh stock one of the florists was setting out. I glance at the colourful bouquet of wildflowers on the table and for a moment I’m back to him holding out to me, face full of the warm tenderness that stands in stark contrast to the stern and unpredictable persona he portrays when I’m not there. 

Right then and there, he wasn’t The Mad Baker of Camden, the fearsome King who rules the borough.

He was a sweet and caring gentleman.

Simply Alfie Solomons.

Nevertheless, in spite of these small moments of tenderness, he can still be awfully grumpy.

Especially if he hasn’t had his coffee.

“Mornin’, dove.” Two big warm hands glide over my hips towards my lower stomach. Those very same palms pull me flush against a naked chest grown soft with neglected muscle, slightly clammy with the remainder of last night’s late summer heat. Alfie presses his lips to the side of my neck and hums, tightening the embrace as he does so. The sonorous trill in his voice sends a shiver down my spine and rekindles a familiar heat. Nonetheless, the way he leans on me betrays he isn’t entirely awake yet. The slight slur in his words serve to confirm the lingering drowsiness, sounding like they’ve been pulled out of bed only moments before too. “That shirt looks good on you.”

“I’m glad you think so because you’re not getting it back any time soon.” I briefly stop mixing the batter to scratch his beard. He closes his eyes and leans into the touch as a content sigh escapes him. “You slept in.”

“Still woke up to an empty spot, though. If you want me to sleep more, yeah, which you know I find a terrible waste of time, I’ll need my wife to ‘old.”

I pat his hands to placate him. The thin gold band inlaid with a modest diamond around my ring finger matches his. I had thought Alfie would pick something elaborate for himself, but instead he chose a simple thick gold ring and got it engraved. It says: Ani l’dodi, v’dodi li; I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine. “Don’t get hasty. We aren’t married yet.”

“Let’s just go to the courthouse today.’’ He slips his hands beneath the fabric of the shirt I stole from him, letting them rest on my stomach after a brief caress. It’s a gesture he often makes nowadays. ‘‘Sign the paper, right, and be done with it so the desk eaters are ‘appy. We can always celebrate it later. Throw a party as big as the whole of bloody Camden, like a proper coronation ceremony to celebrate our union.”

“Tempting as it is, I’ll have to refuse. Besides, it's Shabbat today and you need to take a break. I promise I can wait a little while longer to officially become Mrs Solomons.”

“You ‘ave been from the start, Y/N. I don’t need a ring to call you my wife. ‘Sides, you well know ‘ow I am. Which reminds me, breakfast is my job, innit?” A wary tone creeps into his voice as he leans away to check what’s in the mixing bowl. “Is that edible?”

“It will be,” I say, continuing to mix the ingredients until they’re well combined.

“I’m not eatin’ that goo. Looks fucking awful, that stuff.”

“It’s healthy goo! Uses the bananas, eggs, and flour we got yesterday.”

Nose scrunched, Alfie peers at me. “Oh, so yesterday was all a little scam to get me to eat whatever this is?”

“You aren’t the only one who can lie. Although, it’s not really a lie, is it? More like a half-truth.’’ I shrug. ‘‘I simply never told you my plan. Would ruin the surprise.”

“Which is?”

“Baked oats that taste like cake. They just haven’t been baked yet.”

“Where’d you get the recipe?”

“YouTube…”

He groans, wide awake now that the conversation has taken a turn towards a point of absolute irritation. “Fucking ‘ell, dove, ‘ow many times ‘aven’t I told you not every recipe on social media-’’

“Don’t judge before you’ve tried it.” I put the spatula down, turn around in his embrace and steal a kiss off of his lips. “Said so yourself, didn’t you?”

“Don’t use my words against me.”

“Oh, I will. If only to keep things fair. Have a little faith in me. It’ll be fine.”

I hope.

A warning finger raised and pointed at me, he leans in until our faces are mere inches apart. “Fine. But I’m gonna make us coffee, right, so we’ll at least ‘ave something to get us fucking started.”

I can’t suppress a chuckle at the grumpy gesture. “Sure.”

The threat turns into tenderness when he cups my cheek. His palm has grown rough with the hours spent at the bakery, proof of his hard work. Tenderly, he presses his lips to mine. “Ikh hab dir lib.”

“I know.” To show I accept his usual indirect apology for his bad mood and avoid coming across as being cross with me, I run my fingers along his jaw. “I love you too.”

Resting his forehead against mine, he nudges my nose with his. “Mhm.”

“Why don’t you take Cyril for a brief walk, eh? The oats have to bake for twenty-five minutes anyway.”

“We can take ‘im on a walk later together. I’ll go set the table.”

“First put on a pair of knickers.”

“No.”

“You know the rules, Alfie. No buns on the chairs during summer.”

“I ain’t sweating.”

“Not yet.”

“Maybe you’re the one who isn’t.”

I cock an eyebrow, fighting the smug smirk threatening to break out. “That so?”

“Yeah,” he drawls, “first we’ll ‘ave coffee, right, ‘cause otherwise neither of us functions. Now, ‘ow about after we’ve started the day proper I’ll fuck you like last night, hm?”

Until I black out. 

The prospect of it mixes with memories of last night. Sea blue eyes, usually so steady and full of hidden temperaments, barely able to refrain from going cross-eyed. The fight with the stutter in his hips, gradually growing closer to the edge of pleasure but also exhaustion. Big hands reminiscent of wolf paws gripping the headboard for support while I was already lost in a satisfied delirium. The absent-minded glance to the bruises on my thighs adds to the steadily growing heat between my legs, perversely longing for more.

For him.

Nevertheless, the haze clears in an instant with a single sharp thought. I take a step back, crossing my arms as I search his expression for confirmation. However, as usually is the case, Alfie keeps his true motifs to himself. And this time, behind a mask he tends to put on when he wants something from me in particular. “So you can make breakfast. That’s what you’re getting at, aren’t you?”

“No,” he purrs, stealing a kiss as soon as he has bridged the distance between us, “not at all, dove. I just want my wife. I wanna make love to you.” We softly start to sway, slowly making our way out of the kitchen. “Let me make love to you.”

We come to a halt on the threshold. “Later. After you put on a pair of knickers and we’ve eaten.”

He blinks, the cheeky smile grown stiff. I can feel his muscles tense, unconsciously causing him to grip me a bit tighter than before. “But-’’

“Knickers, Alfie.”

“One round.”

“Alfred Solomons Jr, knickers. Right now.”

The use of his full name provokes a menacing snarl, the kind which is usually preserved for those who cross him. “Those oats better be fucking worth it, yeah, ‘cause otherwise you’re payin’ for lunch.”

I trace his cock, the skin hot and hardening beneath my fingertips with every sharp intake of breath. Perhaps this game won’t go on for as long as it usually does before he loses control. “Somehow I don’t think I will.”

He roughly grips my face, the thrill of every low-voiced word against my lips travelling throughout my body. “I ought to do somethin’ ‘bout that attitude of yours. Big fucks small, Y/N, always.”

Game over.

Except for the one card I have left to play.

“I know,” I wrap my hand around him, barely able to grip him properly, “but first some knickers. Please, Papa?”

“Clever bird, ain’t ya?” He growls into the kiss when I lightly squeeze him and let go. “Maybe I should carry out my own personal form of stigmata later. Add to those pretty bruises.”

Like snow in the spring sun, his attitude melts and changes. Alfie gently nudges my cheek and makes for the bedroom. A few moments later, he returns and starts setting the table while I pour the batter in the ramekins and plop them in the oven.

Despite the promise to make coffee, I reach for the cupboard to grab a mug. After all, old habits die hard.

Nevertheless, I find myself cut off by a hand that gently lowers mine, away from the handle.

“I said I’ll make us coffee,” Alfie grumbles. “Let Papa Solomons do ‘is job, yeah. Go sit in the livin’ room. I’ll be there shortly.”

I nod at the baking aftermath in the sink. “I got some washing up to do.”

“Nah, that can wait. Coffee and, ‘opefully, food first.” He places his hands on my shoulders and kindly coerces me out of the kitchen. “Go on.”

I let him guide me, feigning defiance by pouting. Yet, the act quickly falls apart with a lighthearted giggle. I suppose I still have a lot to learn from him concerning the art of masks. “Alright.”

Soon after he joins me on the porch, where I’ve settled down with Cyril to enjoy the salt air. The beach across the street is still empty, devoid of the plethora of towels. The breeze is silent, not yet filled with the chatter of tourists and locals alike.

These hours are ours.

This is our Margate.

“'Ere you go, love.” Alfie hands me a steaming mug of cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso, the milk soft and foamy, before he sits down next to me. I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes as I take a sip. “Nice, innit?”

“Mhm.”

Thus we sit in comfortable silence, enjoying the view and each other’s company. Cyril has started to doze off, although he tries in vain to keep his eyes open. One glance to the side tells of Alfie fighting the same battle. Occasionally he pulls a face or lifts his hand to stifle a yawn. It’s strangely funny to watch him continue to take a sip afterwards, a small gesture of hope. Surely he should be readily awake before his cup is empty.

Because sleeping isn’t an option.

He’s tired of the nightmares.

The faint sound of the oven going off disturbs the domestic bliss.

Alfie groans as struggles to get up, glad to have my arm to use as support while he pulls himself to his feet. I say nothing, knowing full well how his sciatica influences his mood.

And it’s already rotten enough in the morning.

As Alfie washes his hands, I get the baked oats out of the oven and place them on the plates. Meanwhile, Alfie warms up a few slices of babka and the challah bread we made together yesterday. “Just so we ‘ave somethin’.”

He sits down while I wash my hands. From the corner of my eye, I see him poke the oats with his fork. “It’s kosher?”

