#for the third time in two days a customer who spoke no English came in

[ase-trollplays]

Aggressively and violently sprays the racist impatient voice in my head with a fire hose on full blast

[pockcock]

crawlin’ back to you (reiner x reader)

“I tried to move on, but nobody is you.” & “I never should have said that.”

summary: somehow, reiner and you can't get away from each other warnings: smoking, drinking, just very sad reiner, sleepy writer (it is full of mistakes) word count: 1,807

You took a sip of your whisky. This was your third shot this night but you were too sad to get drunk. The burning sensation of whisky was nothing compared to the fire in your heart. I let him hurt me, you thought. I let him and his golden eyes hurt me, use me, and throw me away like a doll. You took another sip. Fuck him. Tears were forming in your eyes. You swallowed hard to ignore them. Fuck him and his golden eyes. Finally, you chugged your drink. Fuck you, Reiner.

As you finished your drink, the bartender came to take your class. “Want the fourth?” he asked. He had been friendly since you sat down and smiling every time he came to pour some drink.

You shrugged. “I won’t say no.”

Pouring into your cup he looked at you with a frisky smile. “You don’t look like a whisky-type girl.”

“Really?” You laughed a little. “What do I look like then?”

“Wine.” He pushed your cup back to you.

You took a cigarette out and lit it. “I used to be a wine girl.” The cigarette was loosely hanging between your lips. “Nowadays I’m y/n.”

Bartender chuckled. “Jean.”

You inhaled the cigarette as he asked. “Who is the guy?”

“Was.” Your words were harsh like the odor of the smoke you just released. “He was my boyfriend.” You took a huge sip off of your drink. “We call it quits.”

“He must’ve been a stupid one since he left a beauty like you.”

You laughed at his compliment. “Thanks. But it was more than just beauty.”

“Tell me,” He said while leaning on the counter. “You’re the only customer for now and I have all the time you need.”

You smiled softly. “It doesn’t have a happy ending.”

Jean smiled wistfully. “Nothing has.”

The smoke of your cigarette was burning your eyes. Or the tears. You couldn’t tell the difference. “He was perfect.” You inhaled slowly. “Everything about him was perfect.” You shook your cigarette in order to get rid of the ashes. “Then, huh. We said things we would never think of.”

You continued. “He had golden eyes. You know, the sunrise has a slightly faded orange color? His eyes were just like that.” A smile formed on your lips. “When he looked, he would see through me. He would see me.” Your hands started shaking as you speak. Ignoring the sensation, you led the cigarette to your lips. “Can you please give me some more?” You asked pointing to your empty glass.

Jean scoffed. “I rather not to, but you need it.”

You continued talking after he poured some more into your glass. “You know, it hurts more since, in thirty-five minutes, it will be my birthday. And I am sure he won’t call or text or whatever.” You smiled. “He usually would insist on being the first one to say ‘happy birthday’ but-”

“Hey,” Jean interrupted. “I need to take care of these two.” You glimpsed right, at where he pointed, two women sat down and they were looking for a bartender. “I will be here as quick as possible.”

“Don’t worry about me,” you said, raising your glass. “I already have a company.”

He stopped right before he went. “Happy early birthday.”

Twenty minutes later you had smoked 2 more and the third one was a fidget around your fingers. You were no longer drinking because whisky was mixed with the smoke and made you feel nauseous so, you left the money under your glass and waited for Jean to come back. The bar was becoming crowded as time went by, he couldn’t stop by. You were fine though, being alone in a crowd wasn’t so bad. You could have a trip down memory lane.

You thought about Reiner.

He must’ve been home now, doing some commander business as he always did. His distraction was his work, you remembered him working until the sunrise when you fight. He would then come to bed around six, pull you to his chest, and bury his face to your neck. A small ‘sorry’ would fall from his lips as he kissed your neck and you would feel his tears on your shoulders. Those days he wouldn’t let you leave him, even for work. Reiner would cry and kiss you until you forgive him.

This time though, he left you alone.

Trying to get away from your thoughts, you lit your cigarette. As you exhaled the leftover smoke in your lungs, you heard a familiar husky voice.

“I told you to quit.”

Your breath was stuck in your throat. Reiner.

He sat right next to you and took the cigarette from your fingers. “I knew I would find you here,” he inhaled the stump. “But I didn’t know I would find you smoking.”

You were trembling. “I…” You couldn’t even look at him. “I was thinking.”

“About?” He drew in again and leave it in between your fingers.

You frowned. “Anything. Everything.” Your shaky hands were trying to find your mouth. “I-I needed a distraction.”

He hummed. You finally found the courage to look at him. He frowned harshly and put his arms on the counter. You were able to see the dark amber color of his eyes from the side, his golds were darker today. You felt the tears forming in your eyes.

“Why did you come?” You asked but regretted it.

He shook his head with an incomprehensible attitude. “I… I don’t know.” He lifted his head and looked at you. “I just wanted to see you.”

A tear betrayed you and left your eye, trailing down your cheek. “Why?” Your voice was low, almost inaudible.

“Y/n...” He brushed the tear with his thumb. “Please-”

“Why?” You pushed his hand away. “After all the things you have said, why?”

“Finally, Y/n!” You heard Jean’s voice. “Sorry for making you wa- hey, uh... You want another?”

“Yes but make it double.”

As he handed the glass he whispered. “Do you want me to stay?” Jean wasn’t stupid after all.

You shook your head and took a big sip. “Thank you, Jean. I got this.”

You turned to see Reiner, his eyes were locked on Jean like a predator. His jaw was clenched and his golden orbs were burning now. When Jean left, he turned around to meet your eyes. “Who the fuck is he?”

“Why do you care?” You chugged your glass. “He is nicer than you.”

You saw him clenching his jaw and fist. His knuckles were turning white. “Can he satisfy you?”

That was it. “Fuck you, Reiner!” You got up from your chair to leave but his firm hands found your wrist. “Let me go!”

“No.” His voice was hoarse. “You are drunk, you can’t go like this.” His lips were so close to your lips, he was afraid that someone might hear you. “Look, I’m sorry. Let me drive you home, then you can scream all you want.”

Home is not home anymore, you thought. “No.” Not without you.

He pleaded one more time. “Please.” His voice sounded hurt. “Please, y/n.”

“Fine.” You freed yourself from his grip. You wanted this shitshow to be over.

After paying for your drinks and saying goodbye to Jean, you were in his car which smelled just like him. You didn’t say anything during the ride, didn’t even look at him. You were angry and sad. Reiner disrespected you and you felt disgusted.

“I’m sorry,” He spoke as he pulled over in front of your house. “It was disrespectful.”

“Glad you realized.” You were ready to get off when he locked the doors. “Hey!” You turned to him yet you never expected what you saw. You couldn’t move. You were angry, yes, but you could never ignore the effect of his eyes on you. You’d know they were looking at you, within you.

“Please, listen to me.” Reiner touched your hand hesitantly. Your eyes found his, they were glistening yet his golden eyes were now looking faded. “I need you to listen.”

When you stayed silent, he continued.

“I tried.” He moved his eyes from you as soon as he started talking, he was looking disgusted. “I tried to move on.” His grip on your hand was getting firmer. “I said to myself ‘she is not the only one’. But I couldn’t…” His eyes, filled with tears and sorrow, finally met yours. “I tried to move on, but nobody is you.”

A tear left your eye, you didn’t even realize it was there before. “Reiner…”

“Let me finish and say what you want, please.” He inhaled. “I hate waking up without you. And it’s not just because I got used to you, no.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I can’t sleep knowing the fact that I won’t get to see you in the morning.” His hand left your hand and landed on your cheek. “I-” He was choking due to his tears. “I can’t live without you.”

Your tears were now running onto his hand. “I want to forgive you.” You closed your eyes, pulling yourself away from him. “I really do, but I shouldn’t.”

He was sobbing. “Why?”

“You hurt me.” Your hands were on your chest, your heart was aching. “You burned my heart. You knew what to say, or what not to say, and you hurt me.” A sob escaped your lips. “I shouldn’t forgive you. I cannot forgive you. ”

He took his hands away from you. Please don’t. “I see. I’m sorry.”

You two sat in his car for an uncomfortable amount of time. He then suddenly turned around to get a package from the backseats of his car. “I’m sorry,” he said while placing the box into your hands. “I wanted this to be more special, this is your birthday after all.” He was embarrassed.

“Happy birthday.”

Why are you doing this to me? “Reiner, I-”

He interrupted your words. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Your teary eyes were blocking your vision yet you managed to (somehow) carefully opened the package to reveal a beautiful designer box, you knew the brand. Your shaky hands lifted the lid and there was a beautiful watch with a hand-written note.

time stops when you smile. please smile and let me live in that moment. i love you. -r

“Reiner…”

He took your hand and placed a kiss on it. He was hiding his face so that you couldn’t see his teary eyes. “I wanted to give you something beautiful but I couldn’t.” He rubbed meaningless circles with his thumb and kissed your hand one more time. “I know that you cannot forgive me. But can’t we start over?”

You reached to his chin and lifted his head. You smiled, he smiled. “We can try.”

...

a/n: Hi! This is my first EVER English fic and I am super nervous. It is currently 7:35 AM and I should be sleeping but NOOO. It's probably really bad, but hey! I tried. I also couldn't really finish because I couldn't come up with a good idea. AGAIN! I WROTE THIS AT 7:35 NO SLEEP.

Thanks to @221bshrlocked I found the courage to write some things (I hope you accept AOT fics). HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT!

© 2021 sunshinedragonofthewest. All rights reserved. Do not modify, copy, repost my work.

[highonchocolate]

One More Cup of Coffee

ML Secret Santa for @togetherwekill! Happy Holidays :D

@mlsecretsanta

—-

The Queer Cafe: A Safe Space for LGBTQ+ People. All are welcome! 

Spoiler stared down at the cafe from her perch on a nearby rooftop. Black Bat crouched beside her, silent and still as ever, her only movement the flutter of her cape in the wind. The little shop was located in Amusement Mile, just on the outskirts of Crime Alley. Quite an interesting location for a cafe.

Logically, since it posed no threat, they should have moved on in their patrol route a while ago, but something was keeping her rooted to the spot. As cliche as it sounds, it was as if the Universe wanted her to go inside. 

Looking over at her partner, Spoiler indicated the still-open shop. “Wanna check it out? Patrol’s slow tonight.” 

Black Bat paused for a moment, considering the question, before nodding once. “Fast.”

“Yeah, okay. We’ll make it fast.” She jumped down from the building, landing in front of the door in a flash of purple. Black Bat followed, a silent shadow beside her.

She pulled open the door, and the heavenly scent of baked goods and coffee hit her nose. “Oh my gosh,” She moaned longingly. “That smells amazing.” She quickly walked (not ran, good vigilantes don’t run when they smell delicious food) inside, hand clasped around Black Bat’s to drag her in as well. The cheery jingle of the bell above the door chimed once, twice, and the two baristas at the counter looked up at the noise. One was male, with black hair frosted a light teal at the tips, and the other was female, with blond hair and blue eyes. “I don’t understand why I can’t be on the morning shift with Nettie and Kagami!” The blonde one was complaining as they approached the counter.

“Chloé, we all know that if you were in the morning shift, you would be cranky as hell because you had to get up at six. Don’t even try and deny it.” The man laughed. “Besides, you just want to be with your girlfriend while she works.” 

“..Maybe.” The girl, Chloé, grumbled in reply, crossing her arms petulantly.

Noticing Spoiler and Black Bat, they immediately stopped chatting and turned to the counter. 

“Hello. How may I help you?” The blue haired man smiled as they approached. His eyes were unnaturally teal, and they seemed to flash as they made eye contact. He radiated tranquillity, as opposed to Chloé, who seemed to have a loud, crackling energy that demanded your attention, and tugged at you until you noticed her presence. 

“Hey, uh, Luka.” Spoiler squinted at his name tag. “Could I get a cup of coffee, with cream and sugar?” 

“Sure.” He turned away to prepare her order, humming softly as he worked.

“What would you like?” Chloé turned to face Black Bat, a customer service smile plastered on her face.

Black Bat said nothing, opting to remain quiet in the face of this stranger, sizing her up and analyzing her body language to get a read on her character. 

At her silence, Chloé’s smile turned a bit more real, electric blue eyes softening as she pointed to a sign next to the display case.

All our employees are fluent in ASL, French, and English. Let us know if you speak a different language! 

Black Bat scanned it briefly, before nodding once and lifting her hands to sign. ‘Black coffee, please.’ 

‘No cream or sugar?’ Chloé signed back.

‘Sugar, no cream.’

‘Okay, You can head down there and wait,’ she indicated the other end of the counter, ‘your order will be completed shortly.’

“Thank you.” Spoiler spoke, cringing at how her words broke the calm silence that had come with their nonverbal conversation.

Chloé gave her a small smile. “You’re welcome.” 

—-

They were silent as they grappled back home. When they had showered and  eaten, Stephanie turned to Cass who was curled up beside her one the couch. “What’d you think of that cafe?” She asked quietly, running her fingers through dark hair, still damp and smelling faintly of flowers from her earlier shower. 

Cass hummed thoughtfully, head resting on Steph’s shoulder. “Safe. Trustworthy.” She paused. “Go back in the morning?” 

Steph smiled down at her. “Yeah, I’d like that. Maybe they have waffles.” She said hopefully, wiggling excitedly at the thought.

Cass laughed quietly, turning her head and pressing a quick kiss to her shoulder. Standing, she offered a hand and pulled Steph up. “Bedtime.”

“Yeah, I can get behind that.” She yawned, swatting away the blond strands of hair hanging in her face. “Lead the way, babe.” 

—-

They woke up a few hours later, cuddled together in a mess of limbs underneath the warm blanket. Yawning, Cass gently untangled herself from Steph’s grip, before heading into the bathroom to brush her teeth. 

By the time she walked back out in black tights and a matching sweatshirt, Steph was awake, blonde hair a tangled mess on her head.  She snuggled deeper into her blanket as Cass approached, stubbornly keeping her eyes shut. Cass’ lips quirked into a smile at her adorably grumpy look. 

“Come.” She kissed her nose gently, “Going to cafe.” 

Steph grumbled out a sleepy reply, eyes finally opening. 

“Gimme,” She yawned, “Fifteen minutes, Cass.” Another yawn. “And then we can go.” 

Cass beamed down at her, giving her another kiss-on the cheek this time- before heading downstairs.

True to her word, Stephanie came downstairs fifteen minutes later, clad in warm black leggings and a white top, purple cardigan thrown around her shoulders.

“Let’s go!” She grinned, earlier tiredness replaced with her usual vibrant energy. 

Cass smiled back, already straddling her sleek black motorcycle. Seeing her girlfriend’s ride, Steph immediately hopped onto her matching purple bike, revving the engine and following behind as they weaved through the busy streets.

They stopped in front of the familiar storefront, the charming sign proudly declaring it was ‘Open for Business’

The bell above the door once again heralded their arrival with a loud chime. This time there were two women at the counter. They could have been mistaken for twins with their matching heads of raven hair, if it wasn’t for their different colored eyes and facial structure. Interestingly, when one of them shifted, her sleeve moved, revealing a hexagonal tattoo on her inner wrist. Cass immediately noticed it, nudging Steph softly in the side, and she immediately committed its whorls and lines to memory. Thankfully it didn’t seem to match any of the gang symbols she knew of, which was a relief. The food here was so good she’d hate to have to fight the owners in some turf war next week or something.

“Hello!” The one with the tattoo grinned at them, otherworldly sapphire eyes gleaming. What was it with these people and their strange eyes? “What would you like today?” 

“Coffee, cream with no sugar.” Cass said, spine straight, gaze unwavering. Assessing. The other woman didn’t even flinch in the face of her stare, choosing to smile, even as a pink flush crept over her cheeks. Her name tag read Marinette.

“Of course! Would you like anything else?”

“Bagel, please.” 

“Okay.” Some hair had fallen out of her messy bun, and she tucked it behind her ear as she turned to Steph. “What would you like?” 

“Uh, do you have waffles?” Steph blurted out, feeling embarrassed for no reason. 

“We do! Would you like any toppings?”

“Um, just whipped cream and chocolate syrup, if you don’t mind.” She fought the urge to fidget. 

Why was she getting so nervous?! It wasn’t her first time meeting a pretty girl! Besides, she already had a girlfriend.

‘But Cass said she would be open to three, remember?’ A traitorous voice whispered in her mind. 

She squashed it down. Marinette probably wasn’t even interested in her, much less the two of them.

“No problem. Do you want a drink with that or is water good?”

“Water’s fine, thank you.”

“And can I have a name for your order?”  

“Oh, it’s Stephanie. Stephanie Brown.”

Marinette smiled, “Your order will be out in a few minutes. Feel free to take a seat in the meantime!”

She walked over to a vacant table with two seats and plopped down in one, allowing her head to thunk down on the table with a groan. She heard Cass slide into the seat across from her, and felt her warm hand grip her own. “Was pretty.” Cass said quietly, noticing her blush. “Maybe…?”

She allowed the question to hang in the air as Steph lifted her head to look over at her. “Those eyes,” she said reverently. “I think I’m in love.” 

Cass shot her an answering grin, answering the unspoken question hovering over their heads. Yes, She seemed to say. I would be okay with both of you. 

“You sure?” Steph breathed out hopefully. After all, she had been the one to suggest the idea of a third in the first place. 

“Yes.” She nodded firmly. Anything else they were going to say was cut off by the arrival of their food. 

“Here you go!” Marinette smiled cheerily, setting two plates down. 

“Thank you, this looks amazing!” Stephanie told her enthusiastically, the warm scent of just baked waffles rising to her nose, mixing pleasantly with the smells of bagels and coffee.

“Smells good. Thank you.” Cass smiled up at her, watching as she flushed from their compliments.

“Oh, thank you! Enjoy!” She smoothed down her skirt and walked back to the counter with a smile.

—-

Before Steph knew it, they were going to that little cafe nearly every day, and although she tried to deny it, she knew it was because they both had the smallest crush on a certain ravenette. But Marinette clearly did not like their presence, if the way she would turn red (flushed or angry?) and begin to stutter or ramble whenever they were within ten feet of each other was any indication. 

She also seemed to get more worked up whenever they stopped by, seeing as she once dropped an entire plate of tiramisu when they walked in through the door. Not to mention all the other times it happened, whether it was dumping a batch of flour over her head, or spilling coffee on her apron, but it only served to make her that much sweeter in their eyes.

Of course, Adrien, another barista with blond hair and a forest green gaze, was quick to reassure the both of them that Marinette was a hopeless bisexual disaster, and she would always turn fire engine red and trip over her words (and feet) whenever she had a crush on someone.

After that, it was easy for them to ask her out.

“Hey Steph, hey Cass!” She laughed nervously. “What can I get you for today?”

Cass, straight to the point as always, stepped forward and looked her in the eyes. “Your number.” 

It was comical how fast her face turned red. “What?”

“Could we get your number, Mari?” Steph repeated, refusing to waver.

“I didn’t think you were interested-uh are you sure?” She spluttered.

“Yes,” They said in unison, ignoring how Adrien was cheering in the background.

“Oh wow, um okay, sure!” She tucked her hair behind her ears nervously, grabbing a pink sticky note and scribbling down a set of numbers in looping cursive.

“Thanks Mari,” Steph grinned, “We’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Oh! Um, yeah!” She waved as they walked out of the store. And continued waving, a lovestruck grin on her face.

“Bug, you can put your hand down now,” Adrien laughed.

“Oh my god Adrien!” She let her head drop into her palms, “That was a disaster! On a scale from ‘you’ll be fine’ to ‘never show your face in public again,’ how bad was it?”

“I think it was pretty good, considering they’re both coming back tomorrow, and they asked you for your number,” He said, wiggling his eyebrows at her suggestively. “Is there some romance in our Mari’s future?”

“Wait, were they both flirting with me?!” She shrieked, suddenly jolting up from her slumped position. “Was that them asking me on a date?!”

“How would I know? Romance is over my head.” He shrugged. “Ask Chloé if you need help with that kinda thing.”

“Oh my god,” She groaned, sliding down in her seat. “I’m hopeless.” 

“Hopelessly in love!”

—-

Soon enough, the two of them were regulars at the little cafe, in both their civilian and vigilante lives.

Cass would spend hours listening t o Luka’s music, the two of them communicating in a language only they seemed to understand. 

Stephanie and Chloé also grew close, their loud personalities and similar temperaments often prompting people to ask if they were twins, or sisters. 

Spoiler and Adrien hit it off as well, joking back and forth with each other as he prepared her order at ungodly hours of the morning, sunshine smile ever present.

Kagami and Black Bat, as unlikely a pairing as it seemed, also bonded over fighting styles, and their shared determination to get things done.

Group movie nights, random get togethers, spontaneous trips to the mall, soon the two of them couldn’t imagine life without the crazy group of five that had somehow become such a major part of their lives.

—-

And one winter night, as they cuddled together on Cass’ couch, Marinette told them of nineteen gods, bound to jewelry, and how time and time again heroes rose to protect the world. She spoke of a temple burned to ash, a sacred duty passed down from Master to Apprentice, and a tale of a corrupted brooch and how a man's undying love for his wife drove him to darkness. 

And after she finished her tale, silver tears glistening on her cheeks from the memories she had relived, Steph and Cass pulled her closer, clutching her tightly; and recounted their stories to her, whispering to her of swinging through the city at night, watching from the shadows high above, and battling in the name of justice.

As she snuggled deeper into her girlfriends’ warm embrace, Stephanie couldn’t help but be grateful for the small pull of fate that had led her into a coffee shop at two in the morning. 

Nothing could possibly ruin this.

Until her phone chimed with texts from Dick, Alfred, Bruce, and Tim asking her what, exactly, she thought she was doing, and why she was in a random apartment near Crime Alley. 

So that’s what they forgot...

[13thbaronzemo]

THE EMPEROR'S NEW CLOTHES: PART 3

Baron Helmut Zemo/F!Reader

Rated E (Explicit)

You are the Sokovian custodian of Castle Zemo, which now belongs to the dissolved nation’s neighbors, and the baron himself has ordered you to come on vacation with him in Ibiza.

Disclaimer: This is the continuation of a fanfic written before FatWS: Ep4 aired and set up after his separation from the protagonists and while on the run from the law.

'Castle Zemo has been here since before you arrived and it will still be here when you return,' Ms. Helena assured you. Unlike yourself, the castle didn't go missing for five years. After five years of mourning, you had been the first person she witnessed return from the ether. As far as she was concerned, you were the only ghost to ever haunt those halls. She saw, through your empty eyes, how impermanent life is. They were the same eyes she saw the first time you stepped foot into the barony after losing your whole world along with your hometown of Novi Grad.

'You can't waste your youth between these old walls,' she sighed. You realized, taking a look at your back at your life, that she was right. You've been displaced in time, both mourning and being mourned, and chose to become one with history instead of living in the present. 'Now, go! Get some fresh air, dance, get some sun, fall in love, get your heart broken! Live!' Ms. Helena, ready to return from retirement just so you could take a vacation, sent you home to pack your bags. 'Just remember to send me a postcard.'

You'd almost forgotten all about it, excited and exhausted as you were after the flight, but a rack full of them reminded you of your promise. Ibiza Airport offered tourists a taste of the island right after they stepped off the plane, so there were gift shops filled with mementos of times you had yet to live. You spent your own money in one of them. You were saving up the euros he slipped under your door and that you hadn't already use to pay for the car, train, and plane that got you here in the first place.

Not feeling ready to step outside into the world and the setting Mediterranean sun just yet, you took a seat in a little coffee shop that overlooked the bus stop and wrote to Mrs. Helena.

After you finished your drink, paid for it, and tipped the waitress, you took another peek at the envelope and the absurd amount of money still left inside. He gave you more banknotes than information about his whereabouts. You understood why he couldn't, being a wanted man and all, but you wished you knew as much about him as he seemed to know about you. All you could be sure of was that he wanted you here, in Ibiza, where he would be for the next 10 days. And while you had dreamed about him greeting for you here at Arrivals, with a flower bouquet and a sun-kissed face, as you sleept on the plane, you knew better than to hope. After all, it was the possibility of getting lost among all the tourists visiting the island that gave you the nerve to travel here. But, if you were to be honest with yourself, the smaller possibility of being accosted by him for the third time was what made you take time off from work.

As you boarded the bus that would take you to your cheap - well, cheap for the likes of a baron - hotel, you took one last lingering look at the Arrivals entrance.

The sun was sinking into the sea when you got off the bus, so you stood there and stared. You’ve never seen the sea and it seemed like a lifetime since you’ve felt the sun on your skin. The sea breeze must’ve frozen you in place because a family of five knocked you over and walked all over you. The father apologized for childrens' crimes in a language you recognized as Italian. You reassured him that you were fine in a mix of English and Spanish, the two languages you’ve been speaking to the airport staff and vendors since you landed. After shaking off the embarrassment and dusting off your jean shorts, you started moving again, dragging the small and swiveling trolley behind you. You had packed every piece of summer clothing you owned and there was still room left. That’s where you put the magnets and Mrs. Helena’s postcard.

Inside the hotel lobby, you could get stomped on if you were to stop and stare at another shiny thing again. It was crowded, but that is exactly what you wanted, wasn’t it? To go  unnoticed? When the Italian father waved at you, hoarding his children into the elevator, you knew that you had already made an impression.

“How may I help-”

“Here’s my ID” you interrupted the receptionist. “I made a reservation via phone in that name just yesterday.”

You knew you were being rude, but you needed to get out of those clothes you’ve been sweating in since you left home. The last thing you wanted was to waste time spelling out your name.

“Of course,” she smiled. It was the same smile you’d put on during visiting hours. It was gone the moment she took a gander at your ID. “Excuse me.” She grabbed the phone off the desk and turned her back to you. Now, that was rude. Your Catalan wasn’t as good as your Spanish, but you did overhear the words ‘girl’ and ‘here’. “I'm sorry, Miss. There seems to be a problem with your reservation, but don’t worry, we'll sort it out soon.” Then, handing you back the ID card, she turned towards the sitting area and invited you to take a seat.

