#i cannot live like this every purple character with this hair cut and red eyes needs to be eradicated | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

barnesbabee · 4 years ago

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ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴇᴠᴇɴ - ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀʟᴀɴᴅ

WONDERLAND MASTERLIST ⇜ ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ - ꜱᴇᴠᴇɴ- ɴᴇxᴛ ⟿

CHARACTER LIST: White Rabbit - Choi Jongho Absolem (Blue Catterpilar) - Kang Yeosang Cheshire Cat - Kim Hongjoong Mad Hatter - Choi San Haigha (March Hare) - Jung Wooyoung Tweedle Dee - Song Mingi Tweedle Dum - Jeong Yunho Bloody Red King - Park Seonghwa

ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ: @myunvillage @mirror-juliet @jess-1404 @earth-to-leiki [Send me a DM, an ask or comment to be added to the tag list]

"Teach you what?"

"How to be a better man, how to have mercy, and compassion."

Unbeknownst to you, a little purple and pink cat watched every step you took. Of course, it wasn't because he cared. Cheshire (unlike many other Wonderland villagers) genuinely wasn't affected by your presence, or lack there of, but the Hatter had asked him, in exchange of a hefty reward, of course, to keep an eye on his beloved Y/N.

While watching over you Cheshire just did a whole bunch of growling and nose scrunching. He hated the sight of the King, and even worse, was the sight of such a man in love.

"Such a shame to be the bearer of bad news dear friend," Cheshire said, not at bothered by the fact that he had bad news to tell "but it seems as if Y/N will be our new Queen."

The cat twirled a strand of his coloured hair around his index finger, as he fell down onto one of the many chairs along with the Hatter's never-ending table.

The Hatter's eyes widened and so did his toothy smile.

"She's carrying on with the plan! She will decapitate him herself and become our Queen! Oh but I'm so happy I could dance the Futterwacken again!"

He clapped feverously and suggested a toast, clearly missing the meaning of Cheshire's words.

"I'm afraid you missed what I meant, Hatter. She will be our Queen, because she will be marrying the King."

The atmosphere suddenly became silent, eerie even. The Hatter's green, sparkly eyes transformed into an ugly, rage-filled, yellow. The man gripped the teacup on his hand so hard it broke, but the rage, disappointment, and growing heartbreak fogged his brain to the point where he didn't even notice the pain, nor the blood trickling down his palm.

The Hatter was rarely angry, but when he was, it was enough to scare poor Cheshire, who didn't hesitate in disappearing into thin air. Or he tried to. Before every bit of his body could be gone, the Hatter grabbed Cheshire's hair, making the cat groan in pain, and threw him on the ground.

"What has he done to her!? Was it a curse!?"

Cheshire caressed his head and stood up to look at the Hatter.

"It wasn't a curse Hatter, she fell in love. After you deceived her and the King showed her nothing but truth and love, the choice was pretty evident."

The reasonable explanation seemed to calm down the Hatter, whose eyes morphed back into their greenish colour. However the dread and panic in his face were still evident. Cheshire, still quite upset at Hatter's tantrum, could see on his friend's face an expression of someone about to spew a terrible, terrible idea.

"We must get her away from the Palace. It's gotten into her head. Let's get her back to us!"

The man-like cat floated back to his usual place in the air, twirling in the process. He chuckled audibly, showing his sharp canines in the process.

"Hmm yes, let's steal her away from the man she's come to love, so she could be with us, the people who lied to her for our own benefit. Sounds like a party if you ask me..."

"A party!?" Haigha exclaimed, his left eye twitching as he smiled widely at the mention of his favourite hobbie.

"That's where the King's behaviour comes in our favour," the Hatter said, patting Haigha's head so he'd sit back down "once he sees her take her beloved Queen away, he will show his true colours, Remember how scared and freaked out she was last time we saw her? She said he seemed really sweet while talking to her until he eventually snapped. Once he snaps, he will freak out and bring out the tyrant's behaviour and scare her away."

It was hard for Cheshire to admit, but his mad friend's plan wasn't so mad after all. It was possible to accomplish what the Hatter suggested, and there was nothing to lose, you already hated them anyway.

The Hatter slapped his thighs and stood up, fixing his big top hat in the process.

"Shall we go?"

Haigha was already standing up from his seat when Cheshire stopped them.

"Perhaps we should discuss the plan further... Something tells me we might need some help from Absolem and Bayard..."