“It is,” I say, drying my hands before I sit down across from him. “Shall I go first?”

“Very funny.” He scoops a bit of the oats onto his fork and puts it in his mouth. His brows knit together, contemplating the taste.

“And? Do you like it?” 

Remaining silent and gaze fixed on the ramekin, he pokes his oats again. 

I swallow hard, my excitement crushed under the stones of dread. A nagging voice in the back of my head feeds into the fear of his judgement. Funny how one connects their self worth to food. Then again, it was that which started our relationship. A cup of coffee, a slice of babka, and a slice of plant-based carrot cake. Back then, though, my stomach didn’t quiver this badly nor did my ribs feel like they were caged in a very tight-strung corset. “You don’t.”

“Dove,” he begins, but doesn’t continue. 

Not until after he’s had another bite. “It’s good.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or simply trying to appease me.”

“I’m serious.”

“You are?”

“I am,’’ he says, raising his voice ever so slightly in spite of the effort to keep it even. Alfie finally meets my gaze and I can tell he’s being sincere regardless of the way he accusingly waves his fork at me. ‘‘But I still don’t like 'ow you got this off of the internet. ‘Ow many times ‘aven’t I told you, hm? You should know better by now.”

I chuckle as I at last taste the baked oats myself. They’re chocolatey with a subtle banana undertone, which is warmed by the cinnamon. “I gotta find new recipes somehow.”

“There are cookbooks.”

“Too limited and they take up too much space.” While nibbling on a piece of challah bread, I take a sip of coffee. “Can I make this more often?”

“It does taste like cake,” he reluctantly admits, spooning up another bite. “Yes, you can.”

“Why do you make it sound like there’s a condition?”

“You can make these oats, yeah, if I get to serve you something sweet in return.”

Something not to be had in the kitchen.

‘‘Deal,’’ I lean in, biting my lip as I play my final card, ‘‘Papa.’’

Alfie clenches his fork upon hearing his favourite nickname, the title he is secretly proud of. A dark haze clouds his eyes, the gloss in them highlighted by the morning sun. The smirk on his lips has evened out, his jaw tightened with the effort to practise self-restraint. 

Game over.

I won.

And the prize is something sweet with lots of cream.

[thepaleys]

The Paleys Return to Russia

In January 1912, Grand Duke Paul returned to favor with Emperor Nicholas II. After more than a decade of exile, the latter, on the eve of the celebrations of the tercentenary of the Romanov dynasty, finally decided to forgive the disobedience of his uncle, the only surviving brother of his father, Alexander III. To legitimize this decision, he named him, by imperial ukase, honorary leader of the seventy-ninth Kourinsky infantry regiment.

Quite naturally, from then on, the Grand Duke wished to leave France in order to return definitively to Russia with his family. During the same year, he went to Tsarskoye-Sélo – where the Tsar and his family resided –, in order to have a palace built there. Inspired by his home in Boulogne-sur-Seine, it was built and decorated by workers who came especially from France and was not yet completed when the family moved in May 1914.

The furniture arrived by train from their Parisian home, the paintings, the display cases, all the objects bought during trips to Italy, Germany...

For Natalie, then almost nine years old and who, until that moment had only left Boulogne to travel to Bavaria, to Biarritz - they spent several weeks each year in their Villa Coquette - or to spa towns like Vichy, such a journey was a real adventure. Of all her familiar entourage, only Miss Theureau and Miss White accompanied Natalie to her new life. Nothing could have prepared her to face this country, both archaic and wonderfully civilized.

"One morning, we were horrified to see, along the Volga, a group of peasant women, strapped like prisoners, trying to haul a barge with great difficulty; the next day, when we returned from a sleigh ride in a countryside dazzling with whiteness, a servant rushed to dust the snow from our clothes with a brush reserved for this only use. That was his only function," recalled Irina Paley.

We can easily imagine her amazement upon discovering Saint Petersburg, where Natalie stayed for a while in her father's palace at the English Embankment, while the family waited to move to Tsarskoye-Sélo. (...) When she arrived in Tsarskoye Selo - the railway linking the Tsar's village to Saint Petersburg, completed in 1837, was the first to be built in Russia - the memory of Pushkin was still ever present (...)

The residence of Grand Duke Paul was surrounded by a French garden and a black wrought iron gate where the letter P. in Cyrillic was inlaid in a series of gilded bronze medallions surmounted by an imperial crown. Lanterns decorated with acanthus leaves were lit - the town had been the first in all of Europe to receive electricity - from dusk and provided an iridescent light on the snow in winter.

A series of salons - the Countess of Hohenfelsen organized the lives of her family from the pink salon for which she had brought all his favorite objects - a ballroom which was never used, a ceremonial dining room - pieces of silverware sparkled in the windows and crystals from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries shone and of course a spacious library... such was the new setting in which Natalie now moved.

The return to Russia was an opportunity for her to discover a large, almost unknown family: her maternal grandmother, Olga Vassilievna Meszaros, whom everyone called Babaka, her half-sisters Marianne and Olga, as well as their brother Alexandre, without forgetting her cousins the Grand Duchesses Olga, Tatiana, Marie and Anastasia, daughters of Emperor Nicholas II. (...)

They met at church or on walks, either in the gardens of the Alexander Palace, which formerly sheltered elk and wild boars intended for hunting parties organized to entertain the court, or in the park of the Grand Palace, where a delightful Chinese Theater red and gold, a whim of Catherine II, rose among the pines.

During the first weeks, life resumed its normal course. Every Sunday, Natalie and her parents attended mass as always, most often at the Féodorovski Sobor, where the sovereigns also went. The little girl met her godfather there, Grand Duke Nicholas Mikhailovich, and many of their acquaintances.

"Natalie Paley: princesse en exil" - Jean Noel Liaut

[cordeliaculm]

Cordelia cocked an eyebrow up to the other Tribute. This really set the tone for the rest of the conversation, didn't it? She'd just need to prove herself, again, for the sake of her allyship. "Great asset at sneaking in and out of places," Cordelia explained chewing on her lower lip, and then shot back, not trying to be an aggressor, just curious, "And you?"

"She talks to me, all the time" Cyril crossed his arms. He wasn't particularly thrilled about her appearance, unsure of why Alecta liked her -- unsure of why they were spending time together at all. He hadn't done much to mention it to Alecta, an effort not to spoil the peace in the limited time before the arena. What Cordelia said next threw him off, no, Alecta hadn't mentioned anything of the sort. His eyebrows knitted-- but not without an effort to maintain a neutral expression. "What does she see in you?" It didn't answer her question, but he wasn't sure if there even was a partnership without hearing it directly from Alecta. Cordelia may have somehow proved herself to her, but she hadn't proven herself to him.

[justrainandcoffee]

“Come on, baby, light my fire” (Alfie Solomons x fem!oc) Part 1

Story masterlist - Alfie x Rose masterlist

Summary: The first time he saw her was on TV in middle of a riot caused after the assumption of the new Prime Minister. Then, as if the fate was determined to force them to meet Alfie and Rose crossed paths more than once.

Warning: None. But if you support police, this fic isn't for you. ||Alternate universe. Fireman!AU || I'm perfectly aware that it's not THAT easy to set a kitchen on fire, but welcome to fiction. ||

Words: 2.3k

Try now we can only lose and our love become a funeral pyre, come on baby, light my fire come on baby, light my fire.

The Doors.

People think that the policy of "not romantic relationship between employees" that some workplaces have, can be considered medieval, old fashioned and oppressive. Because what can be better than work with the person you chose to love? Stolen glances, smiles across the room. Secret kisses behind the door. Perfect, until the couple breaks up. Then the harmonic paradise becomes in hell.

Quite accurate, thought Alfie looking at Thomas Shelby passing by in front of him. Tommy was still wearing the gear, except the helmet, after the last call they received. He avoided his gaze and kept walking. They still talked, they had to because it was necessary to communicate to operate effectively, but they didn't talk about what happened between them.

Alfie let out a grunt when he removed his heavy boots and also his jacket. There, with only his pants, socks and a white t-shirt, he leaned against the bench and let his back rest.

His dog approached him and rested his big head on his knees. Alfie caressed him behind the ears.

"How are you, buddy?"

Cyril was a puppy that someone, for some reason, abandoned in front of the headquarters two years and since then, two years later, he was the official pet of this fire department located in Camden Town. Although Cyril was never trained to be a rescue dog, he was an honorary member of the team.

The animal looked at him with his deep brown eyes and Alfie chuckled "come on, I'm going to give you a treat." His back wasn't happy to move again, but he was hungry too, so he needed to eat as well.

Some of his men were also there, resting and chatting. He cared about them, despite his reputation of being a grumpy man. Captain Solomons inspired fear in some of them, especially the younger ones and he was aware of it. He needed to keep the discipline and if being grumpy was the best way to do it, then fine. But not so deep down, he was a good man and his men trusted him.

Cyril was finally eating from his bowl and Alfie already microwaved his own food, something that he didn't like, but there in the headquarters the options were limited.

The TV was on, although almost none of them were paying attention to the news. Riots. Nothing new. Since the new Prime Minister assumed, those against the Tories went out to protest as it was usual.

Alfie kept looking at the TV screen. A group of rioters was painting the walls around 10 Dowing Street, while others were throwing rocks and everything they had in their hands to the police. Something similar was happening near the Parliament where a bigger group was setting on fire a mannequin representing the PM. He couldn't help but let out a chuckle.

A brown haired girl with a megaphone was congratulating the multitude that went there and asked to those watching or hearing from their houses, to join them and protest against 'the bleached fucker and the pigs.'

"Another one who thinks that can end with a government by causing disturbance" Alfie moved his head towards the voice in front of him.