You swallowed a groan and put on your customer service smile before thanking her. After all, whatever mix-up may have occurred, it couldn’t have been her fault. Hell, it might’ve been your fault. It was closing in on a week since you had a good night’s sleep. On the bright side, you had some time to stare at everything shiny while you waited. You’ve never been to a place that glowed as brightly as Ibiza. Everything from the sun, to the sea at dawn, to the light fixtures in the hotel lobby, everything that glittered was gold.

When you looked back at the receptionist’s desk, you saw her looking back, but she wasn’t the only one. A man, no older than yourself, followed her line of sight and found you. From his black suit and hat and his white gloves and shirt, you could see that he was a chauffeur. What you couldn’t see was what he handed over to the receptionist. Stepping towards you, a smile spread across his face. As for yourself, you shrunk back into your seat.

“Good evening, Miss,” he spoke, his English spiced by a Spanish accent. “I’ve been sent to collect your luggage.”

“By whom?” You asked as if you haven’t already pieced the disparate pieces of the puzzle together.

“By his lordship,” he whispered before grabbing your bags. “He is waiting for you in the car. Follow me, please.”

Looking back at the receptionist one last time, you pulled the purse off his arm and slid it onto your shoulder. “I can carry this myself, thank you.”

“Apologies, Miss,” he bowed his head and followed you out the front door.

“Which car?” You asked once the both of you were outside.

“Follow me,” he whispered and walked ahead of you. When he walked out of the parking lot, you wondered if you should’ve believed a total stranger in the first place, but then he said: “The limousine.”

Sure enough, on the other side of the street, there was a black car and its shadow: a limousine.

“Just a moment, Miss,” he rolled your trolley suitcase to the trunk.

You slowly approached the side of it, the blackened windows preventing your eye from penetrating inside. Before you even reached the passenger door, it popped open. Taking a step back, you forced your spooked heart to settle. When the chauffeur finally made it back beside you, you were too startled to say anything about the seemingly faulty door.

“Forgive me, milord,” he bowed, backing away from the now fully opened door that was obscuring who he was talking to. “I shouldn’t have kept the young miss waiting. Please,” he waved you closer to the car.

As you approached it apprehensively, you heard a voice you had come to terms with never hearing again: “Good evening, my dear,” he removed a pair of purple sunglasses as he beckoned you inside with the same dark and deep eyes you were ready to miss for the rest of your life.

The interior was almost as bright as the lobby you left, white like marble and illuminated by a golden glow. One side had an entire cream couch just for the two of you while the other had a bar filled with crystal glassware and bottles bearing labels you don’t recognize. Yet it was him that you were most blinded by Baron Helmut Zemo. He wore a jacket that seemed the summer version of his fur coat and the button-up underneath was the same royal purple as his forsaken mask. As you took his hand and a seat next to him, you saw that the sun had managed to kiss his face, if only a little. Then, while you were lost in his eyes, he brought you back by bringing the back of your hand to his lips:

“How was your flight?”

“How did you-”

“How did I know you came here via plane? I didn’t, but it is the most popular way,” he smirked. “I did, however, know that you have a room here. Well, had.”

“I didn’t even get to…” you started, as he stroked your knuckles with his thumb, little circles to calm you down. “And the receptionist, she…”

“You’ll forgive her for not spoiling the surprise, won’t you?” Then, seemingly out of the salty Mediterranean air, he brought before you a bouquet of red roses. “Welcome to Ibiza.”

The drive to his villa was spent sipping the champagne he popped in his fingers and spilled all over his hand, giggles bubbling out of you as he offered you a crystal flute. With your heavy head on his shoulder and his arm around yours, you listened to his voice rather than his words. He talked about the sun that had just been swallowed by the sea, about how it gave life to everything on the island.

"Ibiza also has a nightlife, as I'm sure you've heard," he spoke into your scalp while his nose was in your hair. "I could tell you all about it, but I'd you live it for yourself. Tonight."

You were content floating in the foam inside your flute, getting drunk on his cologne and falling asleep to the soothing sound of his voice. "Is this a dream? Am I dreaming right now?"

"No, my dear," he rose from his seat when the ride was over. "And I have to wake you up now. We've arrived."

The night had already taken over the island by the time you got out of the limousine, but the horizon was as bright as ever. Stars, ships, and city lights which way you turned your head. And, when he led you inside, your eyes hurt from the brilliance of the interior. Everything was light and soft, nothing like the dark and chilly castle. There was life within these walls, potted plants, and music in the air.

"The bedrooms are on the second floor." He offered you his arm to take as he lifted your trolley in the other. "You can freshen up while I prepare something for you to eat. Are you hungry?"

"No, I had something to eat on the flight."

"A light snack then," he decided.

There were two bedrooms and two bathrooms on the second floor. He made it clear that you can choose to sleep in your bed instead of insisting on sharing one with him. You walked into the room that had his smell lingering in the air and, under his hungry eyes, into his trap. But you didn't mind being his prey. You even expected him to bite down on the fading teeth marks he left under your right ear. But he backed away while handing you your luggage.

After a shower that soothed your very soul, it was time for a change of clothes. You only had one dress that you hoped was fancy enough for a baron. It wasn't made out of any expensive material, but it did compliment your curves. As you walked down the stairs in your heels, you hoped you wouldn't embarrass yourself and fall like you did the last time.

As if summoned by the sound of your clicking shoes, he appeared at the bottom of the stairs. "A vision," he bellowed, eyes wide and arms spread wider. "You are a vision, my dear."

"I bet you say that to all the girls you bring back here," you blushed.

"No vision as lovely has ever stepped foot in this villa, I assure you," he offered you his arm to take again as he guided you to the kitchen.

"Or is that what you say to them?" You jabbed his side, hoping the joke would land. "Thank you for flattering me, but can you be brutally honest and tell me if this dress fits the occasion or not?"

"While it's a perfect fit, it is far too elegant for a nightclub," he sat you down on a stool before the bouquet of roses he'd placed in a glass vase and served you a china cup of cherry blossom tea. "If you'd like, we can go shopping for something more appropriate tomorrow. My treat."

He didn't let you protest, or dig up the envelope of banknotes from your purse. Instead, he insisted on keeping your mouth busy by feeding you himself because you two had a long night ahead.'

Between cheeses and grapes, he treated you to Turkish delights. The pleasure he took in watching you eat from his hand emboldened you enough to wipe the white powder off of the tip of his fingers using your tongue. The hunger in his eyes only grew when he slowly slipped one of them between your lips and you sucked it in. If it were up to you, the two of you'd be rushing upstairs into your shared bedroom and not come out until the sun does. However, when his phone started vibrating on the tabletop, both of you jumped.

"The chauffeur is here," he cleared his voice as he checked his phone. "Come, my dear." The baron had to clean your mess and his, the powder and your lipstick, with a tissue, before he could help you off the stool.

Before your mind could catch up with you, before you could ask why he sent the chauffeur away when he knew the two of you would be needing him tonight, you were already in the driveway admiring a purple convertible. It was a jewel on the road, the city lights and the night sky reflecting off of its polish finish, and you got to 'feel the sea breeze,' as the baron had ordered you to.

"Let your hair down and enjoy the wind whipping through it," he whispered. "The night is ours."

The night had barely begun to take over, yet you already felt like you conquered it. When you arrived in the island's paradise, the nightclub known as Eden, you knew that you made it to the top of the world. The guard let you pass as soon as they spotted you on the baron's arm and a second one guided you to the much less crowded and far more quiet VIP area. The speakers hummed through the walls that were drenched in blue and red lights and the dance floor was covered with bodies coming together in communion. It was a nightly ritual you can't remember the last time you participated in, but you recall it never attending one of this magnitude.

"Luciano," the baron called out over the beat.

"Baron," a man, dressed in black that seemed to blend into the shadows stood up from the table the bodyguard had led you to. "You're looking as alive as you sounded on the phone," he coughed in Spanish, putting out his cigarette to shake the baron's hand. "I can't say the same for myself." He was tall, taller than your Lord, and the darkness the strobe lights couldn't illuminate added his shadow to the height.

He chose to ignore your Spanish greeting as if you were just another in a long line of girls that had been brought before him. But that didn't stop the baron from introducing you as an 'hermosa visión'. The compliment made you smile just as wide the second time. And, after you were invited to sit across from this Luciano, he made a remark that you barely registered, distracted as you were by the sound of your Lord ordering drinks in Catalan.

"You're Sokovian like my Heidi, yes?"

You shook your head and said in Spanish: "Excuse me?"

"Heidi!"

A woman, sitting by herself on a black velvet stool, twisted her torso before turning off her phone. You were surprised to have missed her because, as soon as she stood up, she stood out with her dress as white as her skin and as bright as her blond hair.

"Good evening," the baron bowed his head slightly as she stepped closer to the couch.

"Heidi, this is the baron I told you about," Luciano gestured grandly towards your side of the couch.

"Baron Helmut Zemo?" She blinked, stars in her eyes the color of the strobe lights. "We thought you were dead or locked up or-" she stuttered in Sokovian as she sat down and leaned over the glass table.

"What is my silly girl saying, Baron? I could never learn the language."

"Papi," she spun around to face him. "You didn't tell me it was Baron Zemo we were hosting tonight."

"I wanted to surprise you, baby," he tucked her long blond hair behind her ear. "I know how much you've missed speaking in your mother tongue. Look, he even brought you a play mate."

When you were pointed out, you pushed your hair out of your face and waved. When he saw your stilted movements and your strained smile, the baron brought your shaking hand to his lips. He knew you had been placed in an awkward position, but he calmed you with a few circles drawn with his thumb on the back of your hand. He then made the introduction himself, releasing your hand so that you can shake Heidi's. Her smile was sincere, so yours grew at the sight of it.

"Why don't you girls go onto the dance floor?" Luciano leaned back. "The baron and I have business to discuss."

"Come on," Heidi dragged you up by the hand that was still in hers. "Business bores me."

"What was that, baby?"

"I said you're boring, Papi," she answered a laughing Luciano in Spanish.

As for yourself, you looked back at the baron who reassured you by squeezing your other hand: "I'll be right here, my dear. Now, go! Have fun! That's an order!"

You tried obeying his order, you did, but it took Heidi dragging you to the bar and buying the two of you drinks to relax your muscles and settle your nerves. She was brazen, sure. But she was also sweet. The smile that stretched her face also lit it up. She was another shiny thing you were drawn to on this island and she just so happened to be Sokovian. Three drinks in, she was already teaching you Catalan and a couple of her signature dance moves. You talked about Castle Zemo and the tourists who had thought you all the other languages. Soon enough you were grinding against each in the flurry of giggles. The music was just as addicting as the alcohol and it made you even more uninhibited. When she asked about the baron's performance in the bedroom, you answered so fast, your head started spinning. The best you've ever had. You asked about her relationship with Luciano and she wasn't ashamed to admit to her sugar baby status.

"Ladies, mind if I cut in?"

As if he could hear his name being whispered across the crowded dance floor and over the thrumming beat, the baron appeared beside you.

“Milord,” you blinked up at him, a sobering sight for drunk eyes.

“Hello, milord,” she wrapped her arms around you, not ready to let him have you back just yet. “Do you dance as well as you fuck?”

“Heidi,” you gasped, but soon you dissolved into giggles. You even wrapped your arms around her middle. “Stop it!”

“I’m afraid I’m not nearly as good of a dancer,” he smirked, seemingly unshaken by her slurred words. “Heidi, Luciano has asked to see you in what I believed he called his private booth. He tried calling you, but-”

“He wants to play,” she whispered in your ear. “I have to go, but I’ll see you soon, okay?” Then she kissed you on each cheek, each of them as sloppy and glossy. “Milord,” she attempted to make a curtsy but would’ve fallen over if you hadn’t caught her and sent her on her way.

In a sea of sweaty party people, you could only see him. The alcohol made everything glow brighter, including your baron. Like a moth who doesn’t know any better, you knocked your chest against his in an attempt to get closer.

“Are you having fun, my dear?” He steadied you with his hands, sliding them down your spine and stopping at the small of your back.

“Yes,” you smoothed his shoulder pads with your palms, enjoying the sensation of the fabric against your fingers. “But I thought you brought me here to dance.”

“For where I was standing, I could see the two of you were dancing,” he chuckled. “Were my eyes deceiving me?”

“You’re the one I wanted to dance with,” you slurred, emboldened by the liquor flowing freely through your veins. With your arms wrapped around his neck, you dragged him down and dipped your tongue into the shell of his ear. “Heidi’s pretty and all, but she’s not you.”

“My Lady,” he hissed, holding you so close he might’ve crushed you if he applied force. “What do you think you’re doing?”

With the beat of the music under your feet and his rumbling chest against your breasts, you swayed to the music in your heart. Your breaths were in each other’s ears, your lips against the shell of his and his under your lobe, in the same spot he left his stamp the last time the two of you were entangled.

“My Lord, what are you doing? You’ve barely touched me,” you gasped, grinding against him when you felt his teeth tease your sensitive skin. “You’ve barely spent time with me,” you moaned, moving your hands up and down his arms and feeling his muscles flex beneath your fingertips. “Why bring me here at all?”

“You needed this,” he grunted, his groin growing between your bodies. “You’ve been living among dead things for too long. You needed to be among the living again.” After licking the wound his teeth reopened, his mouth moved from underneath your ear to murmur: “And you needed me.” The hands slid down the small of your back to cup your ass cheeks and press your pelvis up against his. “You need me right now, don’t you?”

“I do,” you sighed, sinking your nails into his shoulders for stability. “I need you.” He had shoved his knee between your legs and your body compiled: you were now rubbing your bare cunt against his clothed thigh. If he hadn’t figured out that you left the villa pantyless yet, he knew now. “You ruined me for every other man.”

His hands smoothed your dress again, but this time they climbed up your spine. When they arrived at the back of your head, one got tangled in your hair while the other went right through. Yanking your head back, he exposed your throat to his teeth and your eyes to his hunger. The baron was starving.

While nobody else around you could hear it over the music, he must’ve tasted your moans under the teeth he was dragging up your throat. When his mouth made it to your chin, he chuckled: “What a spoiled little girl you are! Haven’t I given you enough? What is it that you want now? Me? Right here, right now?” Nipping the thin skin under your chin, he continued. “You could wrap those legs around me and I could slip my cock right into your sopping cunt. Yes, I know you’re not wearing any panties.” Releasing his grip on your air, he cupped your cheeks to keep your eyes on him instead. “Or do you want to be fucked in a bathroom stall like the dirty little girl you are?”

“Please,” you begged him, but you couldn’t even begin to articulate. Your body, hot and loose because of the liquor, was more coherent. Your thighs tightened around his own and your spine arched like a bow. “Oh, please.”

The baron bunched up your skirt in between your bodies with one hand while the other wound up around your throat, still tender from his teeth. “Please who?” He pressed you for an answer as he pressed his thumb against your slick and swollen clitoris.

“Please, m-milord,” you whined. “The bathroom. Take me to the bathroom.”

The walk to the men’s bathroom was a blur, but you didn’t need your eyes to find your destination. The baron’s hand was secure on your side, guiding you through the gaggle of dancers and hiding you from prying eyes. The bathroom was more light with more blue than red and the stall was more spacious than what you were used to. You initially imagined you must be out in the open, my when he turned the handle, it made a clicking noise, the sound of secrecy.

When he turned towards you, his eyes were wild in the blue neon lights and his hands were claws as he cornered you to capture your tender thighs. “You dirty girl,” he chuckled, as dark as his blown-out eyes. Then, as he lifted your feet off the tile floor and drove you up the wall of the stall, he snarled: “You couldn’t wait until we were back at the villa, could you? You had to have my cock right here, right now, didn’t you?”

You tried to get a hold of the tile wall, but failed and sunk your nails into his scalp instead. “Milord,” you called to him as you were climbing to the ceiling without your consent. “Milord, I’m gonna fall.”

Your Lord sat you atop of his shoulders, one thigh on each side of his face. “I won’t allow it,” he growled before his head disappeared under your skirt. “I’ve waited long enough for you to come to me, and I’m not letting you go now.”

He was right: you weren’t falling, you were flying. The swirling of his tongue around your cunt’s engorged numb was making your head spin and his five o'clock shadow scratching your inner thighs were stimulating every sinus. And you were sure that every ear inside the men’s bathroom could hear, but you didn’t stop yourself from screaming out for him.

When he slowed down his assault on your cunt, it was only to speak to it. “I missed this. I missed the sweet noises you make. I missed my sweet girl,” he licked up your labia, taking his time to taste it. “And I missed my sweet pussy.”

“Oh, God,” you called to the ceiling and the skies.

“No, not God,” he spat between your folds before sliding a finger between them. “I’m no God. No god is making you feel this way.” He pushed the protruding digit deeper before pulling it out again. “It’s a man.” Then, he pushed and pulled at a punishing pace, his mouth circling your clitoris again. “It’s me. Now, come on my tongue. Come on, come on my tongue like the dirty girl that you are.”

Baron Zemo had given out an order and you, his loyal servant, obeyed. Squeezing your thighs down on the sides of his head, you rode his face to the finish. You pulled at his hair and pushed his head down all at the same time. Everything was too much, but never enough. It was a sobering experience that made the alcohol in your veins dissipate. Still, as he slid you down the wall of the stall, you were drunk on the dopamine released by your orgasm.

“Just as obedient as I remember you to be. And twice as sweet,” he licked his lips as he whipped your face with his thumbs tenderly. His face shone with your juices, his chin being especially shiny. “Would you like a taste?”

You nodded, not feeling prepared to practice speaking just yet. He held up your head with a hand at the back of your throat while he brought the finger that burrowed inside you up to your bottom lip. You tasted the tip at first under his spreading smirk, but as soon as you took him in, he parted his lips and started panting. And his breathing got louder the more of him you sucked inside. When you took all of him, the entire finger up to the knuckle, and began bobbing your head, he gritted his teeth and groaned.

“Do you still want my cock, dirty girl?”

Pulling back from his finger with a pop, you bit your bottom lip. “Yes, milord.”

“Would you bow before me to get to it?”

“Yes, milord,” you smiled stupidly, drunk on the dopamine.

By the time he took himself out of his trousers, you were on your knees saying your pleas. You missed the taste of him as much as he claimed to miss your cunt. You stuck out your tongue and tasted his precum that was already pouring out. When the tip met with your mouth, you locked your lips around it and moaned. This caused him to call to the ceiling:

He grunted, grabbing you by the hair and yanking you off of him. “I want to paint those pretty little lips myself.”

You moaned aloud at that, eyes glazed over and mind muddled him. His touch, taste, and smell were taking over you again and all you could do was beg him for more, more, more. “Please, please, please,” you breathed as he slid his hand up and down his shaft and snarled, his teeth bared. “Please, please, please.”

He growled and the grip in your hair tightened. “That’s a good girl,” he managed to get out before spilling in your open mouth. “That’s my good girl.”

Once the steam started, he couldn’t stop himself. If you could’ve, you wouldn’t have stopped him either. The tangy taste of him transported you back to the first time he pushed you down into this position. He had a mask on then, but now his face was wearing his emotions. He was in pain, the pleasurable kind. His eyebrows were knitted together and his hair was falling on his forehead. While you were the one serving him, the one swallowing his come and cleaning his cock with your tongue, you felt powerful. And, as he called you his baroness and said you never looked more beautiful than you did in that moment, you knew that you would never feel this powerful again.

“Occupied,” he slammed the door in another man’s nose.

A voice swore in English from the other side. “What, man? The whole damn bathroom?”

Yes, the whole bathroom. Baron Zemo was standing at the entrance to the men’s bathroom to keep out men as you freshened up. You were starting to sober up, splashing water across your face to whip away your runny make-up.

“You remain a vision, my dear,” he held out his arm when you were done.

“Now I'm sure that’s what you say to all the girls,” you said, too satiated and exhausted to even think about the implications of your statement.

“There’s nothing more beautiful in this world than a woman in the afterglow,” he whispered, a wide smirk shadowing his lips before he swung the door open. “It’s all yours, my friend.”

“I almost pissed myself, man! Not cool!”

You smothered your laughter into his shoulder while he walked you back to the VIP lounge. “You think they noticed how long we’ve been gone?” You squeezed his arm with both hands. Your flushed and bare face must’ve been enough to give away the game anyway, so you didn’t know why you bothered to hide from Heidi.

“They’ve been gone for just as long,” he winked. “He called her into his booth, remember?”

The reunion with your Sokovian sister revealed that she at some point also had to remove her make-up. She invited you to sit next to her and immediately asked about the intimate details. You amused her but refused to drink any more alcohol. You asked for water instead.

While the two of you were swooning over the sex you just had, the men in question had yet to sit down. They had their backs turned to you and their glasses full. However, they never got to finish their drinks.

“Baby, it’s time to say goodbye to your new friend.” He didn’t even look at you as he said all this, focusing his narrow gaze on the other man instead. “The baron was just leaving.”

Heidi’s pitch was higher when she spoke Spanish, so she almost squeaked out: “Papi, make him stay.”

“I’m afraid it’s getting late,” the baron began apologizing. “It’s been a long day and we’re still suffering from jet lag.” He looked at you. That was your cue.

“Yes,” you yawned. “I’m sorry, Heidi. You know how far away Sokovia used to be, right?”

“Well, if you have to go, then you have to promise you’ll be back tomorrow. Papi, make him promise to bring her back tomorrow.”

Her Papi took one look at his baby’s pleading eyes, then another at the baron’s poker face, then sighed. “Very well. Baron, we’ll finish our talk tomorrow night.”

While Luciano looked more than eager to escort you out himself, he had to wait for Heidi to hug you tightly as she typed her number into your phone. She only let you go after kissing you good night.

“I didn’t even have to lie,” you yawed as he draped his suit jacket over your shoulders. “I so, so sleepy.”

“Which one wore you out, the flight or I?”

“Both,” you tucked your head under his chin.

Either the sea breeze had turned into a chill, or your tired body was cooling down. Whichever one it was, the chauffeur covered the convertible at the baron’s demand. It was either his warm chest that put you to sleep or the purring engine. Whichever one it was, you woke up to Baron Zemo caring you up the stairs like a groom would his bride.

“Hush now, my dear,” he shushed you. “Get some sleep. We have a full day ahead of us.”

[alexlabhont]

I didn’t mean to fall in love with you

Chapter eleven

Book: Queen B - Choices (Universe)

Pairing:  Poppy Min-Sinclair x Trans!Male MC (Beck Hughes)

Genre: Canon re-write (Because I can)

Rating: Anyone can read it, really

Tags: @dopeyouth @theymakemegayer @save-me-the-last-dance @poppysmc (If anyone want to be tagged in or removed, just tell me)

This is me trying to write by and for the Trans community, specially FTM community, meaning, trans guys, but I actually took the liberty to use They/them pronouns for everyone out there who´s interested (Also, the name Beck was the most neutral one I could find, trying to use the cannon Bea Hughes)

If you have any comment, PLEASE BE RESPECTFULL and patient with me. This is also my first english fanfic and english is not my mother language, so… i’m sorry fo the grammar errors. I also installed recently Grammary, so… hope its worth it.

This chapter contains some sensitive topics about tragedies and sex insinuations, I really didn't want to write it down with details both out of respect. I mean, personally, I didn't want to explain what's "under" in a fanfic, but if you do have doubts or curiosity, ask away in chat, especially if you are starting hormones, there is a lot for you to know about down there because it definitely changes something. Also, this other topic might touch a nerve and I really didn't do it without respect to the victims, so I'm sorry if it feels like that.

Previously

----

Staten Island it’s the third-largest borough in New York, but it is the least populated. The northern part of the island is the most urbanized, with some areas of somewhat decayed housing blocks that didn’t attract attention at all. It was… ok? quiet? She wasn’t sure exactly what to say about that place, but what was another thing she wasn’t sure about? Well...

“Are you not going to tell me what are we doing?” Poppy asked once again, feeling irritated as they both walked through the breeze but warm streets. At first, she thought they were taking the bus but Beck asked something to a random guy and started walking for a really, really long time, what was all this about? Beck looked tense, kind of nervous, and that alone made her feel strange, unnerved. "Are you alright?" Poppy asked again, but this time she sounded worried.

"Yeah, I'm just…" They exhaled in an attempt to draw their nerves away from themself. "I'm pretty nervous. I've never done this before." Beck chuckled.

"Do what?" Poppy frowned, curiosity floating in her mind strongly, to be honest, she had never seen them so tense before, even though they were trying to look calm. Beck smirked and took her by the hand.

"Come on, I have to show you something."

"Is it too far?"

"Are you already tired?" Beck replied, mocking her with that sassy smile of theirs.

"Me? Absolutely no." She said, raising an eyebrow. "I could literally go for miles."

"I'll have to prove that myself." Beck winked and she couldn't help but laugh.

"You're a dimwit."

"Yeah" they shrugged. "I'm cute, though.”

“Barely.” She rolled her eyes, trying to suppress a smile but failing in the process so Beck laughed at it. Suddenly an unexpected drop felt swiftly in her nose, making her look up to the sky where a big, grey cloud was still above their heads. Soon, she felt raindrops in her hair, her clothes, her shoes!

“Oh, shoot. This is not good…” Beck said while they both walked faster, reaching out for cover in a shop awning.

“You think? These Jimmy choo are not even in the market yet!”

“Well, we don’t want them to be ruined, don’t we?."

"Of course not! What kind of dumb ques—"

Poppy didn't get to end the sentence, Beck took her by the wrist and started running full speed and nonstop. "Beck!" She screamed, the rain pouring down her body while that asshole laughed like a devilish kid. "Beck Hughes, let go of me this instant!!"

"We're almost there!" She heard them saying without turning to see her.

"Where are you taking me?!"

Beck slowed down little by little until they both stopped in front of a tiny, old, yellow house with barely two floors. Beck took the keys out of their pockets and opened the door, allowing Poppy to get inside the dark and quiet place.

“So… here we are.” Beck spoked turning on the lights.

The place that received them was the living room, but it was not an ordinary living room, it had neon lights currently exposing a purple color, a keyboard piano, a couple of guitars, and an old-fashioned mended couch with a lot of patches over black leather that actually looked really well together. The walls were exhibiting posters, framed cool landscape black and white photographs, and a Youtube silver plaque. She recognized the place right away.