Sneaking you out past the Card Knights would take a lot of help, and Cheshire had already worked out in his head the escape plan. It would take a little pressure on Absolem, as he managed to care even less about the people around him than Cheshire did, but the cat was sure he could get a shrinking cake out of the blue catterpillar. After shrinking you and hatter down to the size of a strawberry, Bayard (the loyal dog friend of Hatter's, that Cheshire tried his best to keep a distance of) would bring you to the White Rabbit's house, as it would be too obvious to come back to the Hatter's cabin.

The cat had no intention to help you, but he did like to see some drama and commotion in Wonderland once in a while, and this was his chance.

Whilst all of the furious planning went on on the greenlands of Wonderland, in the Palace you and the King sat opposite of each other on his bed, gossiping like two high schoolers.

"And then my best friend at the time, Anna, slept with my boyfriend and said it was 'because of a dare'. I forgave her because we had been friends for so long but then she told my crush that I smelled so I stopped being her friend."

The King nodded along and listened attentively (trying his best to cross his legs just like you, but failing miserably) to your story.

"Hm yes, yes, I understand. My best friend ate one of my tarts so I cut off his head."

You couldn't help but scoff at the way he compared the situations, although you reprehended him right after for the heartless act.

He had asked to know of your previous life, how it was back in your world, and so you sat there reminiscing your past for hours on end. Most people in Wonderland came from other places, but Seonghwa had never been elsewhere, as he was born in the Kingdom.

"So this establishment you call 'school', was it like a club you went to where you reunited with your peers?"

"No, no. School was a mandatory thing for all kids, we went there and a bunch of teachers taught us about different things."

"Hm, but all you've told me so far were anecdotes about these friends of yours, what were these classes like?"

You blushed slightly, realizing that in fact, you didn't remember shit from school, aside from past dramas.

"Well, they told us many things about earth, about what makes the world move, about how society works, and what makes things work. We learned about gravity, about numbers, about stars-"

"Stars!?"

The King's eyes lit up as if he was a child whom you had promised ice cream to.

"Yes, stars. Why?"

Seonghwa stood up from the bed in such a violent manner, he nearly fell. The man ran over to his closet, from where he retrieved an old book. The hard cover was beginning to tear, and the once white pages had become a weird mix of brown and yellow, but you took it in your hands nevertheless.

"This book once fell into the Wonderland when I was a child. I was alone most of the time, so it kept me company. I can tell from the images it talks about the stars, and I think I learned a lot from it since I stared at them a lot, but I cannot comprehend the alien language."

The King leaned against the headboard, and you laid beside him, placing your head on his chest, so you could hear his now nervous heart beating fast from the contact. Out of instinct, the King placed his arm around you and pulled you closer, as you opened the book.

You chuckled slightly, after seeing the author of the book and opening its pages.

"Seonghwa this isn't an alien language, it's Italian. Well, I guess it's an alien language to you, but it was funny that you said it that way... The person who wrote it was very influential back where I'm from, he taught the people of Earth many things about our space."

The male listened carefully as you tried your best to explain the things in the book as best as you could.

"This here is what we call the Solar System. It has nine planets, but only one of them has people, this one, where I live." You told him, pointing towards Earth.

Seonghwa noticed how your posture changed, after you remembered once more that you would never return home again, and panicked for a second. He disliked many things, but your tears had definitely gone up to his number 1 on the list.

"How about I ask for a picnic to be arranged in the garden, and at night we can watch the stars."

You turned to face him and smiled as you nodded. Seonghwa's thumb caressed your arm, and you couldn't help but to place a soft kiss on his lips, as a 'thank you'. No matter how many times you did that, the King never seemed to get used to it. He would always feel butterflies in his stomach and fireworks exploding on his chest. Sometimes you felt perverted, thinking of how he'd react if one day you decided to take it... further. You imagined how pretty he'd look... But you decided to take your time. Baby steps...

The King couldn't wait for dinner time, and you could tell from the number of times he had gone up to the window and pushed away the blinds to see if the sun was finally setting.

As he was staring out the window, you came behind him and wrapped your arms around his figure.

"Can I tell you a secret?"

Seonghwa looked around, to make sure no one was nearby eavesdropping. He wouldn't want your secret to being known.

You tiptoed so your lips could be leveled with his ear.

"You're adorable."

Once you got back down and looked into his gleeful eyes, you smiled.

"Let's keep this secret between us!" He joked along.