"Well, Tommy, she's doing more for something she believes than you complaining here, chewing a mint gum."

"Just wait until we have to go there to extinguish the fire started by them."

"Your friends, the fucking cops, will take care of them, as usual, Tom. So don't worry. It's called repression."

"It's called keeping the order. And they're not my friends."

"They're more friends to you than they're to me. Policemen, they cannot be trusted."

.

Alfie was right. Police arrested several of them for disturbance in public spaces. They were going to release soon and the only consequence of their actions for now, was a legal folder containing their arrest records.

Some of them got their freedom after few questions or right after the police got their fingerprints. Others, were still there. The girl who had the megaphone among them.

"If there's not female officers, then, don't you fucking dare to put your dirty, bloody hands on me, motherfucker. You're going to regret it when I put your fucking name in every social media: Gregory Williams, first officer, touched an unarmed woman. Do you want a legion of feminists in front your police department? Because I can do that."

The man pushed her against chair "just waited there, Coldwell! It's always a pleasure to host you here. Your cell is waiting for you."

"S.M.P"

"I don't know what that means, but I'm assuming that you are sending regards to my mother."

"Your mother is not the one to blame, she's not guilty of what you are. S.M.P, means suck my pussy. I'm already under arrest, the least I can do now is let out the hatred in my heart."

It was good that one of her younger brothers was a lawyer. Instead of spending a whole day there, they let her out before midnight, even when Williams was willing to leave her there for two weeks.

"I'll be back, fucker."

"Rose, shut up," his brother Samuel, the lawyer, grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out of the police department. "One day, it will cost you more than a bail."

"I did nothing, Samuel. Prisons are overpopulated with criminals, killers, rapists and the worst of all, according to them: innocent people. So, I don't fit in any category therefore, I'm fine. But thanks again, Sam."

"Don't mention it. Are you going to your apartment?"

"Yes. I need to walk. I call you when I'm there."

"Ok. Take care, Rosie."

Rose put her hands in her pockets and began to walk. The streetlights, the shop signs and the cars illuminated her way. Was it worth? Yes, definitely. No one in humanity got anything by saying please and thank you. Humans were born to fight. In wars or in daily life, but everything was a battle with few moments of peace.

Rose always felt inside her, probably in another life, she did something similar too. Maybe worse. Fighting for people's rights was something that she was born with. But she didn't know why.

She stopped by a coffee shop to buy a latte. It was late, but who were going to stop her? Besides, she was hungry and last time she ate something was that morning when had her breakfast.

.

Alfie ended his shift gladly to return home without any major accidents that day. A sandwich was what he wanted. Around the corner was a coffee shop opened 24 hours and had the most delicious cheese sandwich that he knew. His stomach growled in anticipation of the feast.

The place was almost empty except for two men holding hands at a table and the girl in front of him waiting for her coffee. He looked at the couple and couldn't help but think about him and Tommy. It was long time ago to be considered ancient history and yet, it was yesterday at the same time.

He turned his gaze towards the list of coffees there and thought that maybe he could order one like the girl in front of him did.

The girl.

Alfie paid attention to the woman there and he recognised her from the news he saw earlier that day. So, she was fine, after all. The news also showed later how police apprehended the rioters and take them to the station.

Alfie cleared his throat making her to look at him for the first time.

"Good night," he said.

"Good night."

"I know you."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"Really? Because I don't know you." Rose, looked at him. Really looked at him. A tall, bearded and, in her eyes, a good-looking man. Yet, she knew very well that creepy men where everywhere and some were handsome. So her mind was in alert. Just in case.

"I saw you today in the news. Megaphone in hand."

"Oh, I didn't know I was in the news."

"Problematic people tend to be famous."

"Excuse me, are you calling me problematic?"

The barista had the cup of coffee in his hands to give it to her, but he was also interested in the current conversation. Nights used to be way boring.

"Someone inciting violence in the streets isn't an angel."

"What are you? A cop?"

"Fucking ridiculous! I prefer to be dead before being a cop. I'm just saying, sweetheart."

She frowned "well, congratulations then, anonymous man. You get it very well who I am."

Rose finally grabbed the coffee that the barista prepared, thanked at the boy and went out.

"If i were your age, man, I'd ask her, her telephone number," the barista said preparing the sandwich that Alfie ordered.

"What do you mean my age? I'm just 30!"

"I'm just saying, sir."

Insolent kid. Alfie chose not to order the coffee and also left the place after paying for it.

The young woman wasn't near to be seen anymore.

.

Her head hurt the next morning. She slept very bad and the sound of workers on the other side of the street didn't help at all. Next to her in bed, her English bulldog called CPU, was snoring.

"Lucky lady," Rose thought looking at her.

She let her dog sleep, although CPU probably will be demanding food soon.

It was an ordinary breakfast what started everything. The same she prepared to her day after day. Although in fact, it wasn't the breakfast per se what caused the incident but a series of unfortunate events.

The kitchen cloth was in the counter and the burner was on. Maybe, a part of the cloth was touching the fire.

Kitchen is a dangerous place if you're not careful. And she Rose hadn't been careful. Not with the migraine accentuating her bad mood and tired as she was. Maybe, if CPU had been awake asking her to be fed then Rose could have noticed the first flames, but she wasn't. After drinking her tea and taking an aspirin she went back to bed. She didn't check the burner at all.

The cooking oil was also in the counter and the fire began to melt the plastic bottle, causing the oil started to spread over the floor and the flames followed the path.

CPU started to bark, but Rose was too tired to understand what was happening.

Until the smoke started to fill the whole apartment. Grey and thick like the things you saw in movie.

"Fucking God!" Rose jumped out of the bed, only to see her place covered by it. Coughing, she dragged her dog out of there. Her phone, remained inside.

It was a neighbour who called the fire department. The smell of smoke was reaching his own apartment. They arrived pretty quickly.

.

"New day, new problem," Alfie said driving the truck trough the street with the sirens on.

He saw the smoke as soon as he turned the corner. People outside were looking at the place where the fire started.

"Get the ladder!" One of the fireman yelled.

"Anyone inside the house?" Alfie asked to one of the neighbours.

"No. That girl and her dog live there, but she went out just in time. Both of them" and old lady replied.

While his men were climbing, he turned around to see the owner of the apartment.

You're kidding me.

"So, the problematic girl is causing problems as expected."

Rose, still hugging CPU, raised her eyes to see the man in front of her. The distinctive gear: turnout pants and jacket, helmet and boots gave him the appearance of someone bigger. Yet, despite the helmet, she recognised him. Of course she did.

"Are you a fireman?"

"Unless you guess I'm a freak wearing this thing that is heavy as fuck, then I'm a fireman, sweetheart. The Captain, in fact."

"Good."

"You need to tell me what happened. Do you need medical assistance?"

"No, I don't. I'm fine. She's fine too," Rose said refering to her dog. "But I guess my fucking apartment is not. I don't know what happened, but probably I left the burner on. I don't remember. I woke up feeling really bad so I made tea, took an aspirin and went back to bed. When my dog started to bark much later I saw the smoke. That's all."

"Ok, fine. Don't worry, accidents happen all the time. My men will take care of it and will determine what happened. Sadly until you can hire people to fix this mess you can't live here."

"Yes, I know. I'll be back to my mother's place."

"It's a good choice."

She nodded. It was the only place she knew, on the other hand. The firemen were still working behind his Captain while he was filling out a form that after few minutes he handled to her.

"Routine paperwork just to demonstrate that we worked here," he said as she started to fill her personal data there. She gave the papers back to him, who smiled.

"Well, Rose Elizabeth Coldwell, also known as problematic girl. I'm Captain Solomons, but you can call me Alfie."

And he winked at her.

[yukina-otome]

Chevalier Michel: Show we a new side of you (his pov) Translation Part 1

Hello everyone! I come back with yet another translation of Chevalier election reward story. The story is very long and entirely in his pov as well as fully voiced. (Even his inner thoughts were voiced, it truly was a delight to the ears.) It also comes with its own cg.

Since the story is quite long and naturally divide into 3 parts, this translation will also be done in 3 parts.

Thank you very much to @jenaiea, who gave me the story so that i could translate it. I hope everyone enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed translating it.

Please give a like and a reblog or comment so that I'd know my work is appreciated. (Could motivate me to release the other parts faster hehe)

NB: If you wanna be tagged for the next parts please say so in the comments.

I never had something that could be called a hobby in my life

I do love reading books but that also has a practical side to it. So I do not do it entirely for pleasure.

I never had anything I did just because I liked it.

That is, until I met MC.

Chevalier: I do not like to dilly dally so today’s training will be in the form of directl combat.

This is the training grounds, where Knights usually have their training sessions.

Usually, the training of soldiers was managed by Clavis and the red-head

But If I don't train my body from time to time, I might become rusty.

(That’s the reason I've been telling everyone but…)

Chevalier: Try to make me go down on my knees. I do hope you’ll entertain me a bit.

The knights pick up their wooden swords and start their usual formation.

It seems they had come up with a plan, but they were all too predictable.

(Well, I do hope some remains standing by the time the simpleton comes.)

The most powerful knights attacked first.

+Sword clashing sounds+

Chevalier: ……Too slow.

I kicked the knight that attacked me from the front, then turned around and hit the knight who sneaked up to attack me from the back.

(Their attack is a little bit more organized than the last time but that’s it.)

(It would be enough to deal with small fry, but it does not work on me.)

I trusted my sword with great precision toward their vital point and all the knights fell one after another.

The knight exhausted bodies piled up on the ground as they usually did when training with me.

(If this keeps going I can’t achieve my other goal.)

(.....Or maybe not, i guess luck is with me today.)