“Wait… this is the place where you record your music.” She asked. Poppy watched Beck’s videos a lot recently at first the blonde was searching for information, then, to find a flaw to criticize with Chloe, but sooner rather than later Poppy found out… Beck was actually a really good musician, so sometimes when she was completely sure she was alone she’d listen to their songs while doing cardio or homework or whatever she was doing. “I was wondering where you found the location.”

“Yes… but also no. I mean, I do the videos here, but I have an audio booth upstairs. It’s actually a quiet neighborhood so it came in handy.” Beck took off their jacket, reaching out their hand to ask for Poppy’s. They both were wet, but not a lot, her shoes survived perfectly because they entered the house before a loud thunder sounded, followed by a deluge. “Damn, we do really dodge a bullet out there.”

“Yeah.” Poppy said, hugging herself. Without her coat, she felt a little cold. “Do you own this place?”

"No, this is my uncle’s." Beck whispered with reverence and a sad smile on their face. "My dad's little brother. He passed away."

"I— I'm sorry, Beck…" she managed to say, clueless about what exactly would someone do in this kind of situation.

"I didn't remember much about him, but my mom says he used to make these guitars out of plastic bottles as gifts for me to play them. She said I would go to the kitchen and play one for her to hear. She also said the sound was awful and she begged him to stop making them." Beck's smile was soft, turning on the heating, proud even though they were chuckling a little, spreading the same smile to Poppy. " 'I'm telling you, this little pal has talent.' he would say."

"Sounds to me like he made it to annoy your mom instead." Poppy said jokingly.

"Totally, he was a prankster." Beck replied, the emotions coming out from their eyes were difficult to tell. "And was one of the few dudes back at Farmsville that didn't want to settle down. The black sheep in every family… and the reason why my parents didn't want me to be here." Beck clutched their jaw, walking away from there to the kitchen. Poppy followed them in silence, feeling like it was something very private for Beck, seeing that vulnerable side of them again, but not hiding this time. "He was murdered years ago here in New York in a shooting. In Farmsville shootings don’t happen, so… They said it was dangerous going out of the farm to the big cities. That he brought this on himself... Took this out of the wrong way." The anger in Beck's voice was palpable in the air.

"Seriously? How can they be so selfish?" Poppy asked, how can someone be so fucking self-centered and dumbass to take a tragedy and blame it on one family member? She thought these things happened exclusively around that bunch of tight-ass people inside her parents’ social circle, but not inside a family farm.

"Back at home is different from here. Is a small town where everyone knows each other. They love routine and hard work and the good customs and shit… So when anyone goes against it… well— it's not funny."

Something clicked inside Poppy's mind.

"But then… How are you here?" Beck smiled but it didn't reach out to their sad eyes.

"Because I almost got killed."

Shock. Poppy couldn't help but feel agitated, her heart pounding loud against her chest and that same protective feeling that almost made her stab Bennett crawled its way towards her own core.

"What?" Poppy babbled, froze. Beck shrugged, with a weird grin as if they didn't know where to start, they caressed their neck, searching for the better way to put the puzzle together. They reach out for Poppy's hand, and she took it right away intertwining her fingers with Beck's.

"Coffee?" They asked. "It seems we will be stuck in here for a while.”

"It sounds nice." The words abandoned her mouth so fast that she even surprised herself, another red alarm ringed inside her mind, but now was not the time, so she ignored it again. Beck smiled and turned on a little coffee maker, bringing two mugs in silence. They both sat down on the surprisingly comfortable couch, Beck’s eyes were attentive at the black drink and the tension was still over their shoulders, she could see it so easily that Poppy wished for someone to take that weight out of Beck, so she took both cups and put them aside, sitting over Beck’s lap and intertwining her fingers with theirs, playing with them. Beck smiled a little and took a deep breath.

"I started to realize something was off inside of me when I was in high school. I mean, ‘till that day I was considered normal. I was the kind of child that played sports, climbed trees, and did hard work gladly. You know, average farm kid." Beck said, but even as they seemed to be calm, Poppy could feel the sweat in their palm, and a little shivering all over their body. "But I grow older and changes came, and puberty and—"

"Hey" Poppy stopped them from talking faster and faster. "You don't have to"

"I want to. " Beck interrupted, begging Poppy with their eyes. "I want you to know my past. I mean… if you want me to tell you, that is."

Poppy could have thought anything at that moment. She could have thought that she made it, that she had accomplished her very goal and knew she was about to have first-hand information to use against Farmsville, that she was spectacular for making it this far. She could have thought that now nobody would take her number one spot from her, or that she loved to have a new puppy to use in any way she wanted. But no.

All in what she could think about was Beck's heart opening up to her, trusting her for real this time. The connection intertwining both of them in a way that made her skin chill. Third alarm, but she muted it again.

"So? What are you waiting for? Go on." Poppy rolled her eyes, Beck had a goofy expression for a couple of seconds until Poppy smiled, squishing slightly their hands for reassurance. Beck's eyes glowed happily in which was the cutest gesture Poppy saw from someone that wasn't a dog in her entire life.

"I managed to handle myself a little for a while, but it definitely didn't last long. I was so afraid, I felt lost, and insecure. I didn’t know what was happening to me, why did I feel that way, trapped in my own skin... I stopped having friends because everyone could see how weird I was and nobody wanted to talk to me, except for this one girl: Bree Matthews."

Beck’s jaw tightened, their eyes wandering all over the place because of the nervousness.

“So, Bree and I started to hang out. Chill some time round. We were close, I mean, really, really close. She was the one who I told about my dysphoria first, and she was totally supportive. She helped me understand what I was going through, sometimes she would borrow her brother’s old clothes to give them to me and helped me pick my very first short haircut. Bree was my safe space in a town where I’d be mistreated just to use a bathroom. I kinda felt for her… so one night into the forest I kissed her. And~ it wasn’t a good idea.”

“What happened?”

“Well~ Daniel and his gang came into the picture and intimidated her, so she sold me as a pervert, a weirdo, among other… awful things. Can’t blame her, Daniel was a wrecked truck whenever he wanted so… yeah. My family found me eight hours after, all beat up from head to toes. I was unconscious and with an actually broken rib.” Beck tried to joke, but it was so bad at timing it actually made it worse for Poppy to hear. “I~ I almost die.” Beck sighed, as if with that they could put all that behind. “Anyway so she apologized to me through a phone call because she wanted to kiss me too but, you know, shit happens; I got better and now I’m in New York doing what I love so… Happy ending, right? It was funny, they didn’t let me use the bathroom but they all thought I was “male enough” to beat the crap out of me ever since.”

Poppy stopped playing with Beck’s hands, making them do the same. They told the end of the story so lightly as if they were talking about a T.V. show they just watched and not some really cruel harassment they went through for a long time. The strawberry blonde was a lot of things, bad things, but the things that beast did to Beck just because of their dysphoria? That was a whole new level that Poppy would never stoop into.

“How can you joke about things like that?”

“Well, I figured I had two ways to address the problem: Being insecure or making the most out of this. That’s why I do music. Yeah, my songs don’t talk about the transgender community directly, but I make sure everybody knows who am I. What I am. I write songs for people out there that feel just the same as I do. Not only transgender people, but the whole LGBTQ+ also needs representation! Folks having their back! And if I can reach at least one soul and show them that no matter how they were born, they can make it… Hell, I could die happily.”

The fire in their eyes, the passion radiating strongly from their body, from their words. It was impossible for Poppy to look away from Beck. Of course, Beck didn’t care about a spot in the T list, or and stupid award. Beck was more into their music, making their voice be heard. That was why they did claim to care less about competition, Beck was climbing their way to the top because of their conviction and resilience. It was curious how the more she learned about Beck, the more she felt drawn to them.

“You are so brave, do you know that?”

“And it only took me a delicate rib and trust issues.” Beck claimed proudly as if it was a bargain.

“Trust issues? Beck, you’re one of the most confident people l know!” They began to laugh, the blonde could feel their laughter below her because of the slight belly-shaking. “It’s irritating.”

“I am really amazing myself.” Poppy rolled her eyes at the flirty smirk Beck flashed towards her. “But I’m not insecure about myself… most of the time. I do have a hard time trusting in people. I mean, Daniel didn’t have a hold on me… Bree, on the other hand…” Beck shrugged. “But I do trust you, Poppy.”

Something inside the blonde felt off, those words accompanied by that good-natured smile made Poppy feel a bit guilty. Like, yeah, she was just trying to archive exactly that for her own benefit, it should feel like a win, right? But no.

“You haven’t done anything wrong, yet.” She said to herself. “For all we know, this is just some casual date.”

Maybe… give up? Maybe actually try and date Beck?

What could possibly go wrong?

“I trust you too, Beck.” She replied without a doubt. So she tossed her golden locks over one shoulder, leaning down to kiss Beck’s lips. She soon felt them kissing her back, sweetly, calmly at first but then it was obvious they both needed more than that. Poppy let go of Beck’s hands to place hers in their Beck, while they grabbed her by the waist. The heat soon took over her body, especially after they responded to it by biting Poppy’s bottom lip, making her moan. Poppy knew right away there was a change in Beck’s behavior, they were more confident, more secure, they actually felt ready and she had to say, that was a very welcome and pleasing development. But they were shaking still.

“What 's wrong? You don’t want to—?”

“No. No, it 's not it. It 's just…” Beck took a deep breath avoiding Poppy's gaze for a second before looking at her pleading while keeping hold on her. “I don’t want you to see me differently when you look at what I have beneath the clothes.” They confessed.

“I won’t. I promise.” She said, caressing the hair in the back of their nape. “This is just you, with all letters.” She smirked, trying to lighten the mood and she succeeded. Beck grinned from ear to ear, relieved, kissing her passionately, hungry and the Poppy did the same, tasting their tongue with hers. The caresses between the two became more intense and she couldn’t stand the fever growing anymore, so she took the edges of their favorite black t-shirt and pulled up, revealing Beck torso for the very first time.

She understood right away what Beck meant. Cutting through their chest there it was a thin, darker line, a scar that was slowly healing, but nevertheless it was there easy to pinpoint. It was strange, she had seen a lot of those mastectomy scars on google but Beck chest looked different somehow, strong, gym crafted, and the scar actually was interesting, sexy even.

“I don’t know what you were so scared of, Hughes. Hell, you’re hot as fuck, I hate you.”

Beck chukled, their confidence coming back.

“Yeah, well… There is not an ugly part on this body afterall.” They grinned.

“I’m going to erase that obnoxious smirk of yours.”

“You will?” Beck grabbed a hold on Poppy’s hair and pulled slightly but demanding backwards, exposing her neck to them to kiss and lick, causing a shaking sigh that turned the heat even higher for both. “Show me then.” They whispered over her skin, their breath brushing bristling her body.

Poppy pushed them down on the couch, kissing them hardly. This was war now, and she would definitely win.

----

Next

[shakespeareanwannabe]

Drowning

Santiago Pope Garcia x F!OC/Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia x Rebecca Cooke

Summary: Santiago follows through with his escape plan, only to find that his freedom comes with a heavy price.

Warnings: Drinking/Alcohol Consumption, Swearing, Benny being Benny, references to war time injuries, references to Anxiety if you squint, ghosting, nightmares, crying

A/N: Hey y’all. Sorry it’s been a while. Some stuff came up, but I was inspired to write this chapter anyway! Here’s chapter 6. Please enjoy!

**********

Santiago Garcia was one of the best of the best. One of the top ranked soldiers in the US Military. Delta Force, Special Operations…his team was the one you called when things got bad. And things often got bad.

Tom ‘Redfly’ Davis oversaw the team. Laser focused in the field and a brilliant tactician who always seemed to be able to get his team out of tight spots, Redfly saw Delta Force through multiple missions, as well as two tours of Afghanistan and Iraq.

Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia was his right-hand man, his second in command. Where Redfly focused on the minor details, Pope was able to see the big picture. Combined, their abilities to plan and execute earned them the respect and admiration of their team.

William ‘Ironhead’ Miller was third in command. His cool head and philosophical manner ensured cohesion in the group of macho men. While the team was busy fighting the enemy, Will was busy making sure there was no fighting amongst the team.

Francisco ‘Catfish’ Morales was the pilot. The most intelligent of the bunch, he was often overlooked when it came to lauding praises, even if Pope would always claim that it was because of Frankie’s skillful maneuvering and calculating nature that they made it back in one piece.

Benjamin ‘Benny’ Miller was the youngest of the team, the most hotheaded, and the most emotionally vulnerable. Added to the team after their original fifth member was killed in action, Ironhead automatically took it upon himself to protect his baby brother, while the rest of the team protected Ironhead.

Together, they were the most successful, most ruthless, most cunning team to ever wear the United States flag on their shoulder. Ironhead, Catfish, and Benny trusted their fearless leaders to see them through any mission, no matter how bleak. Where they led, the team followed, no questions asked. Well, on the battlefield, that is…

“You fucking what!?!” Frankie exclaimed angrily while Benny and Will stared at him in astonishment.

Santi felt himself shrink. While he knew that his plan of action wasn’t the best, he didn’t know what else to do.

“I can’t drag her into all my bullshit, ‘Fish,” Santi sighed, dragging a hand down his face before chugging from his nearly-empty beer bottle.

“So, you thought that ghosting her was the best thing to do?” Benny exclaimed, leaning around his brother to get a good view of his former lieutenant. “Are you fucking stupid, Pope?”

“Ay, watch it, kid!” Santi grumbled. “You’ve seen her! She’s fucking perfect. I’m not ruining her. No way, man.” Santi chose to ignore Frankie’s mumbling in their shared mother tongue and cast his fishing line out into the lake once more.

It had been two weeks since the wedding, 13 days since the last time he saw Rebecca, and it was killing him, even if he knew it was for the best. So, when Will had offered up his fishing cabin in the woods for a boys weekend, he had jumped at the chance to get out of that big empty house, away from the clinic that he was slinking around under Charlie’s hateful glare, and far enough away from Bex’s building that he wasn’t tempted to just get up and drive there and beg for her forgiveness. It would be good for him. Clear his head. Get her out of his system, even if he was waking up every morning hard as a rock with thoughts of her smile and her softness and her heart at the forefront of his mind.

“Well, that fucking explains why Charlie went from crying over your speech at the wedding to asking me if I’d be okay burying your body in the backyard,” Frankie finally spoke in English.

Santi winced. After a week of actively ignoring his phone whenever it lit up with Rebecca’s name and smiling face, he supposed that Bex had asked Charlie what was up. And, since Charlie knew him well enough to know what nothing was actively wrong, he’d spent the last several of his physio appointments having to shield himself from his friend’s icy glare.

“What are you doing, man?” Will sat back with a sigh. “She’s the best you’re ever gonna get. You know that right?”

Santi clenched his fist around his fishing rod. “You think I don’t know that? She’s fucking perfect! Sweet and kind and unselfish and loving and sexy as all fuck! Who wouldn’t want that?”

“So, you’re either really fucking stupid or really fucking scared…” Benny muttered, leaning back to fetch another beer.

Santi felt something inside him burst. He was doing what was best for her, even if nobody in his life seemed to agree.

“Fuck this.” He threw his fishing rod to the ground and stood up. “I don’t have to deal with this shit. I’m going home.”

Frankie slowly stood up next to him with a few crackles and pops of his joints. “I drove you, dipshit. And you drank an entire six pack on your own. I’ll take you home.”

Frankie ambled over to give his goodbyes to Will and Benny while Santi stood with his arms crossed, staring out into the distance. He had thought Frankie and Will would understand. Frankie, who had to fight tooth and nail to keep the woman he loved after getting his license suspended. And Will, whose fiancée had left him six weeks before the wedding day, claiming the war had changed him and that he wasn’t the same man she fell in love with. Benny, who had loved more people than he could count, had never experienced that kind of love and loss before, and Santi hoped he never did. Everyone around them got sucked into their bullshit, and he wouldn’t let that happen to the most wonderful woman he had ever met.

“Hey,” Santi startled when a warm, gentle hand landed on his shoulder. He turned to meet Will’s warm gaze and placating smile. “We just want you to be happy, man.”

Santi sighed and nodded slowly. “Yeah, Will…I know, but—”

“But nothing, man,” Will interrupted gently, pulling him into a one-armed hug. “She makes you happier than I’ve ever seen you, Santi. Don’t lose that, or you’ll spend your life regretting it.”

Santi watched him walk away as Frankie came up beside him and started ushering him towards the truck.

**********

The two-hour drive home was longer than expected due to traffic on the highway, but the length was exasperated by the silence that was dragging out between the two men. Unlike the drive, the silence was atypical. Santi, who had grown accustomed to Frankie’s quiet calmness, usually filled the silence with stories to get Frankie talking or laughing. Now, the tension between the two was palpable, and Santi wasn’t about to try to break it when he had so much on his mind.

After almost three hours in the car together, Frankie pulled into Santi’s driveway and killed the engine.

Santi sighed, both in sadness and relief, and went to open the door. “Thanks,” he mumbled, hand resting on the handle and the door partially open.

“Listen, man…” Santi turned slightly to see Frankie had removed his cap and was rubbing at his forehead. “If she doesn’t make you happy, that’s fine. No point in making yourself miserable trying to drag out a relationship that just ain’t gonna work. But if that’s why you’re doing this, or if you’re doing it because of some bullshit protector instinct, then why are you so miserable? If she makes you happy but you’re worried about infecting her with your shit, then protect her from that by staying close and working hard.”

“I…” Santi swallowed. “I don’t want to hurt her, man.” He got out of the truck and stood next to the open door. “I won’t hurt her.”

Frankie fixed him with a glare, and Santi saw a flash of the old Frankie for a moment. “And what exactly are you doing right now, cabrón?”

Santi let the door swing closed as Frankie peeled out of his driveway and down the road.

**********

It took another week for Santiago to get his act together. The day Frankie dropped him off, he spent in his backyard, grilling and listening to music. If things were normal, it would be the day the whole gang got together at Frankie’s for food and fun and laughs, but things weren’t normal, so he settled in for some solo grilled chicken and some alone time. He woke up with nightmares around midnight, and when he woke up again around 2 a.m., he moved into the living room and resigned himself to crappy early morning TV until the sun came up.

The next day, on a whim, he started drafting a proposal for a private security company. He still had enough money from selling his weapons collection in Colombia to put together a decent business proposal, and it was better than sitting on his ass drinking all day, so he put his famed planning skills to work. Got Your Six Security would provide state of the art security systems as well as armed guards for those who desired them. The fees would be reasonable, they would cater to both private homes and public settings, and, best of all, they would only employ military or former military personnel. Luckily, Santi had kept in contact with a couple of the surveillance techs from his time overseas, and he knew that a small crew of them had been working on a state-of-the-art closed circuit security system and were looking to market it to high end customers. They had already agreed to work with him, he only needed to get a business plan and a small loan to get it up and running.

The day after that, he had a meeting with the bank, who had met his proposal with enthusiasm. (It helped that it was a company employing veterans, run by a veteran, who already had some capital to put up upfront.) All they asked was that he find his first customer before they signed off on the loan.

So, the following Monday, he straightened his suit and tie and headed into the last place he wanted to be: the art museum where Rebecca worked. It was the only business that had availability as soon as possible, they were willing to pay top dollar, and they seemed fairly desperate.

He met with two of the higher ups of the museum, Douchebag Derek’s mom and the owner of the building, and soon found out why they were so desperate.

“One of our paintings got stolen two nights ago,” Derek’s mom sighed. “We don’t know how, or why, but somebody got in, stole one of the Blair’s, and walked out with it. Our security guard claims that he didn’t hear anything, but the police are looking into it.”

“The point is,” Mr. Carlisle butted in. “We need something more high-tech than a retiree aged security guard. We need something that can send an alarm to the police if someone does get in, but also a few highly trained guards to watch the museum at night, in case someone does get in and the police are too slow. It seems to me that a military grade security system and some highly trained former soldiers are the perfect thing to protect the priceless works of art we house here at this institution.”

“Was anyone in the building when the painting was stolen?” The words escaped his mouth before he could even think. “I mean, besides the security guard.”

“No, thank god,” Mr. Carlisle replied. “Jerry, the security guard, says he saw out the last employee in the building before locking the door.”

“I’m just happy that nobody got hurt,” Derek’s mom simpered, and Santi caught a glimpse of her son’s douchebaggery in her voice.

“We’d be happy to help,” Santi smiled once he regained control of his voice, his shoulders relaxing at the news that Jerry had been alone in the building. “We’ll just need 50% of the cost of the alarm system up front before installation, then we can discuss how many guards you want on premises during the day and at night. Once we’ve got a number, we can go through the applicants together and we can find the ones who best suit your needs.”

It was after they dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s and Santi had received a firm handshake from Mr. Carlisle that it happened.

He was exiting Mr. Carlisle’s office, still facing the occupants of the room as he thanked them for their patronage, when he turned and bumped into something hard but soft and comforting and, even worse, familiar.

“Oof!”

A chill ran down his spine at the sound, the same sound she had made when he spanked her ass that morning.

“Shit, I’m…I’m, uh, I’m sorry.” Rebecca stilled in her crouched position, one hand on one of the loose sheets of paper he had knocked out of her arms. “Uh…here, let me help.”

He started to lower to the ground, wincing at his knees crackling, when she snatched up the paper he was reaching for and stood up. “Don’t bother.”

Already crouching, he let his head hang. He didn’t know how he expected their first encounter to go, but it certainly wasn’t that.

**********

A flash…a painful scream…his legs caught in quicksand…red pooling on the pristine white marble floors…the dull thud of her body dropping…the faceless thief escaping into the edges of his vision…cradling her lifeless body…

Santiago sat bolt up in bed, his heart racing and his chest heaving, his curls drooping onto his forehead with accumulated sweat.

Three nights of the same dream. Three nights of not being able to save her from the art thief. Three nights of sitting in bed, trembling while staring at her picture on his phone, his thumb hovering over the ‘Call’ button but always unable to take that final step.

First, she had bewitched him. Now, she was haunting him. One short, angry interaction was enough to bring her to the forefront of his mind (not that she was ever far from there), and now he couldn’t sleep.

Maybe Frankie was right. Doing the right thing shouldn’t make him this miserable. His heart shouldn’t ache when he thinks of her, he shouldn’t be so depressed when he sees couples together, and he really shouldn’t be dreaming about her death and waking up in tears.

He didn’t think. About any of it. Instead, he acted on instinct, throwing on a pair of threadbare sweatpants and a white vest and collecting his wallet and keys before hopping into his truck and driving the path he knew by heart.

**********

Bang Bang Bang!

Rebecca’s first instinct was to shout at whoever was knocking on her door at three a.m. to fuck off or she would call the cops. Her second instinct was to grab the baseball bat in her front closet and scare the intruder off herself.

She blamed the pint of Cherry Garcia (flavor chosen ironically, of course) and the three glasses of red wine she had drank before falling asleep on the couch for her poor decision-making skills as she stumbled off the couch and grabbed the bat.

“What the fu—”

“Holy shi—”

Santiago ducked away from the door, hands out in front of him as if to calm a wild animal.

“Bex! It’s me, Jesus Christ!”

She huffed. “Yeah, and? After the shit you’ve pulled, being met with a bat is the least of your concerns.” She rubbed her eyes. “What the hell do you want, Santiago?”

He winced at the full name. “C…Can we talk?”

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, bat hanging loosely between her fingers. “You’ve had three weeks to talk to me, asshole. What the fuck could you possibly have to say to me?”

Santi turned to look down the hall, wincing and apologizing as one of her neighbours shot him a dirty look. “Can we talk inside? Please? If you don’t like what I have to say, you can kick me out or call the cops. I really wouldn’t blame you. Just…please?”

Rebecca rolled her eyes, poking her head out. “Sorry, Mr. Chen. Tell Cindy that it’s the asshole boyfriend come to grovel.”

The man nodded knowingly and retreated into his apartment.

“I deserve that,” he mumbled, looking at her pleadingly.

Rebecca considered him for a moment. “You look like shit.”

“And I feel even worse. Baby, I…”

Rebecca cut him off. “If you seriously want to do this right now, I’m gonna need more wine.”

She turned her back on him and retreated into the apartment, leaving the door wide open. Santiago followed her after a beat, making sure the door was locked tight behind him.

“Baby, I—”

Bex held up a finger, pouring herself a large glass of red wine and sitting as far away from him as possible, draping a grey throw blanket over her lap before fixing him with a glare.

He met her eyes and felt himself deflate. “Fuck,” he groaned, raking his fingers through his hair. “I had it all planned out, every word I was going to say to you, and now I’m lookin’ at you and it’s all…” He made an exploding motion with his hands. “Poof. Gone.”

Rebecca burrowed further into her blanket. “Well, try. Because from where I’m sitting, you’re the one who needs to do the talking here. I’ve done my talking. On the half-dozen voicemails I left on your phone, in the dozens of texts I sent you, and in the email I wrote because I was panicking at the thought that you had gotten into some terrible accident and that was why you weren’t responding anymore. Because that is the only reason I could think of that you would suddenly stop talking to me.”

“I know. I know, you’re absolutely right. I fucked up in a major way, and I am so sorry. I know I messed up, but I need you to know that I never meant to hurt you.” Rebecca scoffed. “I’m serious, honey. In my own backwards as fuck way, I thought I was protecting you.”

“From what?” she asked angrily.

Santi felt something snap inside of him. “From me! From this forty-year-old fuck up sitting in front of you! Because I’m not a good man! Because I was shooting people and detonating bombs when you were still in grade school! Because I’ve killed people, good people…innocent people. Because my life is a mile-wide shit stain, and you don’t deserve to deal with that. Because…” Santi took a raggedy breath. “Because when I look at you, I see everything good about the world. And I know I’ve got blood and death on my hands, and I couldn’t live with myself if I let any of that effect you in any way.”