"Yes, I wouldn't want the other ladies to know and steal you away."

Seonghwa held your face and lovingly placed a kiss on your forehead.

"The other ladies don't stand a chance next to you princess."

Your cheeks heated up and you slapped his chest out of embarrassment. The King's face grew worried and confused.

"Why did you hit me? Have I done something wrong? It was meant to be a compliment I'm sorry I compared you to-"

You grabbed his face and squished his cheeks, making him form an adorable pout with his red lips.

"Seonghwa, it was a good thing. I slapped your chest because I was embarrassed, I was really touched by your compliment."

Once you let go of his face, the King tapped his chin with his index finger, in a pensive manner.

"I have much to learn about our future interactions, I do not understand many things."

You just chuckled and took his hand in yours.

"We have many years ahead of us, you will learn someday."

The small acknowledgment of your future made Seonghwa very happy. Never in his pitiful life had he even thought of being this happy over small actions... Last week the only thing that brought him joy was the sound of a traitor's head hitting the concrete floors of the palace's main area, but since you arrived, a smile was all it took for his cold heart to start beating again.

It didn't take long before one of the frogmen knocked on the door to inform the picnic was ready. Seonghwa didn't let go of your hand as you walked outside, to sit among the red roses.

You had finally come to terms with Wonderland's weird food. You had no choice really...

"Have you never been attracted to anyone, Seonghwa?" You asked as you munched down on a sandwich of... whatever it was.

Seonghwa's expression faded a little.

"Once. I had just become King and I thought that the next step would, logically, be the find a Queen. Every woman displeased me. All but one. She was beautiful, hair as dark as the night sky, tanned skin from the sun, and a beautiful mole under the eye. But she was cold, evil... I thought that it was a perfect match. After all, I wasn't the most caring person. But she would treat me like a servant. Our relationship was purely to serve a purpose to the Kingdom, nothing else. We slept in separate rooms and spent the day apart. We only dined together, but since I saw the same behavior from my parents I thought that that was love. Our wedding had been scheduled long before she moved into the castle, we were simply waiting for the preparations to be finished. Everything was custom made, from the clothes to the flowers on every table. The day before the wedding I walked to her bedroom and found her laying with a servant of mine. You know, back when they weren't... Frogs. I had them both decapitated, of course. And I swore off love forever. That is until you came along."

You flashed him a sad smile and set down your food. He looked awfully confused as you climbed onto his lap, but he didn't protest.

You brushed his dark hair away from his eyes. Both of them. He suddenly felt very exposed and insecure, but you kissed his cheek, reassuringly.

"Ever since I came down here you've shown me nothing but love, and honesty. You didn't try to sugarcoat who you are, or what you've done, and I appreciate your honesty. My place in Wonderland is with you."

The male smiled, and kissed you, a little more passionately than all of the previous times. The male's hands trailed down your ass, and pulled you on top of his growing erection.

"For someone who has never been with anyone you're quite good at this."

"Well I... I lied. I had a fiancé after all, and we laid together but we didn't get far. There was no kissing involved, she just wanted to get it over with since I was the one who suggested we should... do it. But she made fun of me for not being good at it and I became... insecure. I was insecure and for the longest time I've wanted to try it with you, because you give me those special butterflies but I was afraid I'd disappoint you."

"What a cold, heartless bitch!" You thought to yourself. No wonder he was so bad at human interactions, every relationship he had was a trainwreck!

You grabbed his face and placed a long kiss on his lips.

"Well then, let me lead at first. If you start feeling more confident, you can take the lead, if not, I'll stay in control, okay?"

The King simply nodded and kissed you once more. This time deeper than he had ever kissed anyone. Tongues fighting so intensely the King nearly missed the way your hand expediently undid his trousers. Your hand slipped inside his boxers and took out his length. You looked down at the dick in your hand and widened your eye.

"Well aren't I a lucky girl."

You spat in your hand and kissed him again, as your hand worked up and down his shaft. The King was surprisingly very vocal, and he didn't try to hide or suppress any of his pretty moans (and for that you were thankful.

You stopped your hand, right as he was getting riled up.

"Ready for something better?"

The King watched you strip from your panties, and he cursed the frilly dress that covered your womanhood, but as soon as you sunk down on his cock, all of his worries and anguishes washed away. It was automatic, the way he gripped your hips and made you bounce on him as he snapped your hips against yours was something he did naturally as if he truly knew what he was doing. You brought out something different in him, and the King was simply doing was his body was telling him to do.