I felt another presence and when I glanced toward the entrance, I saw her familiar face.

Usually, even when she comes to watch, all Knights are down so there is nothing more for her to see.

Chevalier: Is that all?

I dared to provoke the knights, who were all wiping the floor with their bodies.

One knight stood up and picked up his fallen sword.

Knight: Uwaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

(If this was the battlefield, attacking dumbly like this would have him killed, but it seems there is room for improvement.)

I kick the knight before his swords get to touch my body.

Chevalier: I acknowledge your spirit, at the very least.

Cyril: I am extremely sorry, King Chevalier.

The knight who was able to stay standing amidst the other fallen knight, was the red-head, Cyril.

Chevalier: If this was the battlefield, you would have been the only surviving soldier. But would that have any meaning?

Cyril: It wouldn't. All I would be able to do is cry for my fallen comrades.

Chevalier: So instead you’d choose a meaningless death?

Cyril: Of course, How could I go back to my lord if I failed his expectations?

(I would have agreed with this mindset before, but now….)

The red-headed kept a firm hold of his sword, his whole body tense as if he was really on the battlefield.

For a few minutes, our sword clashed.

(As expected, he does have quite the potential.)

Red-head attacked my vital points accurately and without waste.

Anyone not skilled enough would not be able to keep up with him.

Chevalier: Your movement has become more precise since the last time we fought.

Cyril: Yes. If I keep losing, I’ll drag my lord’s face into the mud.

Chevalier: ……….. (smug laugh)

(Well, I too, can’t afford to lose in front of my simpleton.)

The fight was fierce, and he was looking for any small opportunity so that he could strike me.

After a while, I parried his attack and his sword fell to my feet.

Cyril: Well, in the end I ended up losing pathetically.

Chevalier: Still, that was a good match.

Chevalier: And I advise you to change that mindset of not going back alive.

Chevalier: Even if you were to be the only one left standing, it is your duty as a Knight to return to your master.

Chevalier: As the strongest of the knights, try to bring back as many alive Knights as you can including yourself. If you can’t even do that, then you're incompetent.

Cyril: I’ll keep that in mind….

Red-head is specifically capable amongst the knights, he will not disobey his lord’s orders unless he has no other choice.

(The fact that I started thinking that the knight's lives were as important as victory is thanks to the simpleton’s influence.)

Chevalier: Now, all the fools who died on the battlefield, do not come back until you have done 100 laps around the castle.

All the knights: Whaaat?! 100 laps?!

Chevalier: There is no mercy for the losers.

Cyril: Thank you very much! Everyone! Do not complain! Go!

The knights rushed all out of the training grounds at once.

Now that the hindrances were gone, there was only me and MC there.

(Or maybe not.)

Outside the training ground, I could feel the presence of many knights, along with red-head and I could see them peeking through the door.

MC: King Chevalier, well done.

Chevalier: I don’t think there was anything worthy of you purposely visiting.

MC: I’m sorry for disturbing you.

Chevalier: The knights were the one in the way.

I put my arms around her waist and hugged her awkwardly.

Chevalier: By the way, the loser got a penalty, but isn’t it also natural for the winner to get a reward?

MC: A reward?

(I am being….ridiculous.)

The need for a reward was part of human nature, so I approached my face to hers without looking away.

And quickly sealed her lips with mine.

She seemed to completely forget about where we were before she suddenly became aware and pushed my chest gently.

I expected this sort of reaction from her.

Chevalier: What is it?

MC: Why don’t I give you your reward after we go back to your room?

Chevalier: Then it will be too late.

MC: Really?

When I glanced toward the entrance, MC followed my gaze and became speechless.

(Do you not realize that even your cute reactions are part of my reward?)

MC panicked and started moving her mouth as if she wanted to say something, yet not a single sound would come out.

It was rare for her to make such an expression these days, because she always tried to look calm and dignified.

Chevalier: I really want to show them who exactly you belong to, but….

I hugged MC so that her expression could not be seen by the knights.

Chevalier: I have no intention of letting them see this adoringly foolish face expression of yours.

(I really seem to have developed quite the wicked hobby.)

As I thought that, I saw MC’s red ears as she buried her face into my chest, and my heart skipped a beat.

Yuki's note: That's it for part 1! If you didn't get enough of Cheva pls check the other translation that i did for him as well as clavis 2022 birthday as well as my own story that i wrote. You can check all that from my MASTERLIST

[wowbright]

Chapter 16: Trench

Figureskating!Blaine/designer!Kurt Olympics AU for december klaine fanworks challenge. Also on AO3.

With Blaine’s meetings, Kurt didn't see him again until past the time Blaine would usually be back at his apartment tucking in for the night.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” Blaine said when he returned to the costume room, his eyes puffed from exhaustion but lighting up with new energy upon seeing Kurt.

“You should go to bed,” Kurt said reluctantly as he packed his last bit of sewing gear up for Sochi. He was leaving for New York tomorrow early in the morning to take care of a few things before heading on to the games. It would be at least two days until they saw each other again, and much more likely three or four. It wasn’t like Blaine was going to have time to pick him up at the airport when Kurt landed in Russia. Kurt had already started working on the Cyrillic alphabet so that he could at least decipher proper nouns on his own, if nothing else.

“You’re right. I should go to bed,” Blaine said. “But I don't want to. Not by myself, at least.”

Kurt’s inside swooped like he plunging from the top of a roller coaster. It was delightful. He put on his coat and took Blaine’s hand. “Me neither.”

Blaine made a sweet, sharp, intake of breath. It took all of Kurt’s strength not to press him against the wall and ravish him right there. He smelled so good, and his hand was so warm and strong, and he was looking at Kurt with wide, dark eyes that told Kurt he was experiencing the same thing—that all he needed was a nod of encouragement from Kurt and he would take him right there and then, against the closed door of the costume room.

“But I also—” Oh, it was hard to talk when all Kurt wanted was to feel. He pulled Blaine’s hand to his chest, let Blaine’s touch ground him. “I want to take all the time in the world with you, Blaine. And we don't have that tonight.”

“All the time?” Blaine said, ducking his head and blinking those dark, heavy eyelashes in astonished delight. Others might have mistaken the expression as coy and playful. But Kurt knew Blaine was as earnest as a person could be. “With me?”

“As much time as you’ll give me,” Kurt said quietly. It was a promise, if Blaine would accept it.