“Don’t you think that’s my choice?” she countered in a cold voice. “Don’t you think I should get to decide who deserves to be in my life? I might be a hell of a lot younger than you, Santiago, but my life hasn’t been all rainbows and unicorns. I know my worth. I know who belongs in my life. Not my narcissistic mother, who used my accident for sympathy from whoever she could get it from. Not my best friend from high school, who managed to turn everything into a fucking competition and only got bitchy when she ‘lost’. Not Douchebag Derek or fucking College Boyfriend Ben. And like it or not, I chose you. You with the bad knees and the greying hair and the blood and shit on your hands. God help me, but I chose you.” She chugged the rest of her wine, placing the glass harshly down on the coffee table.

“I know, sweetheart. God, you’re so fucking amazing, you know that?” he blinked back tears in his eyes. He had promised himself that he wouldn’t get emotional, that he would lay the facts out for her, but just being in her presence screamed safety to him and he could feel everything he had pushed down rising to the surface. “Y…you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, okay? And I know that’s a shitty, corny line, but it’s the truth. When I met you…I was in a bad place. My life had been one shit storm after another, and I thought coming home would fix that. Being around Frankie and Charlie, getting to bond with Mateo, having a home of my own for the first time…I was doing better. And then you crashed into my life, and all of a sudden everything felt good again. Like…the sun was shining on me but all of a sudden I could actually feel it and, for the first time, I wasn’t afraid of getting burned. You turned my whole plan upside down, and I was actually okay with it.” He chuckled, swiping at his cheeks as the first few tears started to fall. “I thought I could live in your orbit and just circle around you, not hurting you or effecting you in any way. But then…” he smiled softly. “Christ, that morning…Fuck, I realized that I was in so deep. Way deeper than I ever thought I would get. I was honestly, genuinely happy for the first time in years, and it was all because of you. And you were smiling at me all soft, and I realized something. I realized that living with you, spending the rest of my life with you, was something I could easily do and desperately wanted. And that scared the shit out of me. Because guys like me don’t get the happy ending. The credits start to roll just as we start dealing with the aftermath of whatever shitshow we just lived through, so that the audience doesn’t have to watch everything fall apart again. I…I couldn’t put you through that. Not when you’ve already got all your own stuff to deal with. Adding my own just felt selfish. And I know that’s a cop out, but it’s the truth. I honest to god just wanted to protect you.”

Rebecca’s gaze softened as her voice enveloped him. “So, why now? Why come to me now, if you’re so set on protecting me?”

He met her gaze. “The break in. At the museum. I-if you had been there, if you had gotten hurt…I don’t think I would’ve been able to handle it. That, plus some of Frankie’s patented wise wisdom, woke me up to what an idiot I’ve been. If I want to protect you, I’ve got to do it by being with you, and god baby, that’s all I want. And I know I fucked up. I basically did the same jackass thing that your college boyfriend did, only ten times worse because I promised I wouldn’t. I know I don’t deserve you, but I swear to god, baby, if you let me back into your life, I will work with you. I won’t keep anything from you, and I’ll always be honest with you, and when I try to protect you, I’ll do it by standing by your side and letting you know that I’m here. Even…” he gulped painfully. “Even if it’s just as a friend.”

Rebecca considered him carefully as Santi waited on bated breath. Finally, she spoke. “You really hurt me, Santi.”

He nodded, clenching his eyes shut. “I know. I know, baby, and I am so, so sorry.”

“Everything I was scared of, happened. I let you in, and you made me fall in love with you, then you left. You fucked me then fucked off. And you didn’t even have the decency to tell me why. I agonized for weeks over what I could have possibly done wrong.”

“No, baby,” he took a chance and shifted to sit next to her, gently cradling her hand in his. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. This is all on me, okay?”

She played with his fingers, rough and callused from his time handling firearms. “It is,” she nodded. “It is all on you…but when I ran into you at the museum, I felt like I could breathe for the first time in weeks. I wanted to be angry at you, but I just felt sad because…because I wanted you to do some stupid, corny, romcom level bullshit like fall to your knees and beg for my forgiveness or sweep me up into your arms and say that you would never let me go again.”

Santiago cupped her cheek, carefully brushing away the stray tear meandering over her cheekbone. “What are you saying?” he asked, trying desperately to keep the hope from his voice.

She sighed. “It means…that I’m too tired to deal with this right now.” She stood, not releasing his hand. “C’mon. You can sleep here tonight, and we can figure this out in the morning.”

He stood hesitantly. “Are you sure? I can sleep here on the couch?” He eyed the leather distastefully. “Or I can go sleep in my truck. I…I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

She was already shaking her head. “No, then I’ll just feel guilty. That couch is not comfortable and your truck with play hell with your neck. You can stay in my bed. Just…don’t worry about it.”

She padded silently into her room, tugging him behind her. Swiftly, she tugged down the meticulously straightened sheets and slid into her side of the bed, Santiago following after a short pause.

He laid there for what felt like hours, staring up at the ceiling, thanking god that he was there with the woman he loved and praying for a chance to make things right.

For the first time in forever, his prayers seemed to be answered quickly.

“I can hear you thinking,” Rebecca mumbled as she rolled over and placed her head on his chest. “Stop thinking, Santi. We can figure out everything in the morning.”

He carefully wrapped his arms around her and buried his nose in her hair, eyes drifting closed to send him into the deepest sleep he’d had in a month.

**********

He awoke the same way he’d fallen asleep, wrapped around Rebecca like he was afraid that, should he let go even an inch, she’d disappear.

He pulled back a fraction of an inch to gaze at her peaceful face before pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

She released a soft, sleepy mewl before her eyes blinked open.

She smiled softly at him. “Hey…”

The words poured out of him before he could even think. “Move in with me.”

She crinkled her brow. “What?”

He caught her hand and brought it up to his mouth, kissing her palm. “I love you. And I want to prove to you that I’m in this for the long haul. You’re it for me, Rebecca. So, move in with me.”

Her sleepy eyes took him in for a moment, and Santi’s breath caught in his chest. But before he could backtrack or explain further, he felt his heart stop.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

**********

Tags list (open): @darksideofclarke, @writefightandflightclub, @rae-rae-patcha, @himbopoes, @sophoclese, @phoenixhalliwell, @buckstaposition, @who-talks-first, @hkmultifandom, @youhavereachedtheendofpie

[theleftovertaco]

Ratel

Someone sent me this amazingly specific ask about a Afro- Caribbean girl at Hogwarts and I loved the idea so this is the result. I would like to preface this by saying that I am not afro-Caribbean. While I did spend a few hours researching Trinidadian, Kenyan and Nigerian culture, food and customs, I am extremely sorry if anything here looks stereotypical or if i get something wrong. Please correct me if I mess up because I would never want to dishonor a person’s culture or country.

ONTO THE STORY

Y/N’s arrival had been a bit of an event. Transfer students were rare, and when they occurred, they were treated as a big deal, since often they only happened for some political reason of the students parents. This was exactly the case with Y/N

Dumbledore had stepped to the front of the Great Hall at the beginning of the year after the first years had been sorted and called everyone’s attention.

“This year, we have a new 4th year transfer student joining us,” excited chatter erupted around the room, “I trust you will make her feel welcome and show her what Hogwarts School is all about. Please welcome Mrs. Y/N  Y/L/N from Uagadou School of Magic in Uganda!” The doors opened and you walked through, head high and looking straight ahead despite the stares that followed you.

Professor McGonagall gave you a smile and instructed you to the stool for your sorting. 

The hat barely touched your head before “HUFFLEPUFF” was exclaimed and rapturous applause came from the yellow and black table. 

As you sat down for the feast, a tall boy with fluffy brown hair reached out to shake your hand, “I’m Cedric Diggory, sixth year. That was quite an entrance. Welcome to Hufflepuff.” 

“Thank you.”

“Are you surprised to be in our house? Honestly with the way you carried yourself I would have guessed Slytherin.”

“Not really. Hufflepuff is the house of the loyal, kind, and hardworking. Just because I’m sharp or harsh looking doesn’t mean I can’t have those traits.”

He looked at you in shock

“You’ve done your research. Yeah, I guess you’re right, a person can be more than one thing. So what’s Uganda like?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure. I went to school at Uagadou but my family is mostly Nigerian, Kenyan, and Trinidadian and most of my life we’ve spent moving around those areas and the Americas. My parents have some sort of business here for the next year or so, and I decided that I might as well try a new school, so they let me come here.” 

“Oh that sounds fun!” A younger blonde girl jumped into the conversation, “Sorry to interrupt. Hannah Abbot, third year.” You nodded her way and shook her hand as well as other Hufflepuff’s began to introduce themselves and listen into the conversation. 

“So,” Susan Bones asked, “Do you speak any other languages?” 

You nodded and listed them off, “Yes. Officially, English is the main language in Nigeria but in Kenya and Uganda, Swahili is also common. I also speak Spanish, Portugese, and I’m familiar with French and the Trinidadian dialects of French as well as French Creole.” A chorus of wows surrounded you. 

“What’s Uagadou like?”

“It’s nice, just very different from what I can tell. They are a lot more loose about how they teach things there. It’s strange, everyone here is dependent on wands.”

“You don’t use wands?”

“We do, but before that we’re taught to use magic with our hands and nonverbally. Helps avoid detection and makes it easy to still use magic if we’re disarmed. Dependence on a wand is pretty strictly European. Almost every other country learns without them first.”

“So you can just do magic, like with your hands?”

“Yup.” You flicked your fingers and the fork and knife in front of your plate did a little dance before picking up a piece of chicken and bringing it too your mouth.”

You looked around and your cutlery show had attracted the attention of a few of the surrounding houses students as well as professor Flitwick’s attention.

“That was marvelous, Mrs. Y/L/N! Would you mind demonstrating some of that again in my class tomorrow?” 

“Sure, I have charms tomorrow at 2 pm so it should work.” He nodded and walked back to his table with the other professors.

The conversation deviated and eventually with dinner over, you were ushered to the coziness of the Hufflepuff common room and dorms. Plants and comfy blankets were all about the rooms. This was exactly the house you belonged to.

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

Breakfast the next day saw a new set of questions and some repeats from other houses students who hadn’t gotten the chance to ask. Word had made it’s rounds by then, and people realized you were exceptionally gifted. 

During your free period after lunch, you were practically assaulted by a set of identical red headed string beans.

“You’re the transfer student right?”

“Yes, I-”

“We heard you’re gifted.”

“I mean I suppose-”

“What else can you do?”

“Can you show us?”

“Someone said you’re already an animagus?”

“OK SHUSH! One. I am not a goddamn zoo animal for you to just ask to do tricks at your whim. Two. One question at a time, for fuck’s sake.” 

Shocked identical looks were followed by sheepish remorse.

“And three. Yes I am and animagus.”

One of them stepped forward.

“Sorry, that was kind of rude of us. We didn’t mean to come off so pushy. I’m George. He’s Fred.”

Fred also apologized and once you accepted, they asked again, albeit a little more gently.

“So, what animal can you turn into?” Fred asked slowly, like he thought he might annoy you again if he asked. 

“You don’t have to talk that slowly, I won’t bite.” Fred laughed some and motioned for you to continue.

“I’m a Ratel.”

“A wot?”

“Also known as a honey badger.”

“Ohhhh.” Fred gasped

“I actually like that better than honeybadger. Sounds nicer.”

“Can we call you that? Ratel?” You shrugged and from there on out Ratel was more your name than your actual one. The teachers, staff, students. Even Dumbledore called you that. 

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

The one group of people you refused to tolerate was Malfoy and his goon-squad. 

It’s the superiority complex for me. 

And everyone. 

“How dare you look at me, filthy little-”

“Malfoy I know you weren’t just trying to beat up another first year.” You marched over to him with Neville, Luna, and the twins behind you. Crabbe and Goyle immediately dropped the Ravenclaw they had hoisted over their shoulders, and the small boy raced behind you and clutched onto your side. Crabbe and Goyle knew not to mess with you. Not after the thrashing you had given them before winter break. 

Apparently Draco hadn’t learned the same lesson.

“Technically, I wasn’t.”

“Not you trying to use that smart shit with me. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size.”

“And if I don’t? What are you gonna do Princess?”

Princess. Absolutely not. 

You stormed over to him, grabbed his pressed collar (fucking prick) and slammed him against a tree. 

“If you even look in the direction of any of the younger kids. If you even look my way, or my friends way, or anyone’s way really. I will shove your own wand so far up your ass your can taste it, throw you to the forbidden forest, chuck whatever is left of you at the Whomping Willow, and then throw the remains in a disintegrating solution. Don’t try me. You know I’ll do it.”

You leaned back, and then punched him in the sternum. He crumpled to the ground before stumbling back up and running off. 

You checked over the first year and then sent him on his way. As you walked off with the others, Neville spoke up. 

“I’ve never heard of a disintegrating solution. Did you just make that up?”

“No, my mother and her twin have this old family book of spells and potions. It’s been passed down through the past few generations and people add to it often.”

“Wicked! Is that how you managed to remove Parkinson’s nose the other day?” Fred asked.

“Yup. She still in the infirmary?” 

George laughed before responding, “Yeah, Pomphrey still can’t figure out how to reattach it and Parkinson refuses to say who did it.”

Everyone laughed as you headed to the library. 

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

“What are you doing in here?” Dean and Seamus stepped behind the portrait in the kitchens. 

“Jesus CHRIST! You scared me.”

Seamus smiled and kissed your cheek, “Sorry, love. So, whatcha making?” He leaned over the pot you were stirring. 

“Trinidadian curry. I missed home, and no offense, but British food has little to no flavor.”

“None taken- Mm! Thasth really goof!” His mouth was full but you picked up the gist. Dean laughed as he also stole a bite.

“Quit it you two. It’s not quite done yet.” 

“Fine.”

“Sorry, Ratel.”

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

“Harry James Potter!” Harry jumped as you stormed into the Gryffindor common room.

“How did you even get in here, you’re a hufflepuff?”

“Don’t change the subject. Why didn’t you tell me you were getting headaches? I just had to find out from Hermione!” 

“Ratel, it’s not a big deal calm dow-”

“Kid. If you’re getting headaches everyday you need to get some help for it.”

“I’m not a kid, and it’s none of your concern!”

“You’re my friend. Of course it’s my concern. And don’t pull all that ‘Oh I’m the Chosen One, I need to do shit by myself’ because it’s dumb, ok Harry.”

He paused, “Fine… I’m sorry.”

“Damn right you are, now sit your ass down and I’ll grab you a headache potion.”

“Ok… Hey, Ratel?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

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

“The mandrake leaf has been in your mouth all month, you’ll all be fine.” Fred, George, Seamus, Dean, Luna, Neville, Cedric, Ron, Harry and Hermione all stood surrounding you in a circle as you held a glass phial. A flask of a potion was passed around and then each of them chanted the needed incantation.

All around you, each of them shrunk or grew as their form took place. 

Fred and George transformed into identical hyenas who turned towards each other and erupted into a high pitched cacophony of screeching and laughing. Seamus turned into a phoenix with bright orange and yellow plumage, while Dean turned into a rather large fluffy golden retriever. Luna turned into a white hare and proceeded to dart around the hill you were on. Neville was now a meerkat. Cedric was a Lynx. Ron was now a roaring lion, Hermione now a river otter, and Harry a similar Stag to his father’s. 

You shrunk down to your badger form and the lot of you rushed around for the next few hours until the sun came up. Racing, messing with each other, 

Hogwarts had turned into home.

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

If you saw something incorrect or inconsistent with any culture PLEASE LET ME KNOW SO I CAN FIX IT. There is such a lack of POC representation in the fandom and as someone who is latina, I love when I see even a scrap of representation so after this I will probably start doing more like this (likely more mexican/ salvadoran cause thats where a lot of my family is from).

Also I’m sorry if this is too long or I wasn't able to get every detail in I hope this was what anon wanted! 

[cloveroctobers]

YASMIN DOUGLAS—

IG info/Bio: @/imyasmin_d | 11.6k followers | hello & ahlan 🎶

23-24 years old depending on her birthday (I’m thinking too much about timelines since i know some shows aren’t live and if they filmed it prior & it’s just being shown to us now...then there’s the boat party that comes in after, you get what I’m saying right? No? Okay)

Moroccan heritage

she was born in fes along with her baba

Father works in the carpet & rug manufacturing industry and worked in his father’s business from the young age of 16

her mother is from Essaouira & has often stated that she couldn’t stand Yasmin’s father the first time they met but she wouldn’t want to travel through this life with anyone else

Her father and mother came from two different lifestyles. All he knew how to do was hard work yet he had a sarcastic but playful side to him whereas her mom came from a family that was more financially stable & she was free to do whatever! mainly hanging at the beach with her friends without a care in the world, she was privileged and a little uppity while her father’s life seemed to be planned out from the day of his birth

Yet they still fell in love and decided to leave Morocco months after they got married at 21 & 24 & not too long after they had yas they left for England

She was raised in Kent, England

The Atmosphere led to her boho lifestyle...being exposed to castles, gardens, and underground tunnels from time to time shaped her into what she felt she was meant to be. She loved her second home

they call her “yazzy”

Parents follow islam...Which Yasmin respects but is not strongly devoted to

Can speak & write in Arabic but seems to do better in writing

Her paternal grandparents fault her parents for not teaching her to excel at both & feel that if they weren’t in such a rush to leave home she would speak Arabic better

Which made Yasmin feel like shit. Her paternal grandparents were strict on keeping their customs alive whereas her maternal grandparents were carefree as long as they got to see their granddaughter alive & well that was good enough for them

Idk maybe a only child or has a older brother? I don’t feel like she comes from a big family sibling wise

her mother made her a stuffed purple sheep that she took everywhere with her as a kid & continues to keep close to her. Y’all had imaginary friends? Well Yasmin had a real friend she could see & squeeze the life out that didn’t require talking and hugging the air, but that’s fine do u

100% collects beanie babies until this day but lil yamb is the number one princess in her household

As her significant other you have to be okay with lil yamb sleeping in between y’all that’s just the way it is

These stuffed babies are her comfort when no else can be

she’s a singer/songwriter. Went to uni for it & finished a semester early

Went through multiple hell experiences when it came to interning & temping while still in school & after

Let’s just say she wasn’t down to f*ck her way to the top

this made her anxiety act up, these people made her feel like she wouldn’t be good enough to show the world her craft & it’s didn’t have to be the world, just someone who would listen

But she couldn’t give up, there was nothing else she saw herself doing. She knew this is what she was meant to do but she couldn’t lie and say that her insecurities didn’t get the best of her most days

Although the cons seemed to out way the Pros some days, she kept at it & found herself a solid team that knew what she was about and understood her soul

Was definitely the student who loved all her English classes & when she spoke up everyone found it shocking since she preferred to just write everything out rather than “participate in group discussions”

I feel like her singing voice sounds similar to Jessica mauboy’s (if you don’t know who that is & you’re a fan of r&b/pop check her out or if you’re just curious that works too lol)

Knows her music notes like the back of her hand, duh!

Fav color is royal blue, especially on her eyelids & nails

Occasionally sleeps in rollers to keep her hair wavy

Needs her space when it comes to disagreements, they stress her out & she panics a bit when things go wrong so she feels like she needs to leave the situation rather than talk it out right then and there

She’ll talk when she’s ready, she just needs someone that’s a little patient with her that’s all

Words of affirmation is her love language? When she figures out how to balance her love life with her work life that is. When she’s feeling confident she’s smooth with words but when she needs to show you how much you mean to her & she really takes the time to think it out & feel her emotions, she’s writing you a song or you’re the inspiration to it or a poem, leaving you little love notes on blue post-it’s around the house, will write 50 reasons why she loves you on Valentine’s Day, and will say so when it’s just the two of you in your own comfort

Isn’t too crazy about public displays of affection but will deff hold your hand if that’s something you or she wanted in that moment

I think she’s fluid

Hasn’t been in many relationships. Sure she goes on tour every other year and gets to meet many people but they’re not solid relationships, they’re hookups and she hasn’t done many of those either

Had maybe one or two solid relationships: a androgynous woman that uses she/they pronouns & was in a rock band & a cis male she met at a tattoo parlor his step-brother owned (he kinda favored seb but we’re not going to speak on that)

I believe she wants to get married someday but isn’t so keen on the idea of kids. The furthest she’ll go is adopting a couple of animals. She’ll be a pet mom! I feel like she’ll be anxious looking after the life of a human being when it’s extremely hard to do so not only for herself and the love of her life & you want to add kids to the mix?! Fucking hell! but that could change? Who knows what life can throw at u

Has a hedgehog named Sonia that she drops off at her parents for their weekly sleepovers

Loves lace—mostly bralettes & crotchet clothing

I see her as a corduroy girl too. She has at least some rusty brown low-rise corduroy pants or/and a jacket

owns a crotchet kit, she’s bloody good at it too

Loved pink & purple (still likes them, they’re her 2nd & 3rd fav colors) so much as a kid that she tried to dye her hair half & half while her parents went out on their date night...it was also the weekend before school pictures :)

Says she got her inspiration from starfire & raven. She was only 13 at the time & had braces. Her father approved saying she’s a kid and she should be allowed to express herself. He only said that because his own parents barely let him & his brothers have their own fun

Her mother thought it was atrocious and did her best to get it out with the help of her other hair stylists friends (her mother worked in plenty of beauty shops once she got to England, until she decided to convert their basement into her own shop) who she invited over to see what her daughter had done but when you use certain permanent dyes...

It didn’t completely damage yasmin’s hair plus it was just hair, Yasmin didn’t see the big deal. She thought she looked splendid

Anyway, massive fan of ballroom dancing

She’s got a great ear to begin with so it was extremely fun twirling around while wearing pretty ballroom gowns

Took boring etiquette classes as a form of punishment? After the whole teen Titans inspiration thing “went wrong”

Enjoys western films

yes she owns a cowgirl hat & some boots too so sue her, she likes what she likes

Knows how to lasso but hates doing it to animals but she’ll do it to you :) (*gags* lmao why???)

Also loves visiting western towns & learning some history or at least experiencing what it was like

Type of significant other that will do her best to persuade you to stay in a treehouse airbnb, a cabin, the fucking Idaho potato, or camping out in her Volkswagen van in the middle of nowhere!

Has faux cow rugs, wicker baskets, wicker chairs in her flat, hangs some plants in glass jars & bottles all over her house

Her flat is very bright & vibrant: white, mocha brown, tan, yellows, & pastel purple

When it comes to decision making, she’ll make them pretty quick but only if it comes to choosing desserts

nobody is touching her mom’s meskouta orange cake WITH syrup

the dessert eater that always picks the one that has a surprise inside, meaning it has to ooze out with SOMETHING to make it 10x more satisfying

Leaning towards Buddhism, had studied some of their beliefs and found it resonates with her spirit

Fan of neon lights, probably has a few neon signs in her flat preferably on her brick wall in the loo, “to give u comfort as you go!” “that...actually makes sense.” Tai commented as he rubbed his chin coming to terms with yasmin’s reply. While Iona scowls, “no, no it doesn’t. I feel as if it’s an invasion of my bits!” “...Sorry you feel that way.”

tai & ciaran are automatically deemed as her brothers since she came into the villa with them. She had time to connect with them unlike anyone else. It was just the way the stars wrote their story and it showed outside of the villa too. they often crash at her place all the time when they’re in town & vacation all the time together when their schedules line up + it never feels like she’s third wheeling

“TaiTower” & “BB-Ci” are their names in her phone, Tai picked his own name while the “bb” stands for “best buds” for ciaran —which is a joke since he drunkly called himself so + he loves everyone when he’s drunk

You can always count on her to belt the lyrics to a Chaka Khan, TLC, or paula abdul joint when she’s drunk lol

As for the girls? She’s close with miki 😒 they just seem to be on the same wavelength when it comes to the pressure of the media since they have some sort of fame which increased with them being on the Telly. They bond over that & from there they’ve built a solid friendship

She could also be friends with AJ too (if you didn’t get swiped from her that is lmao!) they’re sorta opposites with aj being high energy/active while Yasmin is more mellow & “mysterious” but seem to connect in different ways: their sexual indentities, insecurities/anxieties, having something to be passionate about but at the same time maybe not? She might lean towards elladine or Genevieve if she had to make a choice?

Aquarius sun + cancer moon

so she’s still 23 y’all, I got it! I can’t do math sorry

“Freddie Mercury was probably my dad in my past life.”

Can play the banjo, guitar, & oud

Participates in hot yoga weekly

If she’s not with mc in the end and continues dating around if anyone from season two: LUCAS, Kassam, Gary, Rocco, maybe Blake? I originally thought Elisa but she’s probably too much for yas let’s be honest here lol they’d be better off as friends

Omg I forgot marisol! Imagine that?! Whew!!!

Season three: maybe Lily? But what if? Me being the slightly messy bitch that I am? Something happening with her & AJ. Now that?! Would be some chaotic shit “from the outside looks of it” name the irrelevant person behind the quote...now!

I’d like to see her interact with allerga but there could be something with her & cherry. I’m thinking cherry, Yasmin, & priya would bond well but we’re not here to talk about that

Getting rid of the physical aspect I genuinely think she’d do well with marisol, Lucas, or kassam. They’d mesh well I think in a relationship

She’s a body shimmer girl for sure!

Loves silk or satin robes

she’s a shortie, 5’2 to 5’5

Is learning Spanish

Loves arcade games, come see her in pinball & Pac-Man!

Quarantine life did not change her lifestyle much, but it did slightly mess with her mental health :/

loves the fall time, feels like she can slow down some and really spend time with family and friends

I feel like she has one best friend outside of the villa & that’s good enough for her!

They met their first year in uni & been close ever since

She doesn’t speak to the temporary friends she grew up with anymore & is often confused why they feel the need to keep up with her in the media which added more annoying worries to her heart but whatever right? Keep your eyes on the horizon

celebs she finds/found attractive: Aaliyah—especially when she played in queen of the damned, Kehlani, Zazie Beetz, Fivel & Booboo Stewart, Lakeith stanfield, Leah Lewis, Sofia Carson, Ryan gosling, & Nick Jonas

She listens to: jade bird, Yebba, Elli Ingram, Wafia, Zeina, Summer walker, Tanerèlle, Mariah the scientist, Teyana Taylor, Tove Lo, lady Gaga, Ra Ra Riot, Empire of the sun, & smallpools

Anthem? Diana Gordon — Rollin’

[handeaux]

Green Beer Came Later: Cincinnati’s Original, Old-Time, Irish Saloons

So ubiquitous are the photographs of mustachioed men, feet up on the brass rail, plug hats screwed firmly upon their noggins, that you might be forgiven if you concluded that all Queen City saloons were identical. This is not the case.