You gripped his shoulders, overwhelmed with the feeling of having him inside you.

"S-shit Seonghwa, you're good, r-really fucking good."

"Oh yeah?"

He flipped you two around, so he could pound into you with all the strength he had. Your words of encouragement were all he needed.

Your consistent (and loud) moans got him on the edge quickly, and he knew he wouldn't last long.

"Y/N forgive me, but I don't think I can last much longer."

Your hand reached down and began circling your clit, so when he came inside you, filling you up with his cum, you came right after, with a loud cry for his name.

Seonghwa laid on top of you, his face nuzzled on the crook of your neck, trying to regain his breath. You ran your hand through his hair as you did the same, looking up at the sky.

"The stars sure look beautiful today."

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pseudofaux · 4 years ago

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even an injured hand grasps at grace

A lonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng time ago I did a follower celebration with short fictions and promised a longer story to the winner. That (incredibly patient) winner was @fieryanmitsu, who asked for a story set after Mitsuhide’s Act II. Holidays, family stuff, a global pandemic, more family stuff, a crisis of creative drive, MORE holidays and MORE time later... Here, at last, it is. Anmitsu, thank you so much for participating in that follower celebration, for being so kind about the mortifying amount of time this has taken, and for being a fellow Cat Daddy fangirl. I am very, very grateful for your grace! M, 6000 words, SLBP Mitsuhide. CWs: obvious but unnamed depression, brief discussion of death by weapons. (But mostly it is happy-thinky-poetic wife worship and baby fever.)

Sometimes when she is exhausted she speaks in this silly way. His love for her makes him warm to his toes. Adorable, his wife is adorable. He will never again allow any other duty to shove her out of the place she deserves in the center of his heart.

He will never hold a sword again. The discovery that there is still any strength in the arm once so mighty, enough that he can use it to work: a cause for gratitude and relief. A gift. He can attend to the responsibilities of his new life. He has a new life. Master Tenkai knows better than most men what death looks like when it bears down in a flash of metal. Sword death is the smooth silver of steel, spear death is the sluggish brown of mud that will cradle a dying man, and death by bullet is the black of blood that comes out so thick it is purple before it is red. Weapon deaths are cold, as though to compensate for the heat of their forging. There is a depth of balance in this that he cannot yet name, a mystery of the heavens like the others he spends so much time thinking about and helping the mountain villagers understand.

This new life is mostly keeping up their modest home (half residence, half tiny temple), and sharing knowledge with the villagers and their children. Of course he still thinks of Sakamoto when he sees the children growing... but his entire life he has been too much in his own head, and since they came to the mountain he has gotten better at leaving memories alone. He does not forget, and he hopes this makes him a decent man. Like any decent monk, he allows the thoughts of Sakamoto their due, which is to rest and flow over him as water flows over every side of a fish. It is right that it surrounds him. He could not and cannot do anything for Sakamoto, or address the irreparable harm he caused. He can consider it, meditate on it, and live with what he has done. And he will. Because he can live.

Swordwork’s precision and steadiness are forever gone from him, he believes. But he still has his arm and still has his life, even after he made peace with losing much more before Hideyoshi’s sword came down. He can pet the cats that congregate around the little temple, and he can twirl bits of string and stalks of grass for them. He can still write, his characters more calligraphic than they were before. He has to work hard to make clear strokes when he teaches the village children, and he feels that is a just requirement. When the house needs repairs, he can make them, and he can draw air into his lungs and live with his failures and successes both, or at least live with his failures and the grace he has been given. He has the brush, and he has the strong walking stick that his wife has helped him cut to the right height. The staff is smooth in his hand after only a few months’ use, a little extra oil applied when they have it. He wonders if he is allowed this easy comfort, but will not allow a walking stick to be a thing that trips his thoughts. His watchword now is moderation, not abnegation. If a fallen tree limb comes to him he will be grateful, and if the wood breaks he will let it go. He is willing, now, to let so much go.

There is only one exception, and she sleeps easy these days, when the cold of night on the mountain curls them together as though they are rabbits in a burrow. They wake slowly to this dream life. The part of him that is a decent monk cannot help but wonder how different their lives might be if it had been this for them all along. He did not want to rule; he had only ever wanted to spare others the hardships of ruling, and allow all good people the comfort of safety, from most divine ruler to most helpless child. These thoughts are in his head. Here in their tiny room in the building that is their home and the village’s temple, she is in his arms. In his heart and his bones, he knows that fact is grander than any man’s attempt at divinity.