Blaine raised Kurt's hand to his mouth, kissed his knuckles. “I'll give you forever, when you're ready. Just ask.”

~~~

Kurt wasn't going to sleep at Blaine’s apartment tonight, but he could walk him there. The weather had warmed since Garden of the Gods, an overcast sky blanketing the Olympic training complex and reflecting back the earth's scant heat. They wore coats but no hats, their faces uncovered, their hands ungloved and locked together. Blaine spoke excitedly of the things he wanted Kurt to see in Sochi— Saint Michael’s Church, Arboretum Park, the tea plantation, the hideous casinos, Stalin’s Dacha—peppering in historical tidbits with such detail that Kurt finally went, “I know you speak a little Russian”—Blaine’s training with Russian dance coaches had come up in previous conversations—“but how on earth do you know all that from one visit?”

“Oh, I don’t,” Blaine said. “I studied Russian in college.”

“You went to college? When did you have time to do that?”

Blaine shrugged. “You can't skate fourteen hours a day. I mean, it was complicated scheduling things around the figure skating season, so it took longer than the standard four years, but it was nice to have something productive to focus on in my downtime. Besides, my parents insisted. I mean, my dad had wanted me to major in business, but they don't have undergraduate business degrees at Yale, so he let me do Russian as long as I double majored in economics with some pre-law work on the—”

“You went to Yale?”

Again, another nonchalant shrug as if everyone went to Yale. “They have a really good skating club, and they were willing to work with me around my competitions. That was really the deciding factor in me going there. It’s not like getting into Parsons. There’s no way I could have gotten in there. I can barely draw stick figures.”

 “You're something else, Blaine Anderson.” Kurt giggled and gave Blaine an affectionate nudge with his shoulder and then, because he couldn't help it, planted a kiss on Blaine's cheek.

Blaine stopped under a streetlamp, his cheeks flushed from cold or exhilaration—maybe both. “If I'd known that would be the result, I would have mentioned Yale earlier.”

“Hmmm. But I mentioned Parson’s and it didn’t get me anything.”

“Oh, I wanted to kiss you. But you were measuring me in my underwear and it was the first day I met you. It would have been too forwa … Oh.” Blaine's eyes caught on something behind Kurt and his tone went from flirtatious to concerned. “Is everything okay?” he called out over Kurt’s shoulder.

Kurt turned. The figure approaching them in the dark was tall, a shock of pale hair hovering above a trench coat. Scandinavian Columbo, Kurt thought.

“Hey guys. Mind if I borrow Tickle Me Doughface?” Sue Sylvester stepped out of the shadows into the light of the street lamp.

Kurt turned to Blaine in confusion. He’d heard a lot of new lingo over the past couple weeks, but Tickle Me Doughface was not among the items in his burgeoning vocabulary. Was it the name of some musical group he’d never heard of—perhaps some instrumentalists popular among figure skaters?—and she wanted her CD back from Blaine? Or maybe it was an unfamiliar entry in the endless lexicon of special code words she used when she wanted to hide information from passersby who might leak things to the media? That seemed unnecessary. The only people within earshot were a few bobsledders.

Blaine leaned into Kurt’s ear and whispered, “She thinks that's your name. I have no idea why.”

Sue was … strange. Kurt had come to understand that much during his time in Colorado Springs. But she was a good coach to Blaine. Kurt had seen it in their practices—the underlying concern under all that abrasiveness, the way Blaine responded to her guidance. Whether she had a few screws loose or was just eccentric, Kurt couldn't put his finger on. But it didn't really matter. She was important to Blaine.

“Sue,” Kurt said matter-of-factly, “I think there's been a misunderstanding. My name is Kurt.”

Sue patted Kurt on the elbow and chuckled as if he’d made a good joke. “Yeah, that's what Blaine said too. But I’m not an idiot. ‘Kurt’ is a name for little Austrian boys in lederhosen and grisly old men.”

Kurt had to admit there was an internal logic to her way of thinking, even if he found the logic flawed. “Well, I don’t want you calling me Tickle Me Doughface.”

“Have I been too formal? My apologies. Tell me which of your other names you prefer I use.”

“My other names?”

“You know: Porcelain, Pillsbury Legolas, or Vincent de Lioncourt.”

“I guess I'll go with Porcelain,” he sighed.

“Well, alright, now that we’ve cleared up your identity confusion—Blaine, do you mind if I borrow Porcelain? I’d like the chance for a word in private before we’re in Sochi.”

The two men looked at each other in silent communication. They were almost back at Blaine’s apartment. It would be difficult enough to say goodbye there. Maybe this would make the parting simpler. “Sure,” Blaine said finally. He leaned up to press a kiss to Kurt’s cheek. “Goodnight, Kurt. See you soon.”

Sue watched until Blaine disappeared around the corner, then took Kurt’s arm in her elbow and guided him back toward the skating complex. “Look here, Porcelain. This is not personal. It's politics.”

“I'm sorry. What is—?” How on earth did Blaine understand anything coming out of this woman's mouth?  Kurt didn’t see how it was possible, even after a dozen years of close contact. Then again, Blaine graduated from Yale in Russian. Clearly, he had a talent for deciphering unfamiliar language that Kurt did not.

Sue stopped and turned to face Kurt. Her voice grew stern, the way it did with Blaine when she knew he wasn't giving her his best. “You're a distraction, Porcelain. The last thing Blaine needs right now is a distraction. So here's what's going to happen. You're in Sochi to help him with his costumes, and that's it. He asks you to hang out, you're busy. He bats his eyelashes at you, you figure he's got a speck in his eye. He wants to be your personal guide and translator at every tourist site in Sochi, you defer and hire a professional. And above all, you keep it in your pants. Because if you do anything to get in the way of him bringing home one last gold, I will go to the animal shelter as soon as we're back in the States and get you a kitty cat. I will let you fall in love with that kitty cat. And then, on some dark night when you and your bride Blaine are sleeping in contented newlywed bliss at your Provincetown honeymoon getaway, I will steal into your beachside bed-and-breakfast and I will punch you in the face.”

Kurt was so taken with the thought of him and Blaine honeymooning that he almost missed the part about getting punched in the face. Almost, but not quite.

“You don't need to threaten me, Sue.”

“You sure about that, Porcelain? My boy almost missed a meeting today because you two were making love eyes at each other in the costume room.”

“I think he forgot about the meeting before we started …” What was Kurt saying? He was an adult. He didn't have to defend himself. But Sue was right. Blaine couldn't be distracted at the games. Kurt needed to step back a little, at least until all the medals were counted. “I'm glad you're watching out for him, Sue. I won't be a problem.”

[w1ngedsoul]

the swan | a.s

pairings: alfie solomons x feminine reader

warnings: swearing

request: not requested

alfie solomons masterlist

The room was silent, apart from the simple violin playing in below the stage and the subtle whispers from the audience.

The theatre was set into three separate layers, the bottom layer could reach right up close and who's view point is mediocre depending on which row you're seated in, then there was seating above the bottom which was slightly further away from the stage but in most people's opinion is was the best option and you could still get a good view of the stage, those seats are usually for more privileged, richer folk and lastly another layer of seats were set above the middle rows and on those rows, you could see everything.

The entire stage, the performers who were playing the music, the whole audience and you were accompanied with a cushion, these seats were the most expensive and only a select few would be sitting there.

His sciatica hadn't been treating him well as of recent, and so he couldn't wait to finally sit down to release some of the pain.

Alfie was seated in a chair on the second and middle layer, the hosts knew of him and were careful to not set him off and offered him a free of charge visit but he refused, he payed for his seat and tipped each worker kindly.

Unfortunately, the theatre wouldn't allow dogs and so Alfie had to leave Cyril at home with Ollie.

Suddenly, the music began.

The violins were in harmony and the piano was calming as each note was slow, keeping in rhythm with the other instruments.

The curtains drew back and the stage was exposed, it was empty for a few moments until a woman appeared.

She entered on the tip of her toes, her shoes supporting her and keeping her well balanced. The fabric of her costume was white and thin, from her waist and above it was merely lace with a thin layer of fabric underneath to conceal anything that the performer wouldn't want to be exposed.

She was ethereal.

Her dark, curled hair was neatly put up to prevent distraction or hazard, but it seemed she couldn't be torn away from her choreography.

She kept her hands straight above her head as she spun, she had finally perfected her pirouette that she spent weeks on.

Her heart raced as the audience clapped at her talent, she glided across the stage as the music lead her through the routine she had been non-stop practising for the last three months.

Alfie stared at her in amazement, he was too distracted by her that he hadn't noticed the scent of nicotine until he took in a large breath.

He sighed and spoke up in a whisper, "What are you doin' 'ere, Tommy?"

"I've just come to watch some entertainment, I didn't know you were interested in ballet."

Alfie tore his eyes away from the stage and looked towards Tommy, even though he didn't want to take his eyes off of her.

He merely hummed as a reply, "Now, why are you 'ere mate? Surely it can't be 'o see a stranger spin on a fuckin' stage."

"It's the Italians, they-"

"Business? Nah, I'm not talking 'bout it 'ere." Alfie redirected his face towards the stage, continuing to watch the woman finish her performance.

"Fuckin' beautiful, ain't she just?"

"Sounds like you're familiar with her, Alfie."

The crowd cheered as she bowed, she was at the front of the stage, directly in the middle.

Roses and tulips were thrown towards her, she picked a few up and dissappeared towards backstage.

"She's been training for fuckin' months, she has. Told 'er to take a rest but she insisted on continuing, 'ad to carry 'er and put 'er into bed meself."

"Hmm, well she's a good performer to get herself into the west end."

The curtains slowly closed as the audience began to clear out of the exits.

"Yea, my wife's a talented little thing."

[nothwell]

Chapter Seven of Theo - a transmasc historical MM romance inspired by Little Women - is up on Patre♡n, wherein our heroes endure a Christmas.

~

“All right!” Annabelle cried. “Open your eyes!”

Theo dropped his hands. His well-practiced smile froze on his lips as his eyes fell upon the waist-high white cage assembled in the center of the room.

Myrtle and Mother stood on either side of it, holding it up and beaming with pride, while Annabelle hopped around them both, bursting with excitement.

“Isn’t it marvelous?” Annabelle cooed, looking as if she’d like to crawl under the cage’s domed roof herself.

“Yes,” Theo lied, and put all his effort into maintaining his smile as he stepped forward to touch the cage—a whalebone crinoline, to hang under his skirts. He hoped his shocked dismay would read as wonderful disbelief.

“Don’t pout just because it isn’t steel,” said Myrtle.