For evidence, let us turn to a meeting of the General Protective Association of Saloon-Keepers convened on Tuesday, 24 April 1883, to discuss a new state law taxing dispensaries of alcoholic potations. Although the meeting convened at a German hall, the president, J.J. Abbihl, introduced the agenda in English. According to the next day’s Commercial Tribune:

“As Mr. Abbihl spoke in the English language, Mr. Albert Springer made a motion that the German language be used in the discussion, but it was agreed to make the explanations in English on account of the importance of the meeting.”

Although the German beer garden holds a sacred place in the gilded memories of Cincinnati, a fair number of local pubs were helmed by Irish and American barkeeps. Any discussion of group meetings involving saloon keepers is clear to distinguish between “German saloon keepers” and “American and Irish saloon keepers.” (Of course, in their segregated neighborhoods, there were also Black saloon-keepers, but they were not allowed to join the protective associations.)

In general, the Irish saloons hewed closer to the river, and you can see this among the watering holes listed in the city directories. You find O’Brien’s at Third & Ludlow, O’Herron’s at Plum & Ann, McCoy’s on Front Street, McSweeney’s at the southern end of John and Connor’s way down on Central.

While the Germans colonized Over-the-Rhine, that was not always the case. The WPA Guide to Cincinnati relates that O’Bryonville, with its Irish namesake but early nickname as “Dutchtown,” accommodated Germans and Irish in (not always happy) comity:

“Thenceforth the name Dutchtown also was applied to the community, and many arguments were started over the bars between Irish and German customers who were constantly striving for social supremacy in the little community.”

This distinction was underlined in 1877 when saloon-keepers throughout the city gathered to pressure Cincinnati’s brewers into maintaining standard prices. Throughout Cincinnati, you paid 5 cents for a tall glass of beer, except in a few disreputable dives where suds were dispensed at two glasses for a nickel. The saloon-keepers realized that there was only one way the dives could afford two beers at that price – some brewery was selling stock at a discount. In those confrontations, the German saloonists met at one location and the Irish and American barkeeps met at another. Although they endorsed the viewpoint of the German proprietors, the Irish and Americans elected their own delegation to confront the brewers.

It is clear, from newspaper coverage that the menus differed between German saloons and American and Irish saloons.  William C. Smith, in his wonderful little book, “Queen City Yesterdays: Sketches of Cincinnati In The Eighties,” makes a distinction between the beer-centered German establishments and the Irish and America saloons that purveyed mostly the harder stuff. Smith avers there ought to be a strict differentiation between beer saloons and what he calls “boozing kens.” His description offers a physiological excuse for Irish and American drinking patterns:

“On a shelf next to the wall various brands of liquor were in evidence, some labeled and others in plain bottles, the quality of the latter known only to God and the proprietor. These emporiums were patronized by the Irish and American inhabitants who believed their stomachs to be lined with a substance that beer might corrode, whereas whiskey apparently acted only as a preservative and polishing agent.”

That distinction is fortified by a joke that, according to the Cincinnati Enquirer [23 September 1917], was so old it caused Cain to slay Abel:

“An Irish saloon keeper hired a new bartender. A man came in and got a drink of whisky and then said: ‘I’ll pay for this Saturday. My name is Murphy. The boss knows me.’

“’Wait and I’ll ask the boss,’ said the bartender. ‘Oh. boss,’ yelled the bartender up the stairs. ‘Is Murphy good for a drink?’

“’Has he had it?’ asked the boss.

“’He has,’ replied the bartender.

“’He is,’ replied the boss.”

It is not the case that all Irish and American saloons sold whiskey exclusively. Perhaps the premier Irish saloon in Cincinnati was Andy Gilligan’s Café on Vine Street directly opposite the Enquirer building between Sixth and Seventh streets. For nearly thirty years, Gilligan was famous for his luxurious beard, extending from his chin to his belt buckle. On warm days he was a living Vine Street landmark, basking in the afternoon sun as he stood outside his café enjoying a good 15-cent cigar. Gilligan ran book on local prizefights, but the cops usually looked the other way. He was known as an easy touch for actors down on their luck and a frequent host to heavy-weight champ (and prodigious drinker) John L. Sullivan. Despite his largesse, Gilligan left an estate worth a respectable $75,000 in 1905 dollars. Decades after his death, the Cincinnati Post printed a remembrance:

“Do you remember when no St. Patrick’s Day was complete without a peek at Colonel Andy Gilligan and his long whiskers resting on a great green sash in the Hibernians’ annual March 17 parade?”

During World War I, as Prohibition loomed, evidence accumulated that all of Cincinnati’s saloon-keepers were in the same, sinking, boat. As anti-German hysteria swept the city, nationalist firebrands were quick to point out Irish saloons catering to a German clientele. According to the Cincinnati Post [14 September 1917]:

“James J. Dolan runs a saloon at Richmond-st. and Central-av., which he calls ‘Zum Guten Happen.’ Now that German has nearly been put out of the schools, somebody, no doubt, will start a movement to put it out of Irish saloons.”

A similar situation obtained at an Oakley saloon managed by Patrick J. McHugh, called “Auf Wiedersehen.”

No discussion of Irish saloons can conclude without a mention of green beer. Now, before 1917, “green beer” meant improperly aged suds. A 1908 Wiedemann advertisement advised against drinking green beer because “it has practically no flavor and will cause biliousness.”

As for the annual emerald-hued St. Patrick’s Day quaff, blame the Elks. In 1917, in honor of the patron saint of Ireland, Cincinnati’s Elks lodges consumed green beer in abundant quantities. According to the Cincinnati Post, the verdant libation was concocted by a German brewer.

[ethelphantom]

Aroma Mocha

So, I'm still kinda sorry about the previous fic, but maybe this coffee shop AU for day 20 makes up for it. 5k of pure humour and fluff, angst nowhere to be seen, I swear. Seriously, I give you my word, you will not need to cry tears of sadness here. Maybe scream at your screen because these two are idiots but like it's still just humour and fluff so.... But yeah. Have fun! Also remember that if you want to be tagged to my Daminette December still, just hit me up! (Or possibly this AU, if I decide to continue it because it was so fun to write.)

Ao3

This is Maribat -- don’t like; don’t read.

____

Damian walked (if you asked anyone else, they would have told you he stormed in rather than calmly walked) into the shop with a scowl on his face, mostly to escape from the horrible weather outside. The bell chimed above his head as he pushed the door open, and immediately he could sense the air in the shop was both sweet and bitter as it enveloped him.

“Hello and welcome to Aroma Mocha! What can I get for you today, sir?” the young woman behind the counter said, a wide smile on her face. Damian could definitely see why it was called the Aroma Mocha, the entire space was filled with different aromas. Somehow, none of them clashed with each other.

“Hi… I’d like to have a mochaccino, please,” he decided rather quickly, quite sure that was what his brother had called the coffee he got Damian last time they were in a coffee shop.

“Sure! Name?”

“Damian.”

“Great! You want to drink it here or are you going to take it with you?”

Damian noted the strong French accent the woman had. She’d probably moved here only lately. Maybe if she seemed to struggle with English at all, he’d change to French for her.

“I’ll have it here, thanks.”

“Alright. That would be five dollars, please.”

Damian took out his wallet and gave her the amount she asked for, putting the same amount of money to the tips jar on the counter. She flashed a bright smile at him, and he really wasn’t sure whether it was the most annoying or the most wonderful thing he’d seen all day. Perhaps it was both.

“Great. You can either wait here ot find yourself a table, I’ll call your name soon, monsieur.”

And there was the first slip-up with languages. Goodness. It’s not like it never happened to him, but it was regardless a little frustrating. He decided he was going to pay attention to her English and change to French if it continued for too long.

(Spoiler alert, he never did.)

After a few minutes of waiting and going through his new notifications, the woman was back.

“A mochaccino for… Daemon!”, the barista called and set the cup on the counter before she went back to her job.

And did she really just call him “Daemon”? No, that was unlikely. Maybe it was just her accent that made him hear thi— aaaaannnd she totally said Daemon. That was the name written on the cup.

Well, that was fine. Maybe she just heard something wrong. It’s not like she did it out of spite or anything. Besides, the coffee was quite good, so that compensated for it.

A few days later, he came back to Aroma Mocha. He’d all of a sudden found himself craving the mochachino the barista had made — though Damian would never admit that to any soul, especially not a living one and perhaps not even a dead one — and hoped she was there to make him more of it.

“Oh hi, welcome back! What can I get you this time?” the young woman said, spinning around to see who had entered the shop. She seemed to recognise him immediately.

“I’d like the same kind of mochaccino as last time, please. Again, my name is Damian,” he said, his tone rather cold. He was irritated from having to deal with his brothers for the entire day and right now, even the idea of getting called by the wrong name was more than a little annoying. If he was taking it out a little on the barista, well, it didn't matter to him.

A strained (and yet somehow bright — Damian was sure any normal person would consider it a genuine one) smile on her face, the barista replied, “Yes, of course, sir.”

He nearly missed the flashing smirk on her face, gone as soon as it had appeared. If Damian had been someone else and not as used to having to pay attention to the shifts in others’ expressions, if he wasn’t sure he’d seen it on her face, he would have likely convinced himself he was just seeing things. But, as it was, he knew it had been there, even if only for the mere second. Well, maybe it didn’t mean anything.

“A coffee for Daymein!”

And yes, there was definitely a wrong name on the cup, but as no one else made a move to get it either, he decided it was his. Once again, the drink was heavenly. The woman’s ability to spell his name was not.

But, two was still just a coincidence. He didn’t pay much mind to it aside from his light annoyance.

Third time was definitely a pattern.

“Deymun!”

He was getting more and more irritated. He’d been to the coffee shop thrice now, and every time the same barista got his name wrong. Even so, he was too stubborn to leave since she made excellent coffee (though Drake wouldn’t agree with him on that, he said it was rather a milkshake than actual coffee), and besides, now that she’d done it already three times, Damian was determined to make sure she called him by his actual name at least once. He would not leave before that, not even if it took him months.

“So, the same as last time? Or do you want to try something else this time?” the barista asked, smiling at him like she always did. Damian checked her name from the name tag. “Mari,” it said.

“Well, what would you recommend, Marie?” he asked, revelling in the offended look he got from her. What was bad was that seconds later it turned into a smirk and there was mischievous laughter in her eyes, and Damian was sure that meant he was in it now.

“Do you prefer the sugary, less coffee-like things more, or would you like to try an actual coffee for once?” she asked, her tone teasing. Drake would probably love her and get along with her faster than he could say coffee. Yeah, he was not going to let them meet. Mari arched her eyebrow, her stance clearly challenging him. Well, who was he to turn down a challenge? No real Wayne and no true Al Ghul would ever turn down a challenge, no way.

“I would like to have more of an actual coffee, as you called it, miss.”

“Would you rather get an americano or a long black? Or perhaps something else?”

He was certain she made sure he would catch on the way she mentioned the — long black, was it? — coffee earlier, daring him to try. He wouldn’t back down now, no way.

“A long black sounds good.”

“Great, I’ll have your drink prepared as soon as possible.”

A guy with blue hair took over the counter as she whispered something to him and started making the coffee. The guy looked over to him with a nearly unnoticeable smirk on his face before he turned to the new customer, his tone sweet but strong. The girl ordering the drink nearly swooned.

“A long black for Damodar ,” she called.

Oh it was on.

This time Damian had to admit the victory was Mari’s as he nearly spit out his coffee, hating every second of it. He was simply unable to not drink it as he could feel her shooting glances and gloating grins disguised as sweet smiles his way every now and then. He had no other choice.

When he came in for the fourth time, he decided to take the same drink, simply asking for an even stronger version of it. Marinette raised her brow, surprised and suspicious of him. He was sure she knew how it had affected him the previous time, but there was no way he was admitting he couldn’t stand it. Maybe he would just dumb a whole lot of sugar in there when she wasn’t looking so he could handle it better.

“Et mademoiselle Marilène , for the record, my name’s Damian.”

Her eye twitched even as she kept on smiling. “I’m sorry, D’occasion, what was that you were saying? I couldn’t hear you properly because you spoke so quietly.”

Damian couldn’t remember the last time he got as strong of an urge to turn on his heel and march away as he did right then and there. He didn’t, though, as he was not ready to admit victory to the girl now, if ever. If it meant he was going to keep coming there until she quit her job or called him by the correct name, he was not going to give up. It wasn’t like he didn’t have the money to keep doing so anyway.

The fifth time Damian asked for a new drink.

“Oh, pretty boy couldn’t take his drink after all? Luka, tu me dois 10 euros, j'ai gagné.”

The blue haired man groaned though there was still a smile on his face. “D’accord, Ma-Ma-Marinette.”

So both of them were French. How great.

Damian ended up cutting off the two of them and tried to make himself sound like he really hadn’t minded the strong, disgusting coffee, all the while noting the way the other barista had called Mari. Maybe he could use it one day? “I would simply like to try something new. Anything else you’d like to suggest?”

Mari smiled, a knowing glint dancing in her eyes. “Well, since you clearly didn’t enjoy strong black coffee, I’m gonna propose you try vienna. It is still strong, but it has whipped cream in it so it smoothes out the taste a little. How’s that sound?”

Damian bit back from commenting on her grammar (it was difficult, but he managed, somehow) as he considered her suggestion. It did sound more enjoyable than the previous one anyway. “Alright, I’ll take that.”  

The woman looked victorious as he accepted her suggestion before she went to make his coffee. She also seemed so thoughtful he was sure she was trying to come up with a new name to call him. This time he was prepared though. As she picked up a pen, he opened his mouth, “I’m sure you have a hard time spelling my name, seeing as you aren’t from around here, but I can help you. It’s spelled D-A-M-I-A-N. Damian. Should be very simple and easy even with your brain, miss barista.”

So, maybe he was being an asshole, but this woman had misspelled his name enough many times to justify it, alright. If she was offended, she managed to conceal it very well.

“A vienna for Dandin,”, she called out a few minutes later.

It was his turn to be offended. She was holding out the drink instead of leaving it on the counter this time, and as he took it from her, she leaned forwards and whispered so quietly even he could only barely hear, “payback, you crétin.” He couldn’t even say anything back anymore, his pride wouldn’t allow him. Besides, maybe he deserved it.

Maybe.

Yeah, but even so, he was not letting it go.

It went on and on, and she came up with a lot of new names while at it. Somehow, she’d even gotten the man with hair dyed blue in it, as the few times Mari hadn’t been there and this Luka had, he’d called out Dandy, Danail and Damijan. At least those were closer to his actual name.

That once when he’d told her his name was Damian Wayne and managed to got all of the attention of the cafe, she’d simply laughed and written Devin Wayne on his cup, muttering something about a “Lila”... or was it a “liar”? He hadn’t been able to tell (he did make a mental note to investigate it later, though). Instead, he’d come fuming back to the manor and thrown one of their less valuable mugs against a wall. Alfred hadn’t been happy or impressed but let him go soon after he had cleaned up his mess.

Then there was that one time when his family insisted on coming with him because of how much time he liked to spend in the cafe at Aroma Mocha at this point.

(“If you, who couldn’t stand actual coffee like a month and a half ago are now craving so much coffee that you go to that coffee shop like every day and even then end up stealing my coffee, I have to know what they serve you there,” Drake had decided and then called the rest of the family over, informing them of his plan. They agreed in a blink and went to dress up. He didn’t stand a chance for a second.)

As soon as they entered, Mari smiled at them with the smile she’d worn on her face when they first met, only letting Damian see behind that mask, only letting him know how she truly felt at the moment. He scowled. She was winning and she knew it.

And she knew that he knew it as well.

“Hello and welcome to Aroma Mocha! It’s nice to see new faces come with older every once in a while! Is this your family, Dames?” she asked with an overly sweet tone and tilted her head to the side, smiling all the while.

“Oohh, is she the reason you just keep coming here?”, Grayson asked while Todd was staring at him with eyes wide before voicing everyone’s thought of “ Dames?!” out loud in disbelief. The only one that looked more shocked about it than Todd was his father. It was understandable — no one else could call him by any nicknames, but somehow this small French girl was able to do that without losing the use of both or at least one of her wrists right then and there.

He was never going to hear the end of this.

“Shut up. I didn’t ask any of you to come.”

“What can I get you all?”

As they listed off their orders (Cass got a mocha by pointing at it on the menu, a triple espresso for Tim (at that point she had wondered out loud whether he was actually related to “Dames” or not as he couldn’t drink that much espresso even if he tried — and he had tried, alright — to which she’d been immediately told they were adopted siblings, Tim being the adopted one), Duke ordered a freddo, Jason wanted a ca phe sua da, Dick asked for a galao, his father requested to get a ristretto, Stephanie wanted an iced americano and ended up joking something about Captain America, an iced coffee with salted caramel for Barbara, and Alfred, well. Alfred told Mari he would like to have an Irish coffee after he took one look at the idiots that were the Wayne family), Damian stayed in the back, grumbling and arms crossed over his chest.  

“Alright, are you all going to pay for your respective drinks, do you pay in groups or will one of you pay for all of them?”, she asked, ready with the debit card device in her hand.

“But— Damian didn’t order yet?”

The woman looked at Damian and arched her eyebrow, waiting for him to explain. It needed to come from him, they both knew that, as she was still a barista and the worker here. Sighing, Damian resigned to his fate and told his family what it was about. “Marielle and I at some point ended up going with her just making something for me based on how I’ve liked the previous ones until I decide something was what I wanted more of. It probably happened after the sixth time I changed what I wanted.”

Damian smirked as Mari frowned and looked offended. What reassured him she still was definitely in the game (and unlikely to complain to his family at any point) was the snicker he could hear as she was writing one of the names to a cup. Likely his.

“Well, I guess that’s fine then. I’ll pay for all of them”, his father said and took out his card, ready to pay. Once he was done, she waved her colleague (this time it was an Asian young woman with black hair and a neutral expression on her face instead of the blue-haired guy — unfortunately, she too spoke French, which meant he had to endure even more of them now) to help her. Understandable, as they had ordered a lot. Neither seemed to either care about who they were or they didn’t even recognise them. He wasn’t sure which option was more amusing.

And surely, when they were calling them to get their drinks, Mari left his drink the last and made sure he was looking at her in the eye as she called his name. “A raf coffee with extra milk to Dennis!”

The receipt in Damian’s hands crumbled as he heard the name. No matter how horrible the other names had been, this one took the cake. He couldn’t believe she’d thought that Dennis of all the names would fit him in the least. It wasn’t even close to his own name. And, of course, as his luck would have it, none of the other names were misspelled, and they were all written with elegant calligraphy except for his, that was simply written well enough for him to know she had done it again. Totally on purpose.

(Damian wasn’t sure whether the first time they had met she had actually simply heard his name wrong or if she’d already decided back then that she would call him with any names she could come up with. Considering it had been quite the while since, he decided it was probably that she’d gotten better at spelling names unfamiliar to her.)

The flabbergasted expressions on his family’s faces were delightful to see though. They had been talking about how sweet the girl was and how nice it was of her to make their cups look so nice (all of them also had a small doodle on them, courtesy of his barista — wait, his? — as the other woman had given them to Mari for her to scribble something on them), only for them to hear her call Damian “Dennis”.

And he didn’t get mad at her, he didn’t yell at her, he didn’t even correct her. He only scowled and with a grunt, went to get his coffee (Mari winked at him. Goddamnit. Judging by his Grayson’s knowing smile, they had also seen that). The drink was amazing once again, though.

“What… what did you do to the girl if she calls you that?”, Barbara asked after a beat of silence.

Leave it to his family to take the side of a girl they’ve met for the first time over their family member of many years.

“I didn’t do anything to he—”, he insisted but got cut off by Brown who shook her head in disappointment.

“Damian, you’re like a little brother to me and all, but I can’t believe you’d offend a girl so horribly that she calls you by the wrong name on purpose. You didn’t even protest, so you must understand you did something to her as well.”

Damian groaned and swore he was never coming back here with his family again.

It continued on and on.

“How does a cafe affogato sound?”, she asked without lifting her eyes when he arrived one day. How she knew it was him without looking, he wasn’t sure, but that was fine. He was getting used to it.

“Sure, Marybell.”

“What ice cream?”

“Whatever you think fits the best.”

Somehow, their routine of Damian ordering a coffee Mari chose for him and then her writing down a wrong name once again had become comfortable even though he still tried to get her to write his real name on the cup at least once. He needed that victory since Mari had won so many times. Well, she won most of the time, if he was being honest. By that point he knew that he would still keep coming by even if he did win for once.

“A cafe affogato for Deneb!”

“Thanks, Marine.”

“Hey, you got close to my name for once.”

“Damn it.”

And then there was that one day when she’d called him “Dami”. Upon arriving home, he’d stormed in, bringing the attention of everyone in the manor in the vicinity to him.

“I can’t believe her!”

“What did Teacup do now?”

“She— Wait, Grayson, what do you mean Teacup?”

“I became friends with her a while back. She’s cool. Bakes way better than anyone her age should. Loves and values designing more than her own life. Anyway, continue your story.”

Damian spluttered (and he could swear that was the most mortifying moment in his life even after years to come) before composing himself. “She called me Dami today. Dami!”

“You— you sound way too scandalised about this. What’s the problem? It’s way closer to your name than, say, Dennis, and sounds like a nice nickname in general”, Drake said, chugging down his (umpteenth cup of) coffee as he walked past (only god knows how many he’d already had). “Also I agree with Dick, Cupcake’s great. She makes the best coffee — sorry Alfred,” he said, smiling sheepishly.

“That is quite alright, Master Tim. Her skills at making it are truly limitless.”

Drake beamed at him. Beamed.

“You’re only friends with her because she knows how to brew good coffee.”

“That is so not true, Duke!”

“Oh yeah, Pixie Pop’s definitely the best,” Todd declared from where he was sitting and reading yet another book.

“Are all of you friends with her?”

“Yep”, Brown told him, suddenly appearing from behind him and then promptly plopping down on the couch next to Todd. “We all decided to get to know her after that encounter in the shop. But do explain why her calling you Dami is so horrible? Like Tim said, it’s closer to your actual name than many of the others she’s called you, shouldn’t you be happy? Isn’t that what you’ve been trying to get her to do for ages now?”

“But that’s precisely the problem!”

Everyone and everything around him stopped, slowly turning to face him.

“What?”

“She never misses an opportunity to call me by some random name that is only remotely close to my own, yet she didn’t take it. There must be something wrong with her! Maybe she’s sick or someone must have truly offended her or she’s dying or—”

A beat.

“Are you fucking serious? You interrupted a perfectly good book because you were worried about Pixie Pop? God, Demon Spawn, I’m glad you’ve finally developed a crush on someone and as long as you don’t hurt her, go off and ask her out, but this is Jon’s job. He’s your best friend. You can fret about your crush to him.”

“A crush?”

“A crush, Damian. You like her. Romantically,” Dick explained on the behalf of Todd.

“No I don’t— Oh my god I like Mari why did none of you tell me?”

“We just did!”

Mari was back to calling him weird names the next day. Damian breathed out a sigh of relief. She was alright.

(And Jon had had a field day when Damian had called him because finally his best friend was crushing on someone and he couldn’t wait to try and help him come up with plans to woo said crush.)

One day he had stepped into Aroma Mocha barely awake and simply went straight to a table and nearly fallen asleep there. He had even forgotten to order a coffee. Three minutes later, someone walked up to him and placed a coffee in front of him along with a cupcake. Damian lifted his eyes to the stranger, ready to tell them to fuck off and go away, only for him to meet the eyes of Mari above him.

“I didn’t… order these?” It came out more as a question than a statement, much to Damian’s dismay. Oh well.

“I know, Dalimil, but you need to get something to stay here. Also you look like you got run over by a bus and like you haven’t slept in three weeks, worse than Tim usually does, which is precisely why here’s a salted caramel cupcake and a chai latte with added caffeine in it.” Her voice remained stern as she pushed the cup closer to him. “You’re welcome, by the way, Damir.”

“I’ll come pay soon—”

“No you won’t. It’s on me, because that’s what friends do. You can give me good tips some day to make up for it though if you want to.”

Friends…?

Oh.

That sounded nice.

Damian made sure he gave Mari three times the amount of money he had to pay for his coffee the next time he came by as tips. She had stared at him like she’d seen a ghost but to her credit, she never said anything about it or tried to refuse it.

After another few weeks, Damian finally gave up on getting his favourite (when had that happened anyway?) barista to spell his name correctly. If he only got her to spell some name correctly he gave her, that would be good enough. He’d once told her his name was Han Solo (in his defense, Dick had made the entire family watch all of the Star Wars movies in two days and that was the first name he could think of), and well, she had most definitely not disappointed and once again had twisted the name.

Mari had ended up writing ‘Handsome Squidward on his cup. Damian had barely managed to groan before he shaking his head fondly at her. He’d been far too tired to be able to react more strongly. Once again she had ended up putting extra caffeine shots in his coffee. Damian was no longer sure whether he was addicted to the caffeine or seeing Mari — or perhaps both. ‘Both’ was a likelier correct answer.

“Soo, what’s it today? You’ve gone through just about everything in our menu by now. Do you want to have something you’ve already tasted before or do you want me to still find a new thing I think you might like?”

“Maybe something you think I may like. Thank you, Mary.”

He noticed the fond smile on her face right away, though it took a few seconds to actually register. For once, he couldn’t see mischief in her eyes, nor did she look like she was planning on some grand scheme like she usually did. It was nice, he decided, seeing her like this.

“Name?”

(They both knew it was just for show at this point.)

Damian considered it for a second. He wanted her to spell the name — any name — he gave her correctly at least once, but it took him a moment to come up with one. While he enjoyed their routine of calling one another by weird, incorrect names, but he still needed that damned victory at least this one time. After that, he wouldn’t care.

“Batman.”