He never has to force smiles at the children who come to the temple to learn. They are rowdy, eager, and completely charming. He is comfortably grinning at a group of them when he catches sight of her at the bend in the path that leads to their home. She is smiling, too, and there are tall leafy greens sticking out of the pack behind her shoulders that remind him of the folded wings of a fine hawk, the kind favored by samurai and nature alike. What would they do, if not for her hawklike competence and gentle ferocity?

Likely starve, he tells himself, on both melancholy days and happy ones. It is only the truth. He has learned a few things, but cannot match her, and while he is always available to the villagers, he stays near the temple unless he is asked for in the town. She does their shopping, she is their face. No one of quality can resist being won over by the warmth of her smile.

The children are thrilled to see her, and it reminds him of a dream he has had several times now, something he has kept to himself because it is so precious and he still does not want to ask anything of her. He is not sure if the slips of dream come from the peace of their life or the torment they left behind them, whether the dream is reward or recompense. But the cheers of the children take hold of his heart and make a tapestry of the scraps of his happiest dreams, weaving them tightly with what he is truly seeing. His thoughts nearly take him to his knees-- or perhaps that is an insistent little person, tugging at the edge of his sleeve.

“Master Tenkai!” chirps the village child. “Hana is home, so it is time for our lesson!”

They teach the children together in the afternoon’s warm, clean light, and only send them home when it is time for her to prepare their evening meal and him to complete the evening sweeping of the temple floor. Later that night, she seems relaxed and sleepy next to him, full of food, full of love. She asks, “Do you remember when I asked you to bring me a stone, so I could make you pickles?”

That is a pleasant memory from their life before, a luminescent pearl floating through silt that suffocated so much happiness. But the memory itself is light. So his smile is easy and does not feel like punishment, and he nods and strokes the space between her shoulders.

“On this mountain I have all the stones I need,” she declares, pressing her cheek to his chest. The smoothness of her face is finer to him than any pearl, a marvel of sensation that settles him, instantly and completely. “And I will make you pickles every week, if you want them,” she adds.

“Only whenever you are inclined,” he says, drumming his fingertips to tickle her.

Her giggle is sleepy. “There’s not time to make them every day,” she quips, snuggling closer and sliding an ankle between his calves. He has only the one dream that is sweeter than his actual life, and he is keeping it close to his chest for now. But he will not keep anything closer to his chest than she is. They squeeze one another, and he expects they do not fully relax their arms until they fall asleep.

A winter has passed, and a spring. This is their first summer on the mountain, so they are learning the cycle of invigorating mornings, sweltering afternoons, and unpredictable nights. They have already learned from kind villagers how to best coax food from the pebbly soil of their garden, and their efforts in the summer are devoted to this every day until the air grows too hot and they retreat to the shade of the temple to fan themselves with their hands and drink water that (they hope) has managed to hold some of the chill of the night before.

Every morning he braids her hair, and in these summer days a few strands always escape and stick to the back of her neck, temptations that coax him to bare her shoulders and murmur along the skin he worships. She often swats him away, because even after tending the garden there is plenty of work to do. But sometimes she does not swat him away at all, and some days she draws closer with a magnificent, confident need. He cannot determine if it is need for him or need to show him something, but each time, their bodies become hotter still, sweat running like streams and stinging their eyes even as it makes moving together easier.

There is a day at midsummer when they cannot help themselves, resting on the step to their home. They are covered from the relentless sun by the good new roof of the temple. He is vulnerable to melancholy in the heavy air that precedes a storm. She knows this. By the time the thunder and rain seem to be on every side of them, heaven’s own veil around the little holy place where they live, their hands are in each other’s hair, she is straddling him, and he is kissing her so deeply he can taste their midmorning snack. The last time she went to town she came back with karashi seeds, and their food this week has been bright in their mouths, cleansing and flavorful. He is hungry for it.

“Mitsuhide,” she pants quietly. The rain around them is so dense no one would hear her, but that name is never spoken above the softest whisper. Her other sounds are louder, even louder than the roar of the rain, and he loosens his hold on himself to match her. He groans as he tilts his hips up toward hers, everything that he is straining for her. They are so warm that even though the air is cooling around them, the rain may as well be steam. One of her hands slides from his hair to his neck and then down his chest, between their bodies, until she palms his insistence and he gasps for her until she squeezes. They moan together, unbearably hot in the sweet agony before they join.