~

Joining me on Patre♡n will give you access to “drawer fic” – aka the 500k+ words worth of manuscripts that have been shelved until I figure out how to fix or finish them. You'll also be invited to join an exclusive Discord server just for patrons!

A new chapter will go up every week. Missing (unwritten) scenes will be indicated by brackets describing what would probably happen if the scene were written. Example: [in this scene Aubrey and Lindsey ride a carousel]

Currently posting… ♡ Theo. (transmasc historical mm romance)

Completed works... ♡ the Aubrey & Lindsey solar fantasy project (mm) ♡ A Willing Canvas - John Halloway x Lord Cyril Graves (mm) ♡ The Train Job - Rowena Althorp x Rebekah (ff) ♡ Hold Fast 2 - Hold Faster (mm) ♡ Vampires Vampires Vampires (mmm) ♡ The Sebastian Nothwell Contemporary Expanded Universe (mmm+)

See you on Patre♡n!

[merakiui]

What's afterl!fe? The characters look so cute and the artstyle is so pleasant to look at! I know you said it shut down, but I have to wonder, what it's about? Something to do with reapers? (I mean, I wouldn't mind if you started posting fic about the game because honestly, I'll read anything you write).

It was an otome game in which you play as the new manager for the 14th branch of Soul Reapers, all of them ranging in backgrounds, ages, and even species (Ell is an angel, and Quincy is a devil for example). There are different dorms, each housing four Soul Reapers. Mane (the Morning Team) consists of Ell, Jamie, Ghilley, and Licht. Die (the Day Team) consists of Theo, June, Louis, and Ethan. Hesperide (the Twilight Team) consists of Sian, Cyrille, Kati, and Noah. Noctu (the Night Team) consists of Nine, Day, Kirr, and Aitachi. Diluculo (the Dawn Team) consists of Youssef, Mori, Quincy, and Verine. As each team name suggests, it is the time at which they work!

Essentially, as the manager you're in charge of training and managing the Soul Reapers as they go about their daily work lives. All of them are dead and have past lives, and if I remember correctly they work to help guide vengeful spirits to the afterlife by sealing and purifying them within a kaleidoscope, hence The Sacred Kaleidoscope part of the game's title! :D I think they were also working towards reincarnation??? Although I might be wrong about that. I do know that when they came to the Reapers Department they all had a certain number of karma points which they had accumulated in their past life from various good and bad deeds.

You could send the Soul Reapers on cleaning shifts, read SNS posts, collect cards in the gacha, participate in limited time events, and read the card stories about various characters. There was also a feature where there were chat rooms for each dormitory and for each individual character, so you could chat with other players about your favorite dorm or characters! And aside from side stories and events, there was a main story!

It was a really fun game with lots of potential and many unique characters!!! Hopefully one day it will return, but until then I will hold the memory close in my heart. (ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ.ﾟ

(And thank you for saying you would be willing to read stories about it!!! I'm honored you would want to read anything I'll write. T_T thank you so much!!! That is a relief to know because lately I have been wanting to write for Hetalia. ^^;;;;; but for now I'm glad others can be interested in Afterl!fe!!!!!)

[saintgoths]

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ

CHAPTER THREE - LADY OF THE COURT.

WORDS - 5,077.

RATING - 18+. [sex, risky sex, Serena and Will annoying each other].

SUMMARY - Serena meets Gabriel Lightwood for the first time and Will hates it.

"I just want to see you shine, 'cause I know you are a star, girl." - Star Girl by The Weeknd featuring Lana Del Rey.

feedback would be appreciated! and i would like to say, this story is a will romance story, but i just want you to be aware that serena is a man-eater...

i also cross-post this fic on wattpad and ao3.

previous chapter - chapter two.

The moment Serena had woken from her nap, Sophie had aided the Venrosa woman for her court meeting that would involve the rest of the Venusians in London, Charlotte had been in the room with two of the girls, apprehensive for Serena’s safety, and Serena who had been appreciative had told the brown-haired woman that she didn’t need any help to handle the day.

“I don’t need anyone to guard me, no one in court would dare to harm me, I’m too much of a prize,” Serena smiled and gently relieved, Charlotte clasped her hands together---though the alleviation was quickly dismissed as another idea had struck her mind.

“What if a Rosehunter was a part of the court?” Charlotte inquired and both frozen, Sophie and Serena glanced at Charlotte, mayhap it was an idea they had all thought of but didn’t want to believe in, Sophie who Serena had gladly trusted was informed of the circumstance Serena had currently lived through, and truthfully, Sophie had liked Serena, aside from Jem and Tessa, Serena was amongst one of the teenagers who was actually kind and not irritating, so she had promised Serena that she would not tell another soul of the position.

Her hazel eyes now directed to her feet; Serena had pushed her bottom lip behind her teeth in ponder. “People in the court know how important Venusian Spirits are, it is against the rules to kill one.”

“The things people would do---” Charlotte then cut off by her sentence by the arrival of Tessa had slipped past the walls, in a couple of minutes she’d be trained by Will and Jem to learn how to behave similar to Lady Belcourt.

“You look stunning,” Tessa said, “where are you off to?”

“Thank you,” Serena smiled and faintly, she gripped the material off her dress, even though it hadn’t bothered her, Serena had been aware that Sophie had tightened her dress. It made her breasts appear vast, even though they already were, the outfit Serena had worn highlighted the area. “I’m off to see one of my friends,” Serena smiled, and briefly, Charlotte and Sophie exchanged looks, aware of how Serena’s excuse was almost a half-truth.

Almost.

“The carriage must be ready,” Sophie mumbled and briskly, the women had stepped out of Serena’s room, but the second all of their feet had been out of the area, they had immediately been interfered by Will and Jessamine who had currently squabbled over a circumstance petty.

Though, the moment they smelt the sweet perfume that had belonged to the Venrosa woman, both their heads had hastily turned, their eyes swayed with the moment in front of them. “You look pretty,” Jessamine complimented. “Are you going to another ball?”

“No,” Serena replied, “if I am invited to another ball, I’d invite you to come with me,” she smiled.

“I don’t need to go to any ball that involves Shadowhunters,” Jessamine snarled and immediately, Serena’s gleam had dropped.

Humoured, she had shared a look with Charlotte who had exchanged the same expression as her. You could never share a good moment with Jessamine for long. “I’ll be going to a meeting,” Serena said, “I’ll be seeing you guys later.”

“With no man to accompany you?” Will asked and as a result, Serena wrinkled her eyebrows. She had forgotten how historic the customs in the Mortal Realm were, she had hated them.

With another glance towards Charlotte, who had then answered for the Venrosa. “Serena will be fine on her own, it’s not like she would be walking there, Cyril will be the one to drive her to the meeting.”

“Not even Jem can accompany her?” He asked and annoyed, Serena gently licked the bottom of her lips.

“I do not need men with me,” she answered before she hastily walked past them. “Charlotte, Sophie…Tessa, I’ll be seeing you,” Serena said before she quickly made it out of the building.

♡⊹˚₊ ❦ ❀ ₊˚⊹♡

The confidence she had built during her trip to the temporary court had slightly drained out of her the second she stepped into the area, it was quite loud but not noisy, there had been people chatting amongst themselves, and others who had greeted her verbally, or by a bow or even by a soft kiss on the cheek.

Cersei, who had flounced towards Serena had immediately brought her best friend into a bear hug the second she was in arm’s length. Cersei, who had sat on one of the Sapphire seats wasn’t usually someone who accompanied her parents to court, but now that her closest friend had sat on the main seat, she had been enthusiastic to tag along.

“There’s some exciting news I have to tell you,” Cersei smiled. “I had intended to tell you before, but due to what you had just been through, I could not bring myself to do it.”

“Exciting news can be told later,” Lady Sapphire said as she interrupted the chat, “It’s time to sit down.”

Huffed, Cersei crossed her arms ere she followed her mother to the area that held the House of Sapphire’s seats, though before she had sat down, she turned to look at her best friend and sent her an encouraging smile. Now sat at the head table, Serena bit her lips, as she had waited for the rest of Court Aphrodite to sit down on their seats.

The Sapphire family had sat on the far left of the long table, but on the closest left had sat the Laurent Family, and on her right was the Salvatore, Davidson, the Raye family, the family Lady Evaline had belonged to had their seats empty, as Evaline had been the only alive member of the clan and she had been engaged with business in Venus.

There had been other members from respected families from the court, but there had not been as vital as the prior families listed. In front of everyone had been a large pearl with a detailed shell that had protectively held the object, both commodities to symbolise Aphrodite, if one lifted the pearl off the shell, it had meant they were permitted to speak after the head of the court allowed them.

Serena had a pearl in front of her, but due to her power and authority, she had no use for it.

Sir Sapphire, Cersei’s father, who had been known as Lyonel had picked up his pearl, he had sat up and glanced at Serena for approval before he began to speak. His face finely aged but there had been an essence of arrogance to it. “We’re all here for Lady Venrosa, who had lost a great amount of deal,” he spoke and silent, Serena had stared at the man, respected by his kindness. “Now that her father, Pietro Venrosa is gone, and the rest of her elders are dead, it is now Serena who sits on the main chair.”

Reticent, Serena had glanced at the unoccupied seats, the chairs her family would’ve sat on if they were alive. The seats of Pietro, Selene, Vincent and Anya, all of them gone and thankfully, Serena had silently thanked everyone for not being self-righteous enough to sit on their places.

“We’re also all here because of the incident,” Lyonel said. “The Rosehunters have returned to terrorise Venusian Spirits,” the man shared an as response, exchanged whispers had occurred in the court.

“I believe the Rosehunters that attacked my family originate from Venus,” Serena said, her voice immediately silencing the noisy crowd. “Barely anyone in the Mortal Realm knows what a Venusian Spirit is, I don’t think it is any of them.”

With a soft cough, Lady Sapphire picked up her pearl which had caused Serena to look her way, with a quick nod, the Venrosa girl allowed the woman to speak. “What if this time, the Venusian Spirits are people we know?” Her question had caused the people to speak again, brief comments thrown on how it could be Shadowhunters from the Mortal Realm and thus, Serena thought about Charlotte and the London Institute.

Davidson Salvatore, the oldest of the Salvatore family, and the only Shadowhunter in his family had taken himself to his feet, met with a brief look by Cersei. He had held his pearl and had spoken after Serena had approved him. “Currently, I live in another Institute in another country, but I plan on moving to the London Institute,” he explained, his eyes quickly meeting with Serena’s.