She couldn’t misspell that one unless she decided to mess with him even more and use a completely different name — after all, only a handful of people would dare to even accidentally disrespect Batman in Gotham, and she didn’t seem to be one to do so.

Mari rolled her eyes and told him to go wait for his drink. He did.

“A special coffee for Batman,” she called, trying to contain her laughter. Damian decided it was kind of adorable. At least she used the name he’d given her for once. Victory.

“Here you go, Mister ‘Yes I definitely am Batman himself, I even wear the correct ever present scowl on my face, there’s no way I’m not him’. I hope you enjoy it,” she said chuckling and handed him his drink. She was warm as their hands brushed against each other and Damian could have almost sworn that there was a spark between them at the touch.

“I am fairly sure I will, Miss ‘I can never make a bad coffee unless it’s black and I try to make you suffer as much as possible on purpose’. Thank you very much.”

Damian went to sit down and drank it, finding it was better than anything he’d tasted before. This was what he wanted to have more of. It was just sweet enough to make him want more, but not too sweet so he could easily have a dessert alongside it if he wanted to. It also tasted more like coffee than the mochaccino he had started with had tasted like. Bitter, but not enough to make him gag.

In short, he absolutely loved it.

Then he noticed scribbles on the cup from the corner of his eye. Damian turned it around in his hands and flushed red as he read the text written on it.

Damian W. <3

Call/text me *** ***-**** xoxo

— Marinette

To put it simply, he was irritated. Not only had she not written down the name he’d given her again, but she had also written his actual name which was something he’d been trying to make her do for months now. To make it more complicated, yes, he was irritated but also absolutely smitten with her.

And god if he wasn’t ecstatic to find out she liked him back.

So, seeing as Damian liked her a lot even if he was frustrated with her and it was her that took initiative, he took his phone out of his pocket and texted the number he gave her. It didn’t take long before his phone went off and he got a reply. A quick glance at her confirmed she was on her phone and smiling at it.

DW: Hello. (12.18 pm)

MDC: heya ! i’m glad you decided to message me ! (12.20 pm)

DW: Of course I did. You’re my friend and I also like you. (12.21 pm)

DW: Although I doubt you should be on your phone during work. (12.21 pm)

MDC: your fault for texting me during work (12.24 pm)

MDC: anyway (12.24)

DW: Your fault for giving me your number and not telling me when your shift ends. (12.25 pm)

MDC: ANYWAY (12.25 pm)

MDC: did you like the coffee I made you ? (12.26 pm)

DW: Yes, I did. What was that? I would like to have it again, although not right now, since I just finished it. (12.27 pm)

MDC: I made it specially for you. can’t find it on the menu. I’m glad to hear you liked it ! (12.36 pm)

DW: I am honored that you decided to do that. I truly appreciate it, Angel. (12.37 pm)

DW: Or should I call you Marinette? Or Mari? Please tell me I am not making you uncomfortable. (12.39 pm)

MDC: dw about it ! you can call me whatever you want as long as I get to call you mine ! (12.42 pm)

MDC: wai t what (12.42 pm)

MDC: hey anyway I had an actual reason to give you my number (12.43 pm)

MDC: date today at 6 ? we could meet up here once my shift’s done and over with (12.46 pm)

Damian looked over to the counter, only to find Marinette already looking at him — and, with a smile (that damned smile that was too adorable for her own good), she winked at him. She was going to be the death of him if she kept on being like this.

Smiling, he turned back to his phone and started typing.

DW: A date sounds great. I’ll see you at 6, then, Angel. (12.51 pm)

_____

Dandin -- dimwit, buffoon, idiot D'occasion -- second-hand, used Tu me dois 10 euros, j'ai gagné -- You owe me ten euros, I won D'accord -- Alright

_____

@ladysblackcat @daminett4life @tinyterror333 @annabellabrookes @7-sage-7 @theyellowfeverexperience @thethirdwheelfriend @lady-phoenix-of-tardis @kris-pines04 @daminette-december2019 @bluerosette23

[fractionallystruckout]

Save Me a Seat Next to You

TetsuJun, future fic, friends to lovers, WIP

AU: In which Tetsu attends the University of Hawaii

Also on AO3.

Jun's trip to visit Tetsu in Hawaii, told through the food they eat.

—

Jun stood with the car door open, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked up at the sign.

"What's saimin?" he asked.

Tetsu spoke from the driver's side. "It's like ramen."

Jun turned to gape at him. He stepped up onto the lip of the car, bracing himself on the open door so he could see over the roof. Tetsu looked back at him over fading grey paint.

"You want to eat ramen on a day like this?"

There wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was picturesque in a way but it meant there was nothing to ease the force of the sun beating down on them, causing heat to rise from the car roof in waves. Jun was careful not to touch the exterior of the car as he waited for an answer.

Tetsu closed his door. "Saimin," he corrected.

Jun stared at the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of Tetsu's mouth. He hopped down from the car when Tetsu walked away without any hesitation. He shut the car door, hearing the locks engage as he caught up to Tetsu in a few long strides.

"Tetsu," he said, trying for reason. The building was small, the parking lot even smaller. They were at the door to the restaurant in steps. "It's too hot for ramen."

"Saimin," Tetsu repeated.

"Same thing!" Jun argued.

The hint of a smile grew. "Don't let them hear you say that."

"It's too hot to be eating hot noodle soup," Jun said. He was already starting to sweat. The building offered no shade from the sun. "No matter what you call it."

Tetsu stopped with his hand on the door. He actually seemed to consider Jun's argument for a brief and fleeting moment.

"It's really good, Jun," he said before pushing the door open.

"I don't care if-"

Jun came to an abrupt halt just inside the restaurant.

It was small.

It was even smaller than Jun had imagined from the outside. There were only seven tables, most of which were filled, and the walk from the door to the kitchen looked shorter than the walk from the door to Tetsu's car. Size, however, wasn't what Jun took issue with.

It was hot.

It was hotter inside the restaurant than it was outside in the sun.

"Tetsu," Jun hissed, grabbing the back of Tetsu's shirt. "You can't be serious."

Tetsu ignored him in favor of the passing server balancing multiple large bowls on a tray.

"How many?" she asked, in English.

"Two," Tetsu answered.

"You can sit in the corner," she said, nodding in the direction of an open table. "I'll be right with you."

"Thank you."

Tetsu moved to the open table, forcing Jun to follow by simply not looking back. The table was picnic-style with benches and just enough surface area for two people. Jun sat opposite Tetsu with his back to the window where he could feel heat either seeping in or bouncing off the glass; it was impossible to say which it was.

A different server passed their table, dropping off two tall glasses of water without breaking stride. Jun drank greedily from his. His mouth still felt dry from the flight and the heat wasn't helping at all.

Tetsu didn't even touch his glass.

"This is unbelievable, even for you," Jun grumbled, finishing off his water. He leaned over the table, lowering his voice because the restaurant was so small. "Why is it so hot in here? Why isn't there air conditioning?"

Tetsu shrugged and took a short drink from his glass.

"Can we go somewhere with air conditioning?"

"It's really good, Jun."

Jun narrowed his eyes at Tetsu as a server came by to refill his glass of water. He knew Tetsu could be stubborn but eating ramen/saimin/whatever in what was essentially a cement box on a hot August day was really taking it to new heights.

He shook his head, reaching for his water as annoyance blended into nostalgia.

Tetsu had never been one for limits.

"Where's the menu?" he asked.

Tetsu turned in his seat and pointed at the wall behind him.

Jun looked up at the eight item menu. There weren't even options. Hot noodle soup, be it saimin or udon, with or without won tons, was the only thing the restaurant served. That didn't seem to bother Tetsu, who was giving the lack of options more thought than necessary, or any of the other customers bent over steaming bowls. They ate with vigor, impervious to the heat.

Maybe it really was good.

Jun's gaze wandered, falling from the menu board to Tetsu.

Two years had done little to change him.

Tetsu still kept his hair short, he still held himself with a posture that rivaled most soldiers. He might've gotten taller but then so had Jun; the additional height seemed relative making it not much of a change at all. He still spoke with purpose. He still surprised Jun with flashes of humor when he least expected it.

The only thing that marked the passage of time, distinguishing the Tetsu in front of him from the Tetsu in his memory, was the shirt Tetsu wore, white with green script spelling out 'Hawaii Baseball' across his chest.

New school, same Tetsu.

It was achingly familiar in the best and worst ways.

"What can I get you?"

The question yanked Jun out of his thoughts. The restaurant came back into focus and he saw both the server who sat them, now standing at the table, and Tetsu looking at him.

"You go first," he said, throwing the attention at Tetsu.

"Can I have a large won ton min and three barbeque sticks?" said Tetsu.

The attention returned to Jun faster than he liked.

"I'll have the same," he said, in English.

It was the safest option as it was the shortest answer. It also saved him from having to admit that he hadn't looked at the menu long enough to choose something.

The server left with a nod. Another one passed by and refilled Jun's glass of water.

Tetsu was still looking at him.

"Your English is fine," he said, half a smile holding firm on one side of his face.

Jun crossed his arms and slouched against the wall. "It was four words."

"They were fine."

Jun looked around the small space for a distraction. He reached for his water, putting it down again without taking a drink.

"Are you sure it's okay for me to stay at the house?" he asked.

Tetsu nodded. "I checked with Skip again, like you asked, and he said it's fine. There's plenty of room."

"Are you sure?" Jun pressed. The arrangements had been made months ago but he still felt unsettled. "I don't need my own room. I can sleep on the couch or the floor."

"The room's empty," Tetsu said. "You're not putting anyone out. Mason moved out in May after graduation and Skip hasn't found someone to fill it yet. It's okay, Jun."

"Skip said it was fine?"

"Skip said if you stayed in a hotel, he'd be insulted."

Jun laughed. "I guess we don't want that."

Tetsu shook his head. "No, we don't."

Jun still had questions - both Tetsu and his roommate were cagey whenever he asked about paying for his accommodations - but he was cut off by the arrival of their food.

The server returned carrying a full tray expertly on one arm. She dropped napkins, disposable chopsticks, soup spoons, and two shoyu dishes with a dollop of mustard each on the table before carefully setting down two large, steaming bowls. One plate with six barbeque sticks, a dark sauce pooling at the bottom, concluded the presentation.

"Can I get you anything else?" she asked, tucking the empty tray under her arm.

"No," Tetsu said. "This is great. Thank you."

Jun looked down at his bowl.

He could see the differences right away.

The noodles were a different color from the ramen he was used to, darker with a yellow hue and a texture that reminded him of chow mein. The broth was light and clear, he could see through it to the bottom of the bowl, but the aroma was still rich and warm and oddly secretive; it wasn't obvious what meat was used to flavor it. Aside from the requested won tons sitting among the noodles, the toppings were simple: chopped char siu and a generous serving of green onions.

Jun broke his chopsticks and took a cautious first bite.

He shook his head as the unnecessary warmth spread through him.

He hated when Tetsu was right.

Jun knew he was being watched so he ate more, using his spoon to scoop up one of the won tons. It was heavy with filling and had a good bite to the dough. It paired perfectly with the clear, mystery broth. He had another and a few mouthfuls of noodles before he reached for his water, reluctantly meeting Tetsu's waiting eyes.

"It's really good," he conceded.

Tetsu smiled.

"That doesn't mean I like sweating while I eat," Jun said, pointing his soup spoon at him. "Next time: air conditioning."

"Okay," Tetsu said with a nod.

They ate in companionable silence, the slurping sounds from their table adding to the easy chorus of eating in the restaurant. Tetsu poured shoyu into each of their shoyu dishes, less in Jun's and more in his, dipping his won tons into the cloudy shoyu-mustard mix. Their server returned to fill both glasses of water. She also left a check face down on the table which Tetsu slid into his lap when he thought Jun wasn't looking.

"I saw that," he said, holding his bowl in both hands.

"They only take cash," Tetsu said, tapping shoyu-mustard onto a won ton, "and you don't have the right currency."

"We're going to a bank after this," Jun muttered.

Tetsu didn't respond. Jun, beyond reason, drank deep from his soup.

He picked up a barbeque stick. It was heavier than he expected, thin slices of beef folded and threaded onto a bamboo skewer, charred to a pleasant black on the outermost edges. He glanced at Tetsu and the rest of the restaurant before ripping a piece off with his teeth, following the example set for him. The meat was well-cooked, smoky in a way that could only come from grilling. The sauce had a sweet, tangy flavor he recognized but couldn't name.

Jun was halfway through his third stick when he noticed Tetsu had stopped eating.

"What?" he asked, wiping sweat from his brow.

Tetsu set his chopsticks down on the edge of his bowl, noodles sinking back into the broth.

"I'm glad you're here, Jun," he said, softly but as clear as the heat of the day. "It's really good to see you."

Jun looked down at his nearly empty bowl.

He could blame the warmth creeping up the back of his neck on the saimin, or the restaurant, or the sun beating in through the window behind him. It was more than plausible, anyone would believe it.

He almost believed it himself.

Jun dragged his spoon through his bowl once to watch the broth stir and settle. He looked up, meeting Tetsu's steady gaze, and nostalgia melted into something he thought he'd successfully packed away.

"It's really good to see you too."

[minervacasterly]

18 JANUARY 1486: The Union of Elizabeth of York and Henry VII of England.

There is a not a lot of information regarding the wedding ceremony. Henry VII had swore he would marry Elizabeth when he had been in exile in Brittany, at Vannes Cathedral, three years prior. A lot had happened since then though. The papal dispensation that their mothers had secretly plotted to get had to be reissued. 

The papal dispensation covered the Earl of Richmond and the natural daughter of Elizabeth of York (meaning the Lady Elizabeth, not the legitimate daughter and heiress of Edward IV). It was vital that the couple married under the good eyes of the church. The fifteenth century had descended into chaos when two branches of the Plantagenet House had annihilated each other, their descendants had married off to other noble houses and as a result (after Bosworth), Henry claimed the crown. But he was not blind. Connquering and ruling were two different things. He needed stability or at the very least, give the illusion of it to the people to put down civil unrest. 

Therefore, he needed to marry Elizabeth who was the eldest living descendant of the first Yorkist King. The papal dispensation took time, and meanwhile Henry had to establish himself as the realm's ruler. He established his claim to the throne through his "right of conquest" and his mother, Margaret Beaufort whose family descended from John of Gaunt via his third marriage to his mistress, Katherine Swynford. 

Nevertheless, his claim to the throne was still seen as weak, which was why parliament asked him on December 1485, two months after he had been crowned, to keep his promise to marry the Princess Elizabeth, and strengthen the claim of his descendants and *"restore some stability to the English royal line."

The pope had finally granted the dispensation at the beginning of the year, and it was confirmed in England by the papal legate, the Bishop of Imola on 16 January, two days later the coupe were married.The wedding ceremony was officiated by the archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Bourchier. Given the statement that Henry wanted to make, as it was mentioned earlier, about their union; the Abbey would have been filled with Tudor imagery that Henry had created that gave a new interpretation of the dynastic conflict that is now known as the wars of the roses. By intertwining the white rose of York (Edward IV's favorite symbol besides the sun in splendor) with the red rose, Henry VII's union with Elizabeth meant to give a powerful message of peace. Illusory as it was, its impression lasted and their descendants continued to use this device and celebrate the union of their ancestors, Henry and Elizabeth. The building would have been decorated by royal colors such as "purple and gold, silk, ermine and delicate cloths of tissue." And the bride, adds Licence, "would have been splendidly dressed and adorned with jewels, lace, brocade and ribbons."

She would not have worn white, given that white was not a color worn for wedding dresses.(The first royal bride who did was in fact her daughter-in-law, Katherine of Aragon, when she married Prince Arthur). Elizabeth would have likely worn purple as it symbolized royalty, or taken one of her many new gowns.

After the archbishop placed the golden ring on Elizabeth, the couple said their vows. Following royal custom, Elizabeth promised to take Henry as her husband "for fairer, for fouler, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to be blithe and amiable, and obliging in bed and at board" till death do them part.Besides the expenses, that no doubt would have been great, Elizabeth would have seen the new rose, the Tudor rose in every corner as well as her husband's other badges. By intertwining the white rose of York (Edward IV's favorite symbol besides the sun in splendor) with the red rose, Henry VII's union with Elizabeth meant to give a powerful message of peace. Illusory as it was, its impression lasted and their descendants continued to use this device and celebrate the union of their ancestors, Henry and Elizabeth.In recent fiction the two have been portrayed as an unhappy couple, pushed into the marriage by their shrewish mothers, but this is an interpretation based on secondary sources that have come many years (more than a century in fact) after the even took place. Francis Bacon writes very colorfully of Henry, and negatively of his mother but Francis was writing a century after the events took place and the two George Bucks themselves wrote even later. It is very easy to believe these sources, but if we want to look at the couple, we just have to look at their actions, at what they faced and what moral attitudes people had in this period.

A young woman such as Elizabeth would not have missed the opportunity to regain her status as Princess, and much less to be Queen. After being bastardized, and forced into hiding at Westminster, then in the midst of intrigue in the Ricardian court (with rumors -whether they are true or not, we will never know- that her uncle wanted to marry her shortly after his wife's passing and he later recanted after people protested at such an idea that he began to look elsewhere for a bride, and a spouse for Elizabeth); she would have no doubt welcome this new change in status. Elizabeth was a Princess-born, she had at one point been betrothed to the heir to the French Crown. She could not accept no better offer than to be a Queen, as it would also bolster her family's position as well and it did. Henry VII rewarded the Woodvilles. Richard Woodville as the third Earl of Rivers lived comfortably, Elizabeth Woodville kept some of her dower properties and when she was present, she always took precedence. Even Margaret Beaufort had to walk behind her as the older woman was Queen Dowager whereas Margaret was just a Countess -a Countess in her own right but a Countess nonetheless. Sir Edward Woodville, Elizabeth of York's uncle who took after his late eldest brother, was a highly pious and adventurous individual who proved his loyalty many times and was favored. The Catholic Kings themselves spoke very finely of him after his death. The set of ordinances that Edward IV had made for princes and that Anthony Woodville had supervise for Elizabeth's brother, Prince Edward, was kept and used for Arthur's upbringing. And Elizabeth herself was not left behind. 

**"Like her parents, Elizabeth of York was a patron of William Caxton and his successor at the Westminster printing press, Wynkyn de Worde." 

Furthermore, as Queen, she ruled over her own court and her own properties -some of which had previously belonged to her aunt Isabel, the Duchess of Clarence.As for Henry, this was also a personal triumph. Born to Margaret when she was thirteen (a birth that scarred her immensely. She would have no more children). Given as a ward to William Herbert who was given his uncle Jasper's earldom of Pembroke, and raised to be the perfect Yorkist to neutralize the threat he might pose in the future, he was then sent into exile after the Lancastrian Readetion failed and every member of the royal house was eliminated. Henry lived in a period of uncertainty, danger, and now it was all over. He was King. And he could also boast of having one important advantage. Many royal couples did not have the luxury of getting to know one another. They were married to this person or that, and whether or not they liked each other, they were expected to fulfill their duties. Henry fortunately did no have this problem. In the five month period that they waited for the dispensation to come, the two got to know each other. So when they walked down the aisle, they were not complete strangers.After the ceremonies ended, came the consummation. Elizabeth proved herself an exemplary Queen, living by the virtues of the day and this, as well as her fertility, made her well-remembered and loved. She would not be crowned until the following year, after “she proved herself” by giving Henry a male heir that autumn, less than nine months after their marriage. Given the speed in which they conceived, it is possible that the marriage could have been consummated before (since being betrothed was as good as being married. And the pope had given his approval, they knew it was only a matter of time before the bull came). But there is also the possibility that Arthur could have been premature.

Henry and Elizabeth’s marriage would remain strong, with the two relying on one another for mutual support when tragedy struck.

*From Dan Jones' Hollow Crown: The Wars of the Roses and the Rise of the Tudors. **Elizabeth of York: A Tudor Queen and her World by Alison Weir. I also recommend the following biographies:  Elizabeth of York by Amy Licence and Blood Sisters by Sarah Gristwood.

[neocity-sarai]

“Love in _____ “ series

❀ chapter 3: reader x jaemin

❀ forbidden love

❀ alerts: fluff, tinge of angst, language, suggestive, making out, i do not speak fluent french whatsoever, please forgive the mistakes, mentions of the dreamies

❀ song rec: “paris” by sabrina carpenter

“Love in Paris”

You’re surprised how you managed to make it this far. When you first told your parents that you wanted to move to Paris, they shot you down even before you finished. You told them you wanted to live by yourself to experience independence in a cultural epicenter and have some type of outlet to practice your french skills. Not that you were an expert in any way. Several days later, your father convinced your mother that it would be a good way to see the world and live in an environment that was different from your dull, quiet neighborhood. Before you knew it, you were on a one-way plane to Paris, France. 

Several months later

Thankfully, you were pretty decent at your french skills without butchering the accent you had to adopt when speaking. You got a job at a nearby cafe that was close to your studio apartment but you couldn’t feel any happier. Despite having such a small room, you adored it. All you had was a small bed, a wooden vanity, a mirror, and a few belongings from home. Every morning, you’d wake up to the honey-colored window next to your bed as you hung your arms out of it- looking at the Eiffel tower that scraped against the dawn sky. It was like you were living in a painting, the way that the sky turned a light shade of lilac during twilight or how the city glowed in the late hours of the night. In the mornings, you’d always pick up a bouquet of pansies in the market that resided in the Jardin des Tuileries. You’d place the flowers in a crystal glass that you found in some vintage store in passing, you considered it your best investment. During the night time, you always felt yourself relaxing with the sound of occasional car honks or the buskers playing their accordions on the streets. You’d put your headphones on to play some soft music, swirling a glass of red wine that sat in your hand. Over the first few weeks of coming there, you mostly stuck to your day to day routine rather than exploring Paris for yourself. When you had the time, you promised that you would scour the city by every corner and alley. You just had to earn your rent money first.

You actually found the boulangerie by accident. You made a wrong turn somewhere and discovered a quaint, two story bakery that was called, “Claudette’s.” By chance, you decided to follow the comforting scent of fresh bread and honey-glazed pastries, an older woman who wore a chiffon skirt smiled at you. The establishment only had a couple customers in it, she made her way around the corner, “Comment puis-je vous aider madame?” 

You answered her, “Embauchez- vous?”

“Oui.”

You walked closer to her, shaking her hand, “Je voudrais travailler ici. Parlez vous anglais?”

“Oui, un peu.”

“Merci.”

Though you could speak french without many problems, you still preferred speaking in english. You’re grateful that the woman was willing to cooperate with you. She eyed you curiously. She seemed like a character straight out of a novel as her hair piled into a messy bun of white, her apron is embroidered with tiny blossoms, and she looked extremely young for how old she actually was. In a heavy french accent she spoke to you, “Are you new in Paris?”

“I am, since a few months ago.”

“What- er, why work at my shoppe?”

Though the job is to make money, you really did want to experience the life of working in a bakery. You always were interested in how to make coffee or how to ice cakes and back home, you just couldn’t. You continue, “I want to learn from you, mademoiselle.”

“Call me Claudette, welcome.”

After your encounter with Claudette, you had been in Paris for nearly a year. Time flew by and you hadn’t even noticed. You were comfortable after trying and failing to make french-foam macchiatos, mixing up people’s orders, and getting the texture of the pastries right. You were thankful that Claudette was patient with you. 

Like every other Monday morning, you swung the sign that hung on the bakery’s door to open, taking the morning rush on by yourself. Claudette entrusted the shoppe to you when she needed to sort out inventory or go on errands. You didn’t mind that, knowing your customers’ names, conversations about their lives. When you finally got to the end of the line, a peculiar customer had stepped foot through the doorway. He seemed to be taller than you, dressed in a white t-shirt and a blue blazer with matching pants to go with it. The odd part was that you couldn’t clearly see his face as it was covered with a black scarf, hat, and blake sunglasses. Why did it seem like he was trying to hide his face? You asked him, “Comment puis-je vous aider?”

“Je voudrais un expresso, pas de lait.”

“Donc tout noir?”

“Huh?” Despite the dark shades over his eyes, you could still sense the boy’s confusion in his voice. You took your chances, “Are you fluent in english?”

“I sure am.”

You nod at him skeptically, “I was asking if you were sure you wanted all black, that’s a lot of caffeine.”

He raises an eyebrow at you, his voice muffled under his scarf, “Are you questioning my refined tastes?”

“Uh- no sir. That is not my intention. But, don’t say that I didn’t warn you.”

The boy pulls out his credit card as he darts his eyes around the cafe. Like he insists, you serve him his tiny cup of all black espresso, you even grimace at the heavy scent despite working with coffee for so long. He wasn’t kidding, he had gulped it down like it was nothing- your eyes widening at the sight. He smiled, his scarf still wrapped around his face. “I’d like another please.”

You eye him incredulously, “More? really?”

“Yes, that’s what I said miss..”

“Y/n. It’s y/n.”

“Your establishment is quite the place. You’ll be seeing me here often.”

Trying your best to smile at him, “I look forward to it.” You walk back to the counter, packing sweets for the next customer as you watch the boy gaze out the window. Even his posture seemed so formulaic due to the way he crossed in legs in a prim-proper way, dainty fingers stirring his half-full espresso shot. When you get around to the boy’s third espresso, your surge of confidence makes you lean down at him, “You asked my name, isn’t it right that I know yours?”

He slides his shades down slightly, his eyes a dark brown, “Oh, don’t worry y/n. You’ll be seeing plenty of me that you won’t forget my name.”

He places a large bill on the table, winking at you, “Keep the change, y/n. You deserve it for working so hard.”

He struts out the door, leaving you just as confused as you felt when he first walked in. Who was that? And why was he acting so mysteriously? Throughout the day, you hadn’t thought about him after being so busy taking orders and fulfilling them. 

To your surprise, the same boy came the next day around noon. You could tell by his odd disguise that contrasted with his crisp, white suit- his voice in a lower octave than yesterday. He whispered, “I’d like another espresso and a croissant please.”

You typed up his total on the register, two girls whispering behind him in line. He sat at one of the tables before one of the girls could tap on his shoulder, her expression falling when he walked away. When you set down his cup, you eye him carefully, “If you want more espressos, you’ll have to tell me what’s going on.”