“Now? Here?” he asks. They’re alone, but he craves her comfort as much as her indulgence. There is always a point where he stops asking, but before that he needs permission. She gives it in a nod and shuffles off his lap onto the floor, still stroking him through his clothing. Her clothes are already loose from their embrace, and she puts her other hand inside her collar and tugs down until she is cupping her breast. His blood in his ears is louder than rain or crashing waves or the war chorus of a hundred desperate men. He lunges at her, one hand in her hair and another at the back of her neck to soften her landing. When he is over her, he snarls at her temple before kissing the space with the beastliness that is revealed by these stormy days. It is a wet kiss, and because his tongue cannot taste enough of her he ends up licking from her cheek to her hairline. He savors her, salt and spice and earth and somehow his, as he pushes into her hand. She does not let go of him. He never wants to let go of her.

His hand slips from her neck into the heaven of her opened collar, and his thumb finds her nipple between her fingers. She lets go, gives herself to him, and he pants adoration into her ear as he rolls the peak, beautifully strong, until she moans. He knows this is right, that nothing else in the world is anything next to the truth of how right it feels to cage her in, make her tremble, and soothe her, serve her.

So he doesn’t hold back. He tells her she is the most wonderful, beautiful, desirable, beloved. His mind makes poetry for her and he licks the words onto skin he pinches delicately between his teeth. You are rainfall to a dying man, you are here, you feel better than breezes, you are mine. After all he has done, he remains a man, and a man is an animal, as any man who has gone to war can say with certainty.

The thin clothes he wears for gardening are sticking to his body, and he swears he can feel the drag of each thread against his skin as he moves with her, friction enough to spark a fire through their sweat. Her hand on him is maddening kindling.

“You are flames,” he declares as he ruts down into her hand. “You are burning me.” A man is an animal, a gasping creature not sophisticated enough to express all she makes him feel.

She slows her hand and hums, pleased by they way he gives himself over. That is the way they play. “It is too wet for flames,” she murmurs, as though she is consoling him instead of throwing tinder on the fire she has made. “Drown in me instead of burning, my love.”

The affection in her words soothes his amorous madness and spreads the familiar, comfortable warmth to all the tips of his body as the power shifts between them again. He loves her so much. Could any man convey so much feeling? To be an animal is not bad, but it is base, and she is made of heaven and still chooses to be with him. He smiles at her in wonder of all her beauty and bravery. He will focus on giving her anything that he can.

“Gladly,” he whispers, smiling wider. He takes her wrist and pulls her away from her work. When she complies and settles her hand against the floor by her head, he unties the rope of faded jute braids that hold her kosode closed at her hips. She is worthy of finery but dressed in these threadbare rags with him instead, and still her eyes say she has what she desires. As he drops the thick cord beside their bodies, he thinks he will try to find her a pretty bead, or even a nice smooth stone from the stream, something to adorn her middle and give her pleasure when she sees it. She gives him so much pleasure.

Their clothes as temple keepers are very humble, but they are much easier to remove than their daily wear of only a year ago. Sacrilegious but sincere, he mutters his gratitude at the simplicity of baring her body to his eyes. Her slopes are gorgeous, winding like the gentlest river against the air. She reminds him of a war map he saw years ago, illustrated with hills and pools so lovely he mourned as war was planned against the unarmed ground.

He shakes away that memory to construct another of the way she looks right now, sensual and receptive, womanly in the way she came to be when they started their lives here. Back in control of herself, of both of them, she parts her lips and breathes his new name. He undoes the scrap of old kimono that serves for his sash, and peels away his own sweaty robe. When he comes back down to her, she has freed her arms from her sleeves and their hands find each other, fingers dancing warm and worn as they wrap together.

Now it is still raining, but the roar of it has quieted to a loving hiss. The light is gray and blue, so she looks like nighttime. She pulls him to her with the power of dusk closing flowers, and their kiss is moon-soft, full of promise instead of frenzy. Her lip is a marvel between his and he loves pressing it with his own lips and teeth and sucking gently to make it swell. He wants to touch it with his thumb while he’s inside her and then kiss her again, maybe kiss her while he touches her with his thumb.

The chill at his back cannot last when there is so much heat between them, no matter what she says of drowning instead of burning. A man can drown in the bubbles of a hot spring as well as he can in winter’s water. He sucks in a breath and breathes it out into her mouth, and when she does the same with more force he shudders. His hands slide to her hips, where her curves fit into his palms as though he were a farmer and she were a ripe stalk of rice. She is at least as crucial and nourishing.