“If it is Shadowhunters in the Mortal Realm, then Serena---Lady Serena,” he corrects, “Needs all the protection she needs…and deserves.”

Content, Cersei had briefly smiled while Serena could feel her heart skip a beat. “I see myself fit enough to protect her,” Loras spoke, speaking without consent of Lady of the Court, and quickly ashamed he ducked his head downwards before he quickly muttered an apology while more people commenced to consider themselves for the Venrosa girl.

Overwhelmed, Serena leaned back, her hand against her chest. “I’ll choose who I would want to protect me,” she said, though, it wasn’t like Serena needed protection, she was an excellent fighter thanks to her late brother and older sister. Reserved, the court had humbled themselves in respect for the teen leader and thus the court meeting had continued.

♡⊹˚₊ ❦ ❀ ₊˚⊹♡

The second Serena had relief that the meeting had been finished, she had ushered herself to the closest toilet, annoyed how historic the toilets in the Mortal Realm had been, Serena had been content that Venusians were able to bring satisfying commodities in the building.

When she had finished and removed herself from the toilet she had been met with Davidson, bumping into him and briefly apologising for not looking where she was going. “I’ve missed you,” Davidson shared, he had cupped her face, bringing his face closer to hers, “I’ve missed you so much.”

Silent, Serena had gently played with the fabric of her clothes. “Not even hello Serena? My condolences?” She dryly joked and humoured, Davidson smiled at her.

“You know my heart aches for you, I loved your family,” he said as he let go of her, a haste sadness flashed by his face. “I’m really sorry for what had happened to them. How are you dealing with it?”

Profound, Serena shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know,” she truthfully replied. “I don’t know how I am dealing with it I don’t know how to deal with it,” she shared. “Aside from painting, I’ve been locking myself inside the room the London Institute had given me.”

“My mind isn’t processing it, in my head, my family are waiting for me in Venus, to continue baking for them.”

“I wish things were like that too,” Davidson whispered and smoothly, Serena rolled her eyes towards him, her eyes gently dark.

“So do I,” she said. “I wish for all the pain to go away.”

With a gentle touch, Davidson’s fingers stroked her knuckles. “You’re a strong girl, you haven’t broken down.”

“I’m not a strong girl,” she answered and quickly, she pulled Davidson closer to her. “Fuck me,” she commanded.

Jaw clenched; Davidson looked down at her, his feelings just as sensual and twisted like hers. “Are you sure, Serena? Right here where anyone can just catch us?”

“You would take all my pain away if you just…touched me, love and care for me the way we used to in secret,” she replied and weak against her amour, Davidson allowed himself to engulf in her passionate embrace.

His lips locked with hers as he pressed her against the walls, his hands rushed to unbuckle his belt while her fingers dragged down her undergarments, already damp at the thought of his cock inside of her, Serena hovered her sex against the top of his shaft, the ambience of her hearth stirring Davidson into a lustful mania.

Quickly, Davidson petted his lips against her neck, he had licked every spot he had kissed while he moaned at the wetness of her cunt resting against his tip, his pre-cum had seeped out of the head of his shaft which had mixed with her nectar, and when he took in her warmth, he had groaned as he pushed further himself inside of her, the both of them struggling a moan as both of their lips had found each other once more.

“Right there,” she whispered, her eyebrows furrowed while the heavy head of Davidson’s length continued to mercilessly lick the soft area of her sex, his hold around her tight and possessive while he continued to hungrily buck his hips forward, and in sync, they had moaned against each other’s lips, wet build up had increased around Serena’s eyes as she had chased for her high.

“Such a crude woman,” Davidson sighed, as he returned his lips against the soft and sweetness of her neck. “Having me lay with you in the corridor where we can be seen,” he whined as he pulled himself back from climaxing inside of her, Davidson continued to stroke and plunge inside her cunt, her dampness had closed around him, hugged him tight with crass.

With a pinched moan, Serena laid her face between the croak of his neck, both their bodies in sync, as her wet juices slid down her thighs. “That’s the fun of it,” Serena gritted, “No one can do or say anything because of my power and authority.”

Rough, Davidson pushed Serena against the walls, his eyes cloddish with lust. “I love a woman with power,” he smirked and once again, he had pushed himself to kiss her lips, both their moans fervor and greedy, Serena’s legs trembled as she had felt her upcoming orgasm and in response, her moans twsited into pleasured whines.

“Oh David,” Serena whimpered as she had felt herself climax around his length, her orgasm ringing around the base of his shaft; content, Davidson’s orgasm followed after, exhaustingly slipping out of her area, he had pulled his cock back into his pants, relieved of the itching pleasure he had for her.

“You still haven’t told me who took your virginity,” Davidson said and surprised, Serena turned her head towards the Salvatore man, her annoyed look enough to silence him. Both Davidson and Cersei were the only people who knew that Serena had lost her virginity at a young age, but Davidson had said the man had “been lucky” to take it, as he had been unknown to the both of them.

Hence them being Venusians, indulging in pleasure was not looked down upon, but Serena and Davidson had kept it a secret that they had been sleeping with each other. Although, during the time Serena and Davidson had shared their intimate moment, whenever Serena had been kissed by him, the image of Will Herondale had appeared in her head, like a virus.

Though, maybe it wasn’t an ailment, perchance it was her subconscious telling her about the attraction she had for him, but no, they cannot be, Will was such a prude, an ill-man, a--- “Is Loras still pinning after you?” Davidson asked and flustered; Serena jolted.

Confused, Davidson brought himself closer to the dark-haired girl. “Is everything okay?” Davidson inquired and lightly stunned; Serena pressed her lips into a thin line.

“Yeah, everything is okay,” Serena answered and after she had fixed her outfit, she had left the Salvatore alone in the corridor.

♡⊹˚₊ ❦ ❀ ₊˚⊹♡

Greeted. By Jem and Will, the second she stepped out of the carriage, Serena had wondered if she had appeared kept or it had been clear she had made love with someone the second she had felt Will’s eyes land on her, Cyril who had been kind enough to open the carriage door had received a kind smile from the Venrosa woman ere she walked down the steps of the vehicle.

“So, Cyril can know what you’re up to but we cannot?” Will asked and unbothered, Cyril had glanced towards the dark-haired boy.

“I barely know what goes on,” Cyril answered and approached by Charlotte, Cyril had returned to the horse and hopped onto its back, leaving the rest to themselves. Charlotte, who had kept an eye on Serena had briskly investigated Serena’s appearance, aware that the woman had indulged in risqué behaviour, but the leader had quickly hidden the shortly amused look on her face and had commenced to think about the court session.

 She had not necessarily liked the fact that she had to hide vital information from the rest of them, but currently it was for the best. “I suppose the meeting went well,” Charlotte said.

“It had,” Serena answered as she ignored the looks from both Jem and Will---she had kept a pleasant look on her face. “I want to discuss it with you,” Serena shared as she joined Charlotte’s walk back to the Institute.

“Do tell what happened!” Will chimed in and with a brief look of disapproval, Serena turned away from the dark-haired boy. “Charlotte, is there reason why you’re protecting a girl you’ve barely known for a week?” Will inquired and even though his question had been valid, Charlotte had bit the inside of her cheek reluctant to discuss the matter.

With another shared look with Serena, Charlotte pulled herself close to the girl. “I can see a mark on your neck,” she said and at that moment, Serena had quickly but carefully covered the area Charlotte had verbally pointed out ere she tagged along with the brown-haired woman to the drawing room.

Once the two had entered the space, Charlotte had released a long sigh before she plopped herself against one of the seats while Serena had used a short time to magically create a sound barrier. “We’ll have to be quick about it,” Charlotte shared, “I’ll be having visitors from the Clave soon.”

“Oh, the Mortal Clave,” Serena said, that was what Venusians had referred members of the Clave who lived in the Mortal Realm as, those who belonged to the Clave in Venus were known to be the Venusian Clave. The Clave, a political body made of all active people of the Nephilim, Serena had wondered if there would be a moment when those from the Venusian Clave would ever address their Mortal Realm peers.

“The meeting went exactly how I thought it would go,” Serena began, “We spoke about the Rosehunters, and people in the council do believe that the Rosehunters might belong to the Mortal Realm,” she continued, appropriately unsure of their decision, Serena sat on an opposing seat than Charlotte who had awkwardly sat down on her chair. “And some of them do believe that one of them could be a part of the England Institutes.”

With both of her eyebrows raised Charlotte had wanted to speak but it had appeared that Serena had more to say. “They want a Shadowhunter from Venus to accompany me, to protect me---I don’t want that to happen,” Serena said as she lowly raised her hand. “I can protect myself.”

“Are there any contestants?” Charlotte asked.

“Many, the main ones being Davidson and Loras,” Serena answered and as kickback Charlotte pressed her lips into a thin line, offended of the Court’s decision.

“If Evaline didn’t trust me, she wouldn’t have brought you here,” Charlotte said and in agreement, Serena nodded her head.

“You don’t need to take care of me the way you’re doing now,” Serena spoke and against it, Charlotte moved herself closer to the dark-haired girl.

“It’s the least I can do, especially for what Lady Evaline had done for me,” Charlotte smiled.

Comforted, Serena had moved closer to the Branwell woman, happy that she had such a dear soul. “You lost your entire family, even though I, or the rest of the Institute cannot replace your loved ones, I want to be here for you.”

Grateful, Serena had emotionally brought the blond-haired woman into a hug, emotive and fervent, Serena had held back her tears before she emotively trembled her thanks. “Thank you.”

♡⊹˚₊ ❦ ❀ ₊˚⊹♡

Serena had wondered how Jem has never lost it and attacked Will, if she was in Jem’s shoes, she would’ve stabbed him by now, presently, the four of them had been in the library, assessing Tessa---well, only Jem and Will did; on how to walk and behave like Lady Belcourt, who had visited a day before, and if the Venrosa woman had been honest, it was kind of terrible to watch.

Thus, she had moved her attention on the book of Apollo she had found in the library and once again, for her tastes, they were not accurate. “Camile walks delicately. Like a faun in the woods. Not like a duck.”

“I do not walk like a duck,” Tessa argued.

“I like ducks,” Jem said. “Especially the ones in Hyde Park, remember when you tried to convince me to feed a poultry pie to the mallards in the park to see if you could breed a race of cannibal ducks?” Jem reminded Will.

“They ate it too,” Will replied. “Bloodthirsty little beats. Never trust a duck.”