He rests his chin on his hand before yanking his scarf down, “In what obligation do I have to do that? Isn’t it called customer confidentiality?”

“Not if you’re causing a disturbance. You look so suspicious right now!”

A scowl is scribbled on the boy’s face, some pink hair sticking out of his dark bucket hat, “Do you have anywhere private?”

“Follow me.” You lead him to your back stock room, his proximity too close for comfort. His eyes dart from the front of the store and back to you, his hand ripping off his mysterious ensemble. The boy finally reveals his face, a beautiful one at that. The locks that sit at the top of his head curl on his forehead are a shade of bubblegum pink, his lashes accent his eyes attractively, and his cheekbones accentuate his boyish charm. The boy smiles at you, his teeth shining through his pink lips, “You can’t tell anyone that I’m me.”

You stare back at him, “Who exactly are you?”

The boy dramatically runs a hand through his pink hair, “You don’t know who I am?”

“Should I?”

He sighs, “I’m Jaemin Na.”

You don’t catch on. Instead, you look down into space, catching a sight of Claudette’s magazine pile- a picture of a pink-haired boy on the front cover.

“Wait a minute-”

You grab the magazine hastily, holding it up next to the boy’s face, “Y-you’re Jaemin Na?”

He smiles brightly at you, “The one and only.” You rub your fingers against your chin, “Wait, what do you do exactly?”

Jaemin sighs at you, resting a hand on the wall near your head, “Listen sweetie, I’m the son of the Na family- consuls to the royal family of Versailles. I stay in the palace.”

“Ohh- so you’re a rich elitist boy?”

“Well- I guess you could put it that way.”

You scan him up and down curiously, “Well that explains the lame disguise. I’m sure girls would try to maul you. If it’s so much work, why don’t you just have one of the palace people make you coffee? Why bother coming here?”

Jaemin scrunches his nose, “Well I don’t appreciate the insult and I also hate to admit that no one makes coffee like you do- that’s why I started sneaking out and coming here. Don’t take too much credit though.”

Rolling your eyes at him, you smirk, “For someone who sits on their butt in the palace all day, you sure drink a lot of coffee, you should see a doctor.”

Jaemin smoothes down the fabric of his white vest jacket before covering his face with the scarf again, “My taste buds and stomach lining are perfectly fine, thank you very much.”

Shoving his bucket hat over his eyes, he storms out of the shoppe- leaving you with an amused grin on your face. The next day, Jaemin came once again. You asked him, “one espresso shot coming right up.”

Your fingers nimbly move on the register’s keyboard, a hand flying across it without any thought. You bring Jaemin his espresso cup, setting it down on a dainty white saucer in front of him, “Here’s your black coffee of death. Enjoy.”

You swivel back around, only to be stopped by the sound of Jaemin’s voice, “Hold it. Not so fast.”

“What is it now?”

“I never said I wanted an espresso- it’s a lavender latte kind of day.”

You step closer to him, your eyes widened like disks, “But you didn’t stop me at the counter? You always get an espresso- all black?”

“Not today. Plus, you only assumed and never thought to ask.”

You resist the urge to slap Jaemin square in the face, he was acting like a spoiled, conceited child. You eye him sternly, “Are you going to waste that?”

Jaemin bats his eyelashes at you, swinging the fabric of his scarf over his shoulder, “Well I certainly am not going to have an espresso today. I take that as a yes?”

You feel your eyes roll back into your head, you’re surprised they don’t turn inside out. Grumbling, you march away with the espresso in your hand- dumping it into the sink drain as Jaemin smiles an amused grin. You come back to him, a menu in hand, “What do you want and make the choice good because I won’t do this.”

Jaemin raises his eyebrow at you, “Isn’t that your job? Customer knows what’s best?”

Scoffing, you smash your fist on the table, “Don’t do this Jaemin or you’ll regret it.”

The pink haired boy narrows his eyes at you through his pretentious sunglasses, “I’d like a lavender latte- make it oat milk. I don’t digest dairy well.” Heading back to the counter, you whip up the drink, layering a mint-berry compote and oat milk as you strategically place a lavender stem at the top of it. You stand back to admire the perfection of the drink, the purple gradient blends into a cloud of white. When you place it onto the table in front of Jaemin, he takes a sip of the drink as you wait for his reaction. He uses his index finger to motion you closer to him, your feet moving on their own. 

“Well, how is it?”

A bright smile lights up his face, his white teeth gleaming between his lips, “It’s good but you need to come closer.”

You do as he says, his eyes flickering to your lips- you feel his breath on your face. Is he about to kiss you right now? He darts his eyes from your lips to your eyes. The fast-pace of your heartbeat skyrockets before it ends suddenly, Jaemin smacking his lips before whispering at you, “The oat milk could be a little less nutty.”

You break the tension, launching back from you, “Are you kidding me right now?”

Jaemin gives you a cheshire cat-like grin, “Yes but not to fear, I’ll still drink this since you worked so very hard on it.”

You raise your cloth rag at him, stopping your hand just before the crown of his head- your brows creased with distress. Before this, you had never dealt with such a difficult customer before. Your voice is laced with irritation, “Do you enjoy this?”

“Oh, so very much. I hope you don’t miss me, I’ll be back at the same time tomorrow.”

Grabbing his book sack, Jaemin heads out the door, leaving you alone to be irritated. Like he promises, Jaemin is back the next day. The whole evening after yesterday, you spent taking note of every trap Jaemin would set for you- there was no way he was going to get you this time. When he steps up to the register, you try to sound as polite as possible. 

“Welcome to Claudette’s. What would you like to order?”

He nods at you, clicking his tongue at the same time, “Let’s go with the caramel frappuccino, no whipped cream or foam please.”

After he pays, you skillfully make the drink right in front of him, carefully measuring the correct proportions of every ingredient. He places his fingers on his chin, one hand on his hip in a taunting manner, “This is so fascinating to watch y/n. You’re truly the master of beverage arts.” You scoff, pushing the finished drink to him, “Try that.”

When he takes a sip, his eyes sparkle with pleasure as he visibly shudders, “Well, I am pleased to say that you have passed the frappuccino test except for one thing.”

“What now?”

“The straw is upside down.”

You groan, slapping a palm to your forehead, “You’ve got to be kidding me Jaemin.”

Before Jaemin can answer you, you hear a familiar voice from the back of the stock room and you feel a hand sit on your shoulder, “Are you satisfied with miss y/n’s services sir?”

You whip around to be met with Claudette towering above you, her lips graced with a fond smile. Jaemin clears his throat before answering her, “She’s doing great but she’s having so trouble accepting constructive criticism.”

You stare back at him, gritting your teeth, “What are you talking about? I just-”

Claudette pats you on the head, “Maintenant, maintenant petit pan, what do I say?”

Respectfully, you repeat after her, “Customer always knows best.”

Jaemin adds, “I was just telling her that the straw was upside down just so that she doesn’t do this to other customers.”

“Oui Monsieur! Learn from the customer, y/n, it’ll make you a better worker and person.”

Jaemin lets out a hearty laugh from over the rim of his maroon scarf, “Other than that, she’s great.”

Glaring at him, you look up to Claudette who’s smiling at him, “I see that you come almost every day monsieur, thank you for enjoying my shoppe. Merci beaucoup!”

He smiles back at her, “It’s because of y/n.”

You feel your breath hitch at your throat when you hear Jaemin’s words, how can he say things so casually? You want to believe he’s saying these things to get under your skin again, you can’t seem to predict the pattern of his ways.

Claudette practically jumps out of her skin, her hands clapping wildly, “l'amour est dans l'air! Y/n, you need a break right now- let this nice man take you out for some air.”

Waving your hands in front of you, you shake your head at your boss, “Claudette, please. I need to look after the shop in case of more customers and I-”

The older woman cuts you off, “Nonsense! You’ve been working too hard since I’ve been out! You’re done for today! Out!”

Claudette holds out her hand to you to hand over your apron, an amused smile on her face. After you hand it to her, you gather your belongings from the stockroom before breezing past Jaemin out the door. You turn back to Claudette for affirmation, she’s always trying to shoo you out when she thinks you’ve worked for so long. You don’t mind her motherly aura. It makes you miss your own mother. You begin walking down the street towards your apartment, your bag slung over your shoulder. 

“Wait up! y/n!”

You turn around to be met with a huffing Jaemin, “Where are you going?”

Sighing, you say, “What does it look like? Home obviously?”

Jaemin holds up a finger so he can catch his breath, were you walking that fast? He says, “Why don't you spend the day with me?”

“Yeah, after you embarrassed me in front of my boss? No way, I’ll pass.”

Turning around, you continue to walk until Jaemin runs in front of you, holding his hands as if he’s going to entrap you if you try to make a run for it, “Please, let me make it up to you.”

You eye Jaemin skeptically, “Why? What would you get out of that?”

“Can you just trust me?”

Scoffing, you try to get more steps in until you’re halted by Jaemin once again, “I promise, if you spend the day with me, I won’t bother you about coffee or upside down straws again!”

You gaze at him, your eyes searching for some malicious sign. When you don’t find any, a smile creeps on to your face, “You better stick to your word Jaemin Na or else!”

The first several minutes of walking next to each other make you cringe from the awkwardness. You steal a glance at Jaemin who’s messing with the rim of his bucket hat, the accessory covering his eyes, “So, where are we going?”

He answers you plainly, “Have you been around the city?”

You rub the back of your neck, “I’ll have to admit, I haven’t been around much.”

He stuffs his scarf into his book bag, the sun too hot for the thick fabric, “No worries, I have a plan. Prepared to be amazed out of your mind.”

You let Jaemin guide you to the plaza of the Louvre, the glass pyramid reflecting the sunlight into a million rainbows. People stand in front of the water structure that it sits on, the water is like a pristine mirror that catches even the most subtle details. You had seen the Louvre in travel books and magazines but never in person, “Are we going to the Louvre?!”

“Nope, that can be for another day. I have something even better.”

Jaemin walks over to a man who stands by a red cart, they converse in basic french before the man hands Jaemin two wristbands. He puts his on, motioning for you to do the same. A big red tourist bus pulls over by the front of the Louvre, “All aboard the passengers! tous à bord du bus!”

Without a second thought, Jaemin takes you by the hand before hosting you onto the bus as you both dash up to the second story of the double-decker. You take a seat at the very front, Jaemin’s shoulder touching yours. You try to wave away the tingle you feel when he brushes against you, his cologne smells of fresh pine needles and mint. A skinny teenager dressed in a striped shirt wears a beret at the top of his head smiles at you, extending a fake rose to you. Hesitantly, you take it while smiling back at him. 

“Bienvenue à bord! My name is Pierre and I will be your guide to your journey across the city of love, city of the la romance! Let’s begin!”

Within a few hours, you had already seen so much. You felt like you were on cloud 9 when you stood up on your seat as you passed under the Arc de Triomphe, Jaemin resting his hands on your waist to keep you stable. You don’t resist him. He watches you with adoring eyes, “Look like someone’s having too much fun!”

You look down at him, “How can you not?!”

The bus speeds over the Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris that crosses over the Seine, Jaemin pointing out the ducks that float on the banks of it. You laugh as Jaemin takes your rose, putting it in between his lips in order to make you giggle in which you do because he grimaces as a thorn pokes his lip. You swerve with the bus as the driver maneuvers it through Place de la Concorde, the spot where the French Revolution took place. When Pierre told you fun facts about Marie Antoinette, Jaemin would scream at the top of his lungs, his voice getting lost in a blast of wind, “Let them eat cake!!”

When the bus halts at the final stop, you descend down the stairs and off the vehicle- the cool weather sending a chill down your spine. You and Jaemin walk over to the Notre Dame and the Saint Chappele to keep shelter from the blustering winds, the stained glass windows making your faces glow with shades of blues and greens. You sit on a bench, Jaemin’s body pretty much pressed to your body as you both hold a candle between your fingers within the quiet church. Jaemin turns to you, whispering, “So what do you think of Paris?”

You chuckle at him, “Paris is the city of love right? I think I’m in love with Paris, when do we get married?”

Jaemin stiffens his frame, “We as in you and Paris or as in you and I?”

You hit his arm, “No silly! Paris! I don’t want to get married right now!”

Shaking his head, Jaemin laughs at you, tufts of pink sticking out of his bucket slightly. The hat covers less of his face now, at least you can see his eyes. 

“What do you say, we get something to eat?”

“You’re right, I’m famished. All that exploring has made me ravenous.”

Jaemin wins at you, “I know just the thing.”

It’s about evening now, the sun starts to set with a shade of champagne and violet- the trees glinting a shade of vermillion green when you pass the numerous cafes and boutiques on the street. You both find yourself in a field under the Eiffel Tower, the structure staring down at you with regality. You feel as if the air in your lungs has been sucked out, blue lights blink along the lattice pattern of the tower- creating a luminescent effect on your vision. Jaemin nudges you with his elbow, “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

You don’t even realize he had been gone since you couldn’t stop staring at the beautiful sight in front of you, your head fuzzy from how the gold and blue cut the painted sky. When Jaemin comes back, he sets down a blanket away from the other people- most of them couples- you avert your eyes from them. In his right hand, he holds a basket full of unknown goodies waiting to be eaten. You and Jaemin sit on the blanket before Jaemin reaches into the basket to pull out a multitude of things. He hands you a long baguette of bread before spreading out various shiny fruits, cheeses, and a bottle of blush cider. 

“Did you really prepare this all right now?”

Jaemin smiles at you, his eyes softened, “I have my ways.”

For the next hour or so, you feel as if you don’t need any alcohol to feel drunk. You and Jaemin watch the dusk fade into a black sky, stars glimmering over the golden glow that surrounds you. You both nibble on pieces of havarti cheese or opt for a slice of bread as you talk to each other in hushed whispers. You had never done this with anyone before, it felt so easy, so light. You learn about Jaemin’s life as the son of the consuls and how exhausted he is to be expected of perfection every second of his life, how he’s had his freedom stripped from him since he was born. In turn, he listens to you when you talk about your life back home, how your parents almost cut off ties with you- thinking you were foolish to want to randomly move to Paris by yourself. You never regretted your decision after all. You say, “If I hadn’t moved here, I wouldn’t have met you.”

Jaemin laughs, downing his glass of rose blush cider, “This is the first day that I have felt like myself in front of anyone- just me, not perfect Jaemin Na in front of the cameras.”

You nod at him, scarily aware of how close your fingers are to Jaemin’s on the plaid blanket, “Do you have a favorite part about Paris?”

He turns to you, his cheeks and bridges of his nose illuminated by soft golden light, “After living here all my life, I hate to admit that it’s gotten a bit boring. Now, I think that’s changed.”

You quirk an eyebrow up at him, moving your hand away as heat travels up to your cheeks, “And what has changed?”

You see Jaemin laugh to himself, “You’re unlike any girl I’ve ever met. You don’t fall at my feet like the other elitists in my family- you’re not afraid to call me out and criticize me. I like that.”

You nervously laugh, “Thank you? I’m not sure what to say.”

Jaemin’s expression turns serious, his lips looking more prominent when he turns his face to you, “Then you don't have to say anything.”

Before you can register, Jaemin leans into you as his nose bumps against yours in a soft kiss. You pull away, boring your eyes into his before he scans your eyes for some sign of refusal. When he can’t find any, he molds his hand to your cheek, folding his lips over your bottom lip. Jaemin speeds up the pace by pressing into you further, a sound escaping your throat. You blush at the noise, Jaemin leaning his forehead into yours before sweeping a hair behind your ear, “Wow.”

Your bodies feel like they sing with electricity, Jaemin’s fingers hot on your skin as he pulls you into the space of his chest. Your ear is pressed to his heartbeat, “Do you hear that y/n?”

You shut your eyes at the quiet rhythm, “I hear it.”

You take it open yourself to edge your fingers on the rim of Jaemin’s hat, slowly taking it off him to reveal the pink shade of his locks- the soft tufts messy from the day. He watches you take off his sunglasses too, placing a hand on his neck while pulling him in for a fiery kiss. His eyelashes extend from his eyelids, framing his dark irises that reflect the Eiffel like swirling stars. He whispers to you, “Are you ready to get out of here?”

You nod at him, standing to help him fold off the blanket and carry the basket. The whole way back, you and Jaemin dance along the walkway of the Seine- to the beat of your hearts, to the beat of the acoustic guitar that echoes from a late-night cafe. Ending right back at your apartment, you don’t want Jaemin to leave just yet. He holds your hands like you’re a fragile porcelain, the warmth of him gentle and soothing. He leans his head against yours, pressing a kiss to the spot in between your eyebrows, “Can I ask you something?”

“What is it Jaemin?”

“This is only if you want to, don’t feel pressured. My parents are holding a masquerade ball at the palace tomorrow night. Do you want to be my date?”

You stare at him, a hand resting on his shoulder, “Oh, Jaemin, I’d love to go with you, there’s just one problem. I didn’t pack a ball gown when I moved.”

Jaemin’s expression is shocked as if he never expected you to say yes, “Really, you’ll come?”

“I’d be happy to.”

“Don’t worry about the dress, I’ll take care of it.”

For a final time, Jaemin presses a firm kiss to your lips, “I’ll see you tomorrow night y/n.”

“Goodnight, Jaemin. Today was perfect.”

“I’m glad. Now, go in first. I won’t leave until you do.”

“Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own?”

“Positive, goodnight y/n.”

In the morning, you wake up the sound of your doorbell ringing. Sleepily, you saunter over to your door, finding a neatly wrapped package on your welcome mat. Unfurling the paper, you hold the delicate satin of a scarlet red dress between your fingers, the softness making you sigh. It’s got billowing belle sleeves that are cuffed with pearls at the wrists, the train of it falls on your hardwood floors. You find a note at the bottom of it, “For the most precious girl, who’s beautiful even without this dress. -Jaemin”

You lay the dress agross your bed, the scarlet organza blending into a shade of fuschia as white sparkles cover the bodice. In awe, you can’t take your eyes off the dress- one thing was for sure, Jaemin had impeccable taste. You had gone to work with a pep in your step- you debriefed Claudette of all the details of seeing the city with Jaemin and how his eyes held every form of adoration. Neither of you had fallen so hard so fast before. You were tingling at the thought of it. Thankfully, Claudette let you off early so you could get ready for the ball, your head filled with the thought of dancing with Jaemin in a fancy ballroom. 

Nighttime approached quickly, a jet black limousine had pulled up to the front of your apartment- Jaemin’s voice crackled through your phone speaker when you answered.

“I’m here y/n!”

“Be right down!”

You descended the stairs, your train dragging slightly despite holding it off the ground the best you could. When you came outside, Jaemin’s eyes met yours, his mouth agape from seeing the sight of you, “How is it so possible that someone can be so beautiful?”

Laughing at him, you hug his waist, “You need to stop with all these cheesy compliments, that’s what a boyfriend would say.”

Jaemin smiles into the hollow of your ear, pressing his lips at the shell, “I can make that happen.”

Suddenly, Jaemin pulls out a clear box. It holds a gold band, a white rose attached onto it. You let Jaemin slip it on your wrist before letting him whisk you away into the car. The whole car ride was full of hushed whispers, lips sealing stolen kisses, and bodies pressed together. Out of your time living in Paris, you have never experienced anything like what you felt with Jaemin.

 Upon arriving at the Palace of Versailles, it was definitely a castle straight out of a fairytale. Fountains line the garden courtyards as different colored lights shine on the cars that line up in front of the palace, guests piling out of them. A velveteen red carpet was rolled out down the stairs of the entryway, giving off a glamorous effect. Extending his hand, Jaemin held out his arm for you to grab- both of you entering the palace. Over the top couldn’t hold a candle to the real description of how the atmosphere looked. Caterers dished out trays of hand towels and small crackers topped with caviar, desserts dusted with glitter in the shape of the Eiffel Tower. You whisper to Jaemin, “Is your life always like this?”

He chuckles, “Mostly. It gets boring all the time though.”

In the center of the main ballroom is a live band, musicians playing their cellos and their violins in sync with the music as guests dance in a flurry around the floor. You felt your heart sink. You were never taught to properly dance because there wasn’t a reason to learn back home. Jaemin feels you stiffen, “Y/n? Are you okay?”

Nodding slowly, you say, “I don’t know how to dance-”

“Relax, just follow my lead.”

Without a moment to breathe, Jaemin already placed his hand on your waist before guiding you hands to his shoulders. Like walking on air, you glide with Jaemin despite tripping over your feet for the first half of the song- you rest your chin on his shoulder, swaying. You two don’t say anything for a bit, Jaemin’s grip on your body feels secure.You’re interrupted when an older woman who resembles Jaemin taps him on the shoulder, “Honey?”

You feel Jaemin’s arms fall from you, hugging the woman you presume to be his: “Mother?”

“Honey, who’s this?”

Jaemin pulls you to his side, “This is y/n. I’ve been showing her around Paris.”

The woman smiles at you, her hand tucking back a strand that’s fallen from her black braid, “Please to meet you, has my son been treating you well?”

You take her hand firmly, nodding, “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Na. Jaemin’s been wonderful to me, he’s been showing me around and telling me good things about-”

“Yes, that sounds great. Jaemin, I need you to come with me- there’s someone your father wants you to meet.”

“Can’t it wait until next week mother?”

Her eyes sharpen coldly, the warmth slipping out of her smile, “Do not disobey your father, come now.”

You hear Jaemin groan before he turns to you as he’s being dragged away, “I’ll be back. Do not move. I mean it- don’t.”

You nod at him confusedly, “Don’t worry, I’ll be here.”

You opt to take a seat by the tables where guests pile their plates up with various foods, your eyes watching Jaemin’s mother introduce him to a girl that’s a lot shorter than him, her eyelashes batting at Jaemin. They shake hands as Jaemin’s father and the girl’s father laugh, cheering their flutes of champagne as they converse. Immediately, you feel yourself rise from your seat when the girl launches herself into Jaemin’s arms, his face is riddled with surprise. She smiles up at him, whispering something inaudible as Jaemin’s mother teases them to kiss- Jaemin sternly staring at his mother. Getting up from your chair, you turn back into the nearest hallway, your black slumped against the wall. How could you have been so naive? Did you honestly think that Jaemin could sweep you off your feet like some cheesy romcom and then you’d fall in love with Paris’s it boy? It seemed inconceivable. Around the corner, you hear Jaemin’s voice- you start to run towards where you hear him- only to be met with the sight of the same girl pressing Jaemin up against the wall. Her voice sounds like a slither, “Little birdies are telling me you’ve been running around with some peasant girl that works at some dusty cafe. Didn’t you say you loved me?”

You continue to listen in on them. Jaemin holds her at an arms distance, “That was when I was 4 and didn’t know what the word meant. I don’t see you that way. Aleah, I don’t like you that way.”

She laughs into Jaemin’s shoulders, “Your mother has always adored my family- we’re destined from the start. Don’t turn me away, Jaemin.”

Jaemin shakes his head, “Y/n, isn’t some peasant girl. Just because she’s not like you and your family doesn’t make her a peasant.”

Aleah combs her fingers through Jaemin’s hair, “Sweet little Jaemin, that girl could never give you what I could. She’ll only bring you down. Face it, we’re to be betrothed soon- in the palace, side by side.”

When you don’t hear Jaemin protest or even say a word of refusal, you take off running. You don’t care that the ends of your dress are frayed now, your heels causing blisters on your feet. What felt like a dream has now transformed into a nightmare. You burst through the doorway of the palace, guests shooting you dirty glances when you tell the limousine driver to take you home. As the car dashes out of the courtyard, you hear Jaemin call your name on the steps while tears fall from your eyes. Paris has never looked so melancholy. When you arrive at the doorstep of your apartment, you glare up at the moon- the same moon that Jaemin had kissed you multiple times under. You sit on your stairway, crying into the lap of your dress as your hands fist the layers of fabric tightly. With a screech on the pavement, Jaemin flings himself out of another car- slamming the door behind him. You look at him, shaking your head, “I don’t want to see you. I don’t want-”

He doesn’t listen to your words when he wraps his strong arms around your sunken frame, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You collapse into the crook of his chest, your tears staining his dress shirt. Jaemin tilts your chin to him, “I’m not going to marry Aleah, I hope you know that.”

“What about your mother? She said-”

“I don’t care what she or my father says. I can’t marry someone I don’t like- I don’t love. Not for money, not for status. I won’t.”

“Jaemin, you can’t. You can’t sever from your family because of me-”

He raises his eyebrows, “Who says I’m doing it for you? I’m doing it for myself. I know what my heart says, I know that it chooses you. I’m not doing it for you.”

He takes your hand in his, pressing a kiss to your knuckle, “I’m going to do it for us.”

When you try to say something else, Jaemin shut you up with a passionate kiss before eyeing you closely, “Let’s go rest for tonight.”

Letting  it go, you nod at him. Jaemin picks you up, your dress covering his body as he unlocks your door for you before setting you on the comforter of your bed- your room lights are off, the scent of Paris air drifting in from your open window. The darkness invokes the calmness, you start to kick off the heels that are strapped to your feet. Jaemin sits on your bed next to you, “I’ve never seen your room before.”

His dark eyes scan the wilting peonies that sit on your desk and the ivory walls that surround you both. “Your room suits you.”

You let yourself collapse onto the bed, your head hitting the cool fabric of your blanket, “It took me a while to settle into it.” 

Beside you, Jaemin lays down to watch you, his elbow propped up, “I should probably go soon.”

“Do you want to stay?”

“Can I?”

You chuckle, “That depends if you want to. Your mom’s probably wondering why you’re with a peasant girl.”

Jaemin clears his throat, “Did you overhear Aleah?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you want to spit out a string of insults about the rich, how they judge people based on money. For Jaemin’s sake, you don't. He parts his lips, “You know that’s not how I see you right?”

Nodding, you whisper, “If you did, I don’t think you’d be next to me right now.”

Immediately, you feel Jaemin hover over you, “I don’t want anyone else but you.”