He is so hard he doesn’t need to take himself in hand. The head of his cock slides (with a sureness he would never claim aloud) between her folds, against the spot that makes her thighs flex. The movement is easy, a slip if not for his control. They are always so eager for one another.

“How?” he asks, and kisses the chin she is offering as her head is thrown back. “Here? This? Just outside the reach of the rain?” A demon is in him, to tease her like this, but the demon wants her pleasure as surely as he does because this is what she wants, for everything to be drawn out until their tension snaps. “Do you want the air on all your skin?” he continues. “I will give you anything. Just tell me.”

She hums the thoughtful sound that means she’s thought of some way to drive him insane. Thunder cracks with an ominous sharpness in the distance, and when she tilts her head and looks at him there is lightning and mischief in her eyes. He squeezes her but still she wriggles out from beneath him... and she goes to one of the beams that holds up the roof, safe from the rain thanks to the overhang. She moves her feet back and bends at her waist and he can do nothing but feel blessed and aroused, so aroused he is stupid. The warmth she put in him turns to tingles, like she has displaced the lightning from her gaze and made his skin the sky and his bones the bare, vulnerable earth. Within himself he feels a frighteningly intense buzzing.

“This first,” she declares. “Just watch for now, darling. Stay where you are.” Her thighs and calves are so defined from the ways she has to toil in this new life that he feels a shadow of guilt for enjoying the sight of her so much. It vanishes when he sees her fingertips between her legs, right at his eye level. She is pulling his mind apart, but her method for that is giving him this gift, and in this life he takes what he is given.

“Yes,” he rasps, and swallows before the dryness in his though makes him cough. “Yes, of course.”

The movement of her arm slides her loosened braid along a shoulder like a brushstroke. Her touches are sure-- she told him months ago that she learned to do this when he made her sleep alone for nights on end. He curses his foolishness even as he is grateful for it. She is always turning the most miserable ingredients into feasts, his wife.

Her sure fingers make circles and dip into her folds to smear her arousal. She likes it a little messy sometimes, another thing she has revealed in the safety of their seclusion. He loves what she loves, and he wants to put his mouth on her, put his cock in her, so badly that he fears his voice will scar his throat in a mad escape if he has to stay apart from her much longer. But he will die of idiocy alone if he interrupts. So he watches, the cool air of isolation doing nothing to keep his belly from tightening when she coos. Her hips begin to drop forward to meet her hand and he bites the flesh of his palm to stave off insanity as long as he may. She is a cat, he realizes, playing with all his many frayed ends. When she glances back, whatever she sees on his face-- he must be flushed, he feels terribly hot-- makes her laugh, dark and sweet. She keeps going and keeps her eyes on him. There is that gentle command so uniquely her in the way she looks at him. It makes him feel like he is blooming frantically, too fast, a blossom pummeled by rain and completely out of control... and she keeps looking, keeps smiling, draws the moment into moments until he thinks he might sob.

And then she curls her fingers against herself to beckon him and says “Come here.” The way her voice puts the words somewhere between request and demand is flattering, but he has no time to be flattered. Rain-cooled air yields against his arms and legs as he rushes to her. Immediately, he is there behind her legs, positioning himself, and the heat of her backside would burn him were he not already so ruined. Against her at last, he can appreciate the way the weak light on her sweat-slicked back is more beautiful than the finest inkwash, the ways she smells competent and domestic and alluring, like the precious sweet scent of soil that hides between mountain pebbles. She is all these things, and she is so calm as his mind whirls in its delirium of adoration and arousal.

He doesn’t mean to tremble, but his hold on himself has been too tight, and the spaces where his teeth dug into his hand throb. Like the mongrel pet to a noble lady, he has little other purpose but to love her. He sees that she can sense it. There is a grace to her certainty when he grits his teeth, even though she is wound so tightly that when the head of his cock finally presses inside her, he must push. Slick, soft, smooth, she feels, somehow, despite the pressure. As he pushes fully inside, their groans are wanton to the point of inhumanity, more like the sound of creatures in the night than of a man and his wife. His wife, his wife. He pulls back and groans again at the way her body fights to keep him. He swipes the braid off her back and kisses her shoulder, pushing back in slowly as her soft, strong body welcomes him.