“Do you mind?” Tessa demanded. “If you’re not going to help me, you might as well both leave. I did not let you stay here so that I could listen to you nattering on about ducks.”

“You’re impatient, is most unladylike,” Will spat before taking a brief look at Serena. “I’m sure Serena can do better than you and she hasn’t even met Camille,” he said and as a response, Serena barely looked his way.

Intrigued but humoured by the book she was reading and as if a candle had appeared above his head, Will turned to look at Serena once more, who had again, not looked up but spoke. “I will not be walking for you,” she said and with an annoyed click of a tongue, Will crossed his arms.

“You’re a bore,” he replied.

“You’re a cunt,” she snapped, her crude words had then caused Jem to laugh at her.

“Well, you’re un-lady like,” Will responded.

With her face twisted, Serena eventually looked up. “And you’re not much of a man,” Serena answered and taken by surprise Tessa shakingly laughed, dimming on Will’s light, the dark-haired boys lip tightened as he had thought of what to say but taken over by Jem who had informed Will to resume on teaching Tessa, Serena had once more looked down at the pages, consumed of what she had read.

Eyebrows furrowed as if she had read a text of blaspheme. Jem now taking interest of what Serena had read, had smoothly moved towards her. “What’s wrong?” The white-haired boy asked while he had taken a brief look of the text.

“It says in this book that Apollo took advantage of Persephone, but that never happened,” Serena shared as she dimply swept through the pages, gaining more disappointment the more she had read.

“Hm,” Jem thought. “Were you there?” He joked and annoyed, Serena narrowed her eyes at him before she turned the book around to read the blurb. “I was joking.”

Unmoved, Serena shrugged her shoulders. “It wasn’t funny.”

“Sorry,” he quickly apologised which received no response. “What actually happened?”

“Apollo never raped Persephone, the one who actually did it was Zeus,” Serene explained and with a short hum, Jem tapped his finger against his chin. “I know you’re not interested in it, and you’re just being kind.”

“No,” he kindly replied. “I am actually intrigued in what you believe is the right text,” he answered but before he could continue what he had wanted to say, the door to the library had opened and Charlotte had entered the room.

Followed by a dozen men and a couple of women, people Serena had never seen before. “The Enclave,” Will whispered before he gestured Jem and Tessa to duck behind one of the ten-foot bookcases. One woman had been very tall, almost six feet, hair white as powder and designed as a crown at the back of her head, she was older but the other woman beside her appeared younger, dark hair, cat-like eyes and held a mysterious essence.

“Gabriel Lightwood,” Jem breathed out, his eyes trained on a male member who seemed like the youngest of the group, he seemed around their age and Serena thought of him to be handsome, sharp features, tousled brown hair and had watchful eyes. “What is he doing here? I thought he was in school in Idris.”

“Just don’t get into a fight with him,” Jem continued and humoured, Will rolled his eyes.

“Rather a lot to ask, don’t you think?” Will asked and focused, Serena had watched how Charlotte had ushered everyone to the table at the front of the room, and had allowed everyone to settle themselves into seats around it.

“Frederick Ashdown and George Penhallow, here if you please,” Charlotte said. “Lilian Highsmith, if you’d sit over there by the map—”

“And where is Henry?” Frederick asked. “Your husband? As one of the heads of the Institute, he really ought to be here.”

In response, Serena reticently scoffed, she knew Frederick had asked that because he didn’t think of Charlotte to be the true leader because she was a woman. “He better be here,” Gabriel muttered. “An Enclave meeting without the head of the Institute present---more irregular,” Gabriel turned then, and though Will had been quick to duck back behind the tall bookcase, it was too late. “And who’s back there, then? Come out and show yourself!”

Thus, while Tessa, Will and Jem hushedly argued about if they should stay behind or not, Serena had delicately poked her head out, eyes innocent and gently embarrassed about how she’s been caught, though the pretty but ingenue look Serena had on her face had blocked any mean comments Gabriel had wanted to throw. “Oh?” Gabriel muttered, eyes shocked by the dupe and attractive figure who had revealed itself, though the pleasant moment ruined by the recognisable Herondale who had followed after.

“Will,” Charlotte sighed on seeing him then shook her head at Tess and Jem. “I told you the Enclave would be meeting here at four o’clock.”

“Did you?” Will said. “I must have forgotten that. Dreadful.” His eyes slid sideways, and he grinned. “Lo there, Gabriel.”

The brown-haired boy returned Will’s look with a furious glare. He had very bright green eyes and his mouth, as he stared at Will, was hard with disgust. “William,” he said finally before moving his eyes towards Serena. “Who are you?”

“None of your business,” Will replied gaining another look from Gabriel.

“Is that her, Lottie?” The white-haired woman asked. “The Warlock girl you were telling us about? She doesn’t look like much.”

“Neither did Magnus Bane the first time I saw him,” said Gabriel, bending a curious eye on Tessa. “Let’s have it then. Show us what you can do.”

“I’m not a Warlock,” Tessa smacked.

“Well, you’re certainly something, my girl,” the older woman continued before moving her eyes on Serena.

Serena who had then wished she was a fly on a wall, but due to her Venusian appearance that would never happen. “And you? Shadowhunter or Warlock?” She asked.

“She has the sight but serves no Shadowhunter,” Charlotte quickly answered. “She was brought by Lady Evaline.”

Surprised, the white-haired woman raised both of her eyebrows. “Aren’t you away too far from home?” She asked and awkwardly, Serena quickly looked down at her feet. Though before anything about Serena’s origin could be spoken about, Gabriel returned his sight towards Will, face resumed to be still and mean.

“Mrs. Branwell,” he said furiously. “Is William, or is he not, too young to be participating in an Enclave meeting?” Gabriel asked.

“Yes, he is. Will, Jem, if you’ll please wait outside in the corridor with Tessa and Serena,” Charlotte said.

“I will show you out,” Gabriel smiled once he saw Will’s expression tighten, and with arrogant happiness, he escorted the four out of the library. Once the five of them had entirely made it out of the library, Gabriel had swung towards Will, “You disgrace the name of Shadowhunters everywhere.” He seethed unintentionally pushing a breathy laugh from Serena who quickly covered her mouth.

Her brief amuse bringing ill to Will’s ego, though as he pushed his struck annoyance behind, he leaned against the wall, regarded Gabriel with his cool blue eyes. “I didn’t realise there was much of a name left to disgrace, after your father---”

Angry, Gabriel pointed his finger towards Will. “I will thank you not to speak of my family,” he snarled and intrigued, Serena had stood up, noted to herself that she would ask either Will or Jem what had been the intel about Gabriel’s father, and as the argument between Gabriel and Will resumed, Jem had struck himself between the dispute, once more behaving like a mediator.

“Stay out of this, Carstairs. This doesn’t concern you,” Gabriel said and as kickback, Jem had moved closer to Gabriel.

“If it concerns, Will, it concerns me,” Jem replied.

“You are a decent Shadowhunter, James,” he said, “and a gentleman. You have your---disability, but no one blames you for this. But this,” he curled his lips, jabbing a finger in Will’s direction. “This filth will only drag you down. Find someone else to be your parabatai, no one expects Will Herondale to live past nineteen, and no one will be sorry to see him, go either---”

“What a thing to say!” Tessa gasped while Serena giggled in the corner.

“Pardon me?” Gabriel asked.

“You heard me. Telling someone you wouldn’t be sorry if they died! It’s inexcusable!” Tessa said before taking Jem and Will’s hand, “Serena,” she called aware of the humoured look on the Venrosa’s woman’s face. “Come on, let’s go and stop laughing,” Tessa said and with a comedic timing, Serena pressed her index finger against her lips.

“With the way Will speaks to you I thought you wouldn’t have minded,” Serena shrugged as she trailed after Tessa, which had put the dark-haired girl into thought, she had been aware of the way Will speaks to people in general, specifically towards Tessa.

Though, Serena had still acknowledged the longing looks Tessa would send Will when he wasn’t looking her way, with her eyebrows furrowed, a case of possessiveness trickled up her throat as the thought of Tessa liking Will had imprinted in her brain.

masterlist

song referenced

[whocookedthelastsupper]

“Mother Goddess lost her sacred status and the power that went with it; and in this violent downgrading queens, priestesses and ordinary women at every stage of their lives, from birth to death, shared in the loss of the "mother-right" The phallus now separating out from the rites of mother-worship becomes a sacred object of veneration in itself, then the center of all creative power, displacing the womb, and finally both symbol and instrument of masculine domination over women, children, Mother Earth and other men. When all life flowed from the female, creation had been a unity; when the elements became separated out, male became the moving spirit, and female was reduced to matter. With this god-idea of manhood, Mesopotamian males fought through their fears of being slaves of the woman-god by destroying her godhead and making slaves of women.

What this meant for women may be illustrated by the story of Hypatia, the Greek mathematician and philosopher. Trained from her birth in about A.D. 370 to reason, to question and to think, she became the leading intellectual of Alexandria, where she taught phi-losophy, geometry, astronomy and algebra at the university. She is known to have performed original work in astronomy and algebra, as well as inventing the astrolabe and the planisphere, an apparatus for distilling water, and a hydroscope or aerometer for measuring the specific gravity of liquids. Adored by her pupils, she was widely regarded as an oracle, and known simply as "The Philosopher" or "The Nurse." But her philosophy of scientific rationalism ran counter to the dogma of the emerging religion of Christianity, as did her womanhood and the authority she held. In a terrorist attack of the sort with which women were to become all too familiar, Cyril, the patriarch of Alexandria in A.D. 415, incited a mob of zealots led by his monks to drag her from her chariot, strip her naked and torture her to death by slicing her flesh from her bones with shells and sharpened flints.

Hypatia's infamous murder signified more than the death of one innocent middle-aged scientist. In Cyril and his bigots, every thinking woman could foresee the shape of men to come. The aggressive rise of phallicism had revolutionized thought and behavior, but it was not enough. Domination was not absolute, systems were imperfect, there was still too much room to maneuver —control could not be based* on an organ that men could not control. There had to be more-an idea of immanent, eternal maleness that was not physical, visible, fallible; one that was greater than all women because greater than man; whose power was omnipotent and unquestionable— one God, God the Father, who man now invented in his own image.”

All men allow women to have been the founders of religion. —STRABO (64 B.C.-A.D. 21)

Behind man's insistence on masculine superiority there is an age-old envy of women. —ERIK ERIKSON

-Rosalind Miles; Who Cooked The Last Supper? The Women’s History of the World