Your bodies burn like flames as you kiss each other hotly, Jaemin’s tongue gliding over yours. You grip his hair, slightly tugging on it so that he lets out a sound- your legs entangled with each other on the bed. Panting, Jaemin tosses his black suit jacket to the ground- you practically yank of his tie. Jaemin drags his lips down to the juncture of your neck, causing him to smirk when you gasp. You bore your eyes into his, “I need you to help me.”

Jaemin seems to understand when he reaches behind your neck to pull the zipper of your dress now, your chest exposed in front of him. In the dark, his eyes glimmer with adoration- his lips connecting with your own. Using your hands, you take his dress shirt off him to reveal his muscular body, his skin glowing under the soft moonlight. You smell the heaviness of Jaemin’s strong cologne, the scent makes you dizzy. By the end of it, your dress lays on the ground by your vanity and Jaemin’s clothes by your wardrobe as you press your cheek to his bare chest, watching him sleep peacefully. Jaemin has his arm on the small of your back, stroking your skin even in his slumber. You take note of how his pink locks are mussed and his eyelashes have a subtle curl from how long they are. Jaemin flicks one eye open, “Y/n? How come you’re not asleep yet?”

You snuggle deeper into him, “It’s because you’re next to me.”

“You’re right- I’m just that good- hey!”

You slap Jaemin’s chest, a blush creeping onto your cheeks, “That’s not why stupid!”

“Then what’s the reason?”

Without any hesitation, you tell him, “I like you and I want to be with you.”

“You’re a tad late y/n. I knew that already.”

“How? I’ve never told you that.”

“I can just feel it. You and I- we have this connection that I’ve never felt with anyone else. The only reason I come to that bakery isn’t only for the espressos. I want to protect you from harm’s way- even if that includes my own family. I just want to be there for you like no other guy can.”

Smiling to yourself, you reach up to pat Jaemin on the head only to have Jaemin’s hand catch yours, you whisper to him, “It’s only been a little while since we met?”

He sinks to your level, meeting your gaze before pressing a kiss to your eyelid, “That’s the beauty of liking someone. Time doesn’t stop for anyone. I just knew when I saw you.”

Giving Jaemin’s hand a firm squeeze, you press the curl of your lips to his knuckles. It makes him chuckle, his smile upturning on his cheeks. Once again, you shift closer to him. You both succumb to sleep, the low occasional honking of beetle cars and soft music from your neighbor’s window as your own Parisian lullaby- Jaemin wrapped in your embrace. 

[tisfan]

Lucky Buck’s Magical Coffee

Chapter Two - Working for a Living

Fantasy Bingo: Square Magical Exhaustion

link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24743212/chapters/60835351

Jarvis flapped Tony’s coat at him as he was ready to leave. “I have insider information that the weather ifrit’s had a fight with his spouse. It may rain later today.” It didn’t look like rain according to the screens that Tony had open that showed the outside world. It looked sunny and peaceful and lovely. But Jarvis was seldom wrong about these things.

The spirit of technology was still relatively young, compared with his brothers and sisters -- spirits of air, earth, fire, water, and void -- having only started coming into being about the mid seventeenth century, or so.

Jarvis himself had been formed in 1835, fathered, one might say, by the invention of the Analytical Engine, in the workshop of Charles Babbage. For a spirit, he was practically a baby. To Tony, he was impossibly old and wise. But then, Tony was a technomage, and spirits of the “natural world” didn’t tend to speak with him.

“Right, so I’ll want an umbrella,” Tony said, digging through the closet for one, “and to bump personal force fields up on my to-do list. And not to suggest a walk in the park for my date. Or maybe I should; Bucky’s a Natural Witch, maybe he’d enjoy getting caught in the rain.”

Tony was on his way to Buck’s Lucky Coffee as soon as he found a functional umbrella, to meet up for their third date, as soon as Bucky turned the afternoon shift over to Clint. He was somewhat unreasonably giddy about it; three was an important number in both the physical and magical worlds, and so three dates seemed... significant, somehow.

He wondered if, after three dates, he could call Bucky his boyfriend, instead of “this guy I’ve gone out with a couple of times.” And why in Turing’s name did he have a pink umbrella with flouncy little ruffles all around its edges? They looked like they’d hold onto water and dump it on you at exactly the wrong moment.

The line wasn’t quite out the door, but only until Tony got there. The next person would, in fact, be out the door. Although that might have been because Bucky had an actual troll as a customer, and he both took up a lot of space and people didn’t want to stand near him. Tony was pretty sure all the nonsense about trolls was just racist bullshit. They did a really good job building bridges, so what, exactly, was everyone’s problem? There hadn't been an incident involving trolls and children in at least a century. (well, sensationalist magazines and abusive parents dragged that story out all the time.)

And even as Tony was putting that together, three more people got into line behind him. The date was not going to start on time, because there was no way Bucky was walking away and dumping a rush like this on Clint to handle alone.

Which was fine, it actually, absolutely was, because Tony was a little overloaded with work, himself, so he could get his coffee and go stake out a table in the corner and knock out a little work on his tablet while he waited. They both worked in customer service; it was a thing you planned around.

Tony squinted up at the ceiling and huffed over the patchiness of the shop’s wards. Bucky was going to have another imp in his espresso machine if the building super didn’t get some fresh protections up soon.

The line inched forward. The troll spoke actual trollish, which Tony didn’t understand. Neither, apparently, did Bucky, but Bucky gestured to Clint, who made a few gestures. SSL -- Supernatural Sign Language, which was left over from when trolls and witches and dwarves all worked together on some of the city projects, and had to learn to effectively communicate. These days, almost everyone spoke English, which seemed very human-centric, come to think of it. Maybe Tony could get some mileage out of a translation app.

“Get me a bucket,” Clint said. “He wants a venti-venti-venti.” Clint signed again, and the troll dropped a gold coin on the counter about the size of a jar lid.

 A triple-venti was going to take a while to pull. Tony fished out his phone and started making notes. Translation app, personal force fields, the somewhat sticky problem of a cursed laptop that a college student had brought him that held the student’s only copy of their master’s thesis -- bad idea, that, always have multiple backups -- and thus couldn’t be de-cursed the quick and easy way, which had a tendency to leave a few memory sectors fragged.

The line kept growing behind Tony. But he’d finally gotten up to the second in line when the door pushed open and a tall, willowy woman came in with strawberry blond hair that was soaking wet and stuck to her face. “I don’t understand it,” she said. “It was sunny. The weather report said sunny all day--” She gasped a few times for breath -- if Tony had been running in those shoes, he’d have broken an ankle -- and gazed at the line in horror.

“Ifrit domestic trouble,” Tony volunteered. “Or so I heard.”

“You think I can send him my dry-cleaning bill?” She wrung out her hair and then took off her jacket, flapping water toward the door. Her shell top was sticking to her. “I’m soaking wet, I’m going to be late, I’ve been working the worst hours.”

“Hi Miss Potts,” Bucky yelled from the counter.

“Mr. Barnes,” she said. “Tell me you can save me.”

“I can save you.”

The troll collected his drink -- the repurposed ice-cream bucket still looked like an espresso cup in his huge hand -- and headed out into the weather. The door yawned and stretched around him to make room. That was a neat trick. Tony hadn’t seen it before; tech wizards said it was too hard, and so trolls and giants and some of the taller elven tribes complained about lack of access.

“Huh. I wonder when he had that installed,” Tony mused, eyeing the door, and then his attention snapped back to -- Miss Potts, apparently. “Does he save you on a regular basis? What’s your standard?”

“I’m probably only alive because of Mr. Barnes’ shop,” Miss Potts said. “Have you been here before? I love this place. I would live here, if they’d let me. Working for A Living. I think I might either die falling down the stairs in exhaustion, or actually push my boss down an elevator shaft without it.”

Tony let the two or three people between them skip ahead of him in the line -- he wasn’t going anywhere until the rush died down, anyway -- to make it easier to chat. “I only discovered it a couple of weeks ago,” Tony admitted. “Came in to exorcise the espresso machine -- it’s fine now, don’t worry -- and well, like you -- didn’t want to leave again.” He grinned. “Sounds like your boss needs to pause and have a cup, too. What do you do?”

“Personal Assistant,” Miss Potts said. “Pretty much whatever my boss says to do, all the way from taking notes at meetings to fetching his dry cleaning. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except they’re in the middle of a hostile takeover, and between angry dwarves and multiple on-site labor disputes, I’ve been putting in sixteen hours a day, six days a week, for almost a month.” She did look on the brink of falling over with exhaustion, her hands shaking.

“Yike,” Tony sympathized. “Is this his first hostile? I mean, someone with experience would have known to hire a temp for the duration or something.”

Up at the counter, Bucky was making two Money for Nothings, keeping up an easy patter with the customers about lottery tickets and checking their pockets. 

“He seems to think that I’m the only one who can keep this company going,” she muttered. She pulled a magical compact out of her purse and opened it. The compact spouted a few uplifting and cheerful advertising-disguised-as-pep-talk phrases, and then-- “damn.” The purple smoke drifted out of the back and pooled around their feet. “It got wet. I am going to complain to the weather guild about this.”

“Nah,” Tony said. “I mean, go ahead and do that, sure, but here, let me see--” He plucked the compact out of her hand and peered into it. It wasn’t very sophisticated tech, but it only took a little for Tony to be able to manipulate it. A locking clasp, a tiny speaker and some wires connected to a button battery for amplification, and boom, tech.

Tony balanced the little thing on the palm of his hand and let energy flow into his witchmarks, making them glow a bright blue. There were some who said it looked spooky, but Tony had always found the light comforting. He coaxed little wisps of magic up into the compact and swept out the water, reversing some corrosion and a little bit of normal wear-and-tear, and reinstalling the sprite software that had drifted loose.

He popped the lid open again.

“Oh, honey, that shirt with that jacket, really? We’ve got some work to do.”

Tony rolled his eyes at it and handed it back to Miss Potts. “Here you go, good as new.” Well, it might be a little bit sassier than it had been before. Semi-autonomous sprite technology seemed to do that whenever Tony put his hands on it. 

“How did you-- thank you,” Miss Potts said. “My name’s Pepper Potts, it’s nice to meet you.” She held out a hand for a professional shake, but when her fingertips touched Tony’s, he felt the brief surge of Empathic Magic. No wonder her boss wanted her on site all the time. Empaths could affect the moods and compliance of people around them with a simple touch.

“Tony Stark,” he said. He considered her briefly. “Want to quit your horrible job and come work for me?”

“Are you joking?”

The woman in front of Tony in line took so long deciding what pastry she wanted with her coffee, Tony was almost certain that her coffee was going to be cold by the time she actually took a sip. 

“Here,” Bucky said. “I got yours already, doll. And Miss Potts, I’ll have your life affirming moment ready in just two minutes.”

Bucky put a mug, rather than a to-go cup on the counter in front of Tony. The heart in the steamed milk on top was glittering red and gold at him.

Tony shot Bucky a warm smile and a thanks, and stepped aside with his mug so Pepper wouldn’t have to reach past him when Bucky finished hers. He turned the mug until the point of the heart was pointing straight at his chest -- sympathetic magics always worked better if you gave them a bit of a push -- and then tipped the froth into his mouth. Like it had the previous times he’d had Bucky’s Lucky in Love brew, everything felt extra-warm for a moment, and a little bit sparkly, and behind the counter, Bucky seemed glow, just the tiniest bit.

“I wasn’t joking,” he told Pepper, when he’d finished savoring that first sip. “My dad died a couple of years ago and failed to leave the business to me free and clear, and last year, almost on the anniversary of his death, his old business partner split the company and walked off with about two-thirds of the staff for his branch. I’ve been scrambling to keep up and looking for good people.”

Obie had done a little more than simply splitting the company, but the sob story wasn’t something Tony liked to wave around. Maybe, if she took him up on it, he’d tell her about it sometime.

Bucky, perhaps feeling something going on -- he seemed to have that sense -- put Pepper’s drink in a tall glass, complete with a bamboo recycled straw instead of in the to-go cup. “On the house,” he added, pushing an actual brownie-crafted brownie on a plate at her. “With a little extra daydreams.”

“I would live here,” Pepper repeated, taking a sip of the drink. “So, job. Details. Would you like to do an interview, I could do an interview. Right here. I even have my resume up to date.”

Tony glanced at the line behind the ordering counter, then shrugged. He wasn’t going anywhere soon. “Sure,” he said. “Let’s do that.” He pointed at a table.

It took barely a minute of scanning Pepper’s resume to know that she was vastly overqualified, and probably not getting paid anything like she was worth. She’d successfully negotiated a dozen contracts, as a personal assistant.

A little nudging and she didn’t quite admit to being sexually harassed by her boss, but Tony could sense that maybe that had happened, too.

When Bucky finally came out from behind the counter, leaving Clint to finish out his shift, Pepper was smiling, cheerful, and enthusiastic, and it probably wasn’t all entirely due to Bucky’s coffee.

“Hey, snowflake!” Tony greeted him cheerfully. “I’m going to steal Pepper from her obnoxious boss. I’d offer to pay her what she’s worth, but frankly, I’m not sure I can afford that, so I’ll have to settle for merely doubling her current salary.”

Bucky tapped the plate in front of her, where she’d eaten the entire brownie except for a few crumbs. “Opportunity Knocks brownie. Glad you enjoyed it.” He gave Pepper a wink. “But now, I am going to steal my boyfriend from you, since we have a date as soon as I’m off shift.”

Tony pulled just a little magic out of his phone and flipped it at Pepper’s. “That’s my number,” he told her. “I’ll call tomorrow, and we’re going to do this. Start writing your resignation letter. Hire some clowns to see you out. Or strippers. Stripper clowns?”

Bucky rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I know a clown dominatrix,” he volunteered. “She could always use extra work.”

“Perfect,” Tony declared. “Talk to you tomorrow, Pep!” He tucked his arm through Bucky’s and turned them toward the door.

Guess he could start calling Bucky his boyfriend, now. That was easier than he’d thought.

On the way through the door, Bucky offered his hand to the doorframe, cupping what looked like a thimbleful of honey and a tiny piece of bread. “Wood fairies,” he said. “She deserved a bonus after that trick with our Troll earlier.” He glanced up at the sky, which was still pouring rain, and the occasional spates of hail, in anger. “I don’t know if you had anything in mind, specifically, but there’s a traveling mystical petting zoo in the park. They probably have wind sprites to keep the weather off. I always wanted to see a unicorn up close.”

“I’m more of a wyvern man, myself,” Tony said, feeling the happy buzz of Bucky’s potion fizzing through him at Bucky’s closeness. “Yeah, let’s go to the zoo.” He held up the pink umbrella. “I can even keep us dry on the way, if you don’t mind walking close.”

[corymulpepper]

Cory Mulpepper Intro

☆ CORY MULPEPPER —

BASICS

★ BIRTH DATE / 13 August, 1960  ★ BLOOD STATUS / Half-blood ★ PRONOUNS & IDENTITY / she/her; cis female ★ FACECLAIM / Sophie Simnett

ACADEMICS & ROOMING

★ PRIMARY SCHOOL / Cork Wizarding School, class of 1978 ★ ACADEMIC PURSUITS / Natural sciences degree, Potions cohort ★ HOUSE & YEAR / Hufflepuff, second year

POINTS OF INTEREST

★ It had been established in 1106 and not much had changed in ways of Mr Mulpepper’s Apothecary except for its staff throughout the years. It stayed within the family and eventually reached the hands of Nikolas Mulpepper, an English botanist and potioneer, in the year of 1949. Outraged by the fellow apothecaries that littered the wizarding world, Nikolas condemned them all for their greed and their use of harmful practices. Since then, Mr Mulpepper’s Apothecary has been the most affordable apothecary to shop, with constant deals on cleaning solutions and performative draughts. And it’s no secret Nikolas is one to barter if a patron cannot afford the remedies they so dearly need. The shop has almost gone bankrupt multiple times and while Nikolas may pay the ultimate price by having to shut down his family’s century old shop, he would never go back on his ways. He’s always been loyal to the customer and have taught his two daughters the very same. It should come as no surprise that they’ve made a formal announcement -- that they do not approve of Selwyn’s squib vaccine.

★ Lydia, Nikolas’ wife, was born a squib. It positively broke his heart when the love of his life was unable to see her twin daughters start showing signs of magic themselves. But as Lydia had had a difficult upbringing because of her status in the wizarding world, Nikolas was just happy she’d finally found her peace. He told nothing but wonderful tales of his beautiful wife as bedtime stories to their daughters, who looked more and more like Lydia as the days passed by.

★ Born only minutes apart, it was safe to say the girls were inseparable from day one. This never, not once, got in the way of their individuality. Where one was brushing their teeth, the other one was using her toothbrush on the family dog’s teeth. Where one was doing arts and crafts, the other was using their scissors to give herself a new haircut. Two different sides of the same coin, essentially. They really became individuals upon attending Cork Wizardy College. They still shared a room, which wasn’t so different, until they began meeting friends of their own and attending different social gatherings. One would go to group palm readings, while the other went for live music shows. Even as time passed and distance began leaving its toll, the girls would still get together once a week with their favorite sweets and catch up on what boys or girls they were kissing.

★ Cory, the loud mouth she could be, was not placed into Gryffindor upon arriving at Hogwarts. But her quieter sister, Colleen, was, while she was sorted into Hufflepuff. Cory carried a chip on her shoulder about that one for a long time coming, wanting to be sorted where their father had gone. Where she’d idolized half her life. But no, Colleen got in where Cory hadn’t. Their weekly meetings were soon diminished, Cory saying she was too busy with the workload to catch up on any gossip. The most they spoke now were holidays back at home, where they put on a show for their father. To be perfectly clear, this wasn’t something Colleen had ever wanted, but for most of her life just like in birth, she followed Cory, Cory’s wants, Cory’s needs. They came first.

★ Cory usually spends her time half-assing a dozen things; painting, riding her skateboard, her school work in potions. But when it came to quidditch, she put in 110%. But as much as she put into the game, Cory rarely saw positive results coming back. In Primary, she’d gotten ejected from two games in row, which ultimately got her kicked off the team. She’d been too aggressive (and broken more bones than anyone) and needed to turn a new leaf, but when she had, upon joining Hufflepuff’s team, her efforts once again went unnoticed. This time she was denied from a summer quidditch camp. It seemed no matter what route she rode, she never chose the right one at the right time. It didn’t help that she was playing with and against peers that simply outshined her on the field. Dawn Withey was going to be the talk of Hogwarts when she landed herself on a fancy, popular, professional quidditch team, while Cory just barely scratched the surface. Her cynicism didn’t stop her from trying, though. With her third year coming up and a possible captainship, more is on the line than ever.

★ Thankfully, growing up, the girls never had to rely on looking for summer jobs. Their pops let them open and close the store on weekends for extra money. Cory was sure she could’ve gotten extra school credit towards her potions work for working in an apothecary. She’d have to pull that card if her grades ever dropped, she decided. One afternoon, the shop was buzzing with Christmas crowds, and the next second everybody was fleeing the scene. The Menagerie next door had apparently caught fire, smoke now billowing over into Mr Mulpepper’s Apothecary. Now, Cory couldn’t see much of what was happening once smoke grew thicker, but she knew a man had entered the shop. The man turned his wand on Cory, throwing Cory aside and knocking her right out until black was all she saw. When she awoke, alone in the shop, she knew that he had escaped with something in the commotion of it all. Cory had planned on going through inventory herself, but an item as rare as this, Mr. Mulpepper knew it was gone the second he returned to his shop. He immediately owled the DMLE. Cory’s yet to come forward with her statement of that afternoon, hardly believing anything truly happened as it all happened so quickly. The nightmares about it haven’t stopped.

TRAITS

✓ challenging; individualistic; responsive  ✗ critical; self-conscious; reactive

extra shit

cory is on hufflepuff’s quidditch team, as a seeker! this is the one thing she never slacks off with and is always on time for. and im sure gives people a hard time if they’re not picking up the slack dlsfjasjf and it’s like SHUT UP CORY, YOU’RE NOT THE CAPTAIN. so any hufflepuff team connects hmu.

has a twiiin name colleen. cory is the “older” one. colleen’s gonna be an open bio if anyone has an itch 2 get silly wit me 

is Dramatic af

is not totally full of hufflepuff pride and maybe gets points taken away every so often? oops. 19 years old and still actin’ up.

her about page is here 

listens to a LOT of music. a lot of underground bands that people havent heard of allll the waaay to the huge names like rolling stones and the who. she’s never been to an actual, huge concert venue with a big band headlining. she’s only seen smaller shows here and there. despite that, doesnt own a whole lot of vinyl. cuz she really prefers the live experience better.

she would love a skateboard riding buddy for when the weather’s nicer!! and she paints only landscapes and oceans cuz she sucks at pretty much everything besides that. and always knows where the best party is happening. probably cant wait to have a low street house next year to throw her own parties.

opinionated for the fact that she just loves to hear herself talking

hmu for any relationships!! friendships, she is prone to enemies with her big mouth, she is bisexual AF so anything there, just anythaaaang <3

hmu for threads! it’s kinda a busy time so i get that <3 if not let’s plan stuff for when they get back to school :’ ) ty xoxo

[sleepingdragon-rp]

☆ CORINNE “CORY” MULPEPPER  —

BASICS

★ BIRTH DATE / 13 August, 1960 ★ BLOOD STATUS / Half-blood ★ PRONOUNS & IDENTITY / she/her; cis female ★ FACECLAIM / Brianne Tju

ACADEMICS & ROOMING

★ SECONDARY SCHOOL / Cork Wizardry College, class of 1978 ★ ACADEMIC PURSUITS / Natural Sciences degree, Potions cohort ★ HOUSE & YEAR / Hufflepuff, class of 1981

POINTS OF INTEREST

★ It had been established in 1106 and not much had changed in ways of Mr Mulpepper’s Apothecary except for its staff throughout the years. It stayed within the family and eventually reached the hands of Nikolas Mulpepper, an English botanist and potioneer, in the year of 1949. Outraged by the fellow apothecaries that littered the Wizarding world, Nikolas condemned them all for their greed and their use of harmful practices. Since then, Mr Mulpepper’s Apothecary has been the most affordable apothecary to shop, with constant deals on cleaning solutions and performative draughts. And it’s no secret Nikolas is one to barter if a patron cannot afford the remedies they so dearly need. The shop has almost gone bankrupt multiple times and while Nikolas may pay the ultimate price by having to shut down his family’s century old shop, he would never go back on his ways. He’s always been loyal to the customer and have taught his two daughters the very same. Lydia, Nikolas’ wife, was born a Squib. It positively broke his heart when the love of his life was unable to see her twin daughters start showing signs of magic themselves. But as Lydia had had a difficult upbringing because of her status in the Wizarding world, Nikolas was just happy she’d finally found her peace. He told nothing but wonderful tales of his beautiful wife as bedtime stories to their daughters, who looked more and more like Lydia as the days passed by. It should come as no surprise that they’ve made a formal announcement – that they do not approve of Selwyn Apothecary’s Squib vaccine. 

★ Born only minutes apart, it was safe to say the girls were inseparable from day one. This never, not once, got in the way of their individuality. Where one was brushing their teeth, the other one was using her toothbrush on the family dog’s teeth. Where one was doing arts and crafts, the other was using their scissors to give herself a new haircut. Two different sides of the same coin, essentially. They really became individuals upon attending Cork Wizardry College. They still shared a room, which wasn’t so different, until they began meeting friends of their own and attending different social gatherings. One would go to group palm readings, while the other went for live music shows. Even as time passed and distance began leaving its toll, the girls would still get together once a week with their favorite sweets and catch up on what boys or girls they were kissing. Cory, the loud mouth she could be, was not placed into Gryffindor upon arriving at Hogwarts. But her quieter sister, Colleen, was, while she was sorted into Hufflepuff. Cory carried a chip on her shoulder about that one for a long time coming, wanting to be sorted where their father had gone. Where she’d idolized half her life. But no, Colleen got in where Cory hadn’t. Their weekly meetings were soon diminished, Cory saying she was too busy with the workload to catch up on any gossip. The most they spoke now were holidays back at home, where they put on a show for their father. To be perfectly clear, this wasn’t something Colleen had ever wanted, but for most of her life just like in birth, she followed Cory, Cory’s wants, Cory’s needs. They came first.

★ Thankfully, growing up, the girls never had to rely on looking for summer jobs. Their pops let them open and close the store on weekends for extra money. Cory was sure she could’ve gotten extra school credit towards her potions work for working in an apothecary. She’d have to pull that card if her grades ever dropped, she decided. One afternoon, the shop was buzzing with Christmas crowds, and the next second everybody was fleeing the scene. The Menagerie next door had apparently caught fire, smoke now billowing over into Mr Mulpepper’s Apothecary. Now, Cory couldn’t see much of what was happening once smoke grew thicker, but she knew a man had entered the shop. The man turned his wand on Cory, throwing Cory aside and knocking her right out until black was all she saw. When she awoke, alone in the shop, she knew that he had escaped with something in the commotion of it all. Cory had planned on going through inventory herself, but an item as rare as this, Mr. Mulpepper knew it was gone the second he returned to his shop. He immediately owled the DMLE. Cory’s yet to come forward with her statement of that afternoon, hardly believing anything truly happened as it all happened so quickly. The nightmares about it haven’t stopped.

★ Cory usually spends her time half-assing a dozen things; painting, riding her skateboard, her school work in potions. But when it came to quidditch, she put in 110%. But as much as she put into the game, Cory rarely saw positive results coming back. In Primary, she’d gotten ejected from two games in row, which ultimately got her kicked off the team. She’d been too aggressive (and broken more bones than anyone) and needed to turn a new leaf, but when she had, upon joining Hufflepuff’s team, her efforts once again went unnoticed. This time she was denied from a summer quidditch camp. It seemed no matter what route she rode, she never chose the right one at the right time. It didn’t help that she was playing with and against peers that simply outshined her on the field. Dawn Withey was going to be the talk of Hogwarts when she landed herself on a fancy, popular, professional quidditch team, while Cory just barely scratched the surface. Her cynicism didn’t stop her from trying, though. With her third year coming up and a possible captainship, more is on the line than ever.

TRAITS

✓ challenging; individualistic; responsive ✗ critical; self-conscious; reactive

☆ OOC — WRITTEN BY KATY, SHE/HER