“More,” she cries, her first sound of vulnerability, and he is eager to take care of her. He knows to move steady and powerfully but keep it slow at first. She comes better around him, but needs to be allowed to focus, so he is quiet as he focuses on her and the way the muscles of his back stretch and roll to please her. He is still a fit man, and he hopes his body thrills her as hers thrills him.

She makes a needy noise between her teeth and moves faster, shaking just a little. She hisses “keep going,” and of course he does. The tension he felt a moment ago is so unimportant now he is not sure if it was real. In the time when things shift between them he no longer needs permission, and he feels the magic calm settling over him-- it is his turn. All he needs to do is what she needs from him, it’s so simple. And he would do anything she asked, for the chance to be so near her when she finds bliss. It is already rising up his legs, like a snake squeezing and sliding, like ripples... and her sighs are like waves. Maybe she is too wet to be flames because she is water itself. The way into her is blissful enough, a slick heavy pressure around him where she is swollen from all their kisses and touching. The challenge of it makes him grin with a ferality he usually keeps well out of sight, and he presses on, pulls back, kisses her shoulder again and calls her his beloved. His voice doesn’t shake.

Hers does. “Again,” she pleads, grasping back for his hand. “I want it again.” She guides his fingers in circles until he knows where she is and what she needs, and then she lets him give it to her. Trust is such a sacred thing.

When he touches her she laughs, and he laughs too, and fucks her with a great deal of joy. They find their pattern: her hips push back to meet his thrusts, so when he presses in, deeply, they fit as cleanly as a carpenter’s masterwork. The storm has truly cooled the air but all it does is chill the fresh sweat on their skin as they move. It invigorates him, makes his spirit shout with a freedom he cannot contemplate at the time. His wife is using the beam that holds up their roof to push back against him, allowing the tender space between her breasts to be abraded by the wood. There is room for nothing but happiness here, nothing to do but honor her sacrifice and make her feel more pleasure.

“Yes,” she rewards him with her voice for a particular thrust, dragging out the sound at a pitch that registers inside him while he is inside her. So he moves himself even faster to try and repeat it, then relishes the sweetness of her soft whine. It makes him feel like he is surprising her with his love for once, instead of the constant way she graces him with her own.

He leans over her a little more. “I want nothing as much as I want your happiness,” he tells her, the croon of his voice broken by the intense way their bodies are connecting. Her hand comes back over his, keeping him in place. Magnificent. “Go on,” he tells her. “Again, love. Just like you want. Just like I want. Again.”

She shudders and stops moving her hips (she clings adorably to the support beam, her arm as tense as her hand on his). He keeps going, because he knows that is what she expects. At the end, what she needs is to be filled, to be given something to clench around, and he needs to be that for her. He is so driven, from inside and out, to fuck her, that he cannot do anything else until he feels it, not think or breathe, only move into her as though he can shove bliss into her body. So he tries, until he feels the shaking of her legs as perfection alights, and then he takes one great breath before it hits them both as she squeezes tighter still. They gasp together again as her clenching and soft sounds pull his warmth to fill her. Abundantly. Deeply. The air comes out of his lungs onto her shoulders, then touches his cheeks with the softness of a cloud.

She is breathing heavily, and slowly she puts her weight against the wood and becomes still. There’s a gentle press against his hand before she drops her arm. He’s tempted to catch it and kiss her knuckles, but he does not want to move from being curled around her back. He does move his hand away and puts the arm around her belly instead, holding her that much closer. She feels exactly as warm and soft as a cat who has fallen asleep in the sun.

There is a slick, sticky feeling all around his cock, but there’s nothing unpleasant about it-- something in him actually relishes it, loves the thought of mixing, loves the thought of there being too much, it makes him want to take her to the floor and have her again-- and she does not ask him to move, so he stays until he softens. “Darling,” he whispers then. “I’m going to get us a cloth.” He has desires, but he has mastered himself.

But she mumbles “No. Hold me.”

So when he pulls out as not to slip from her, he simply sits down and pulls her with him, right down into his messy lap. There’s not a breath between the time they land and her turning so she can snuggle his chest. He strokes her hair and kisses her cheeks and nose and tells her what a marvel she is. She is all pliant affection, touching his arms, kissing his jaw, raising a love welt on his shoulder... reaching to stroke him gently, experimentally, just like she did when they were on the steps.

He has mastered himself, but not as well or fully as she has.

He pulls over their clothes and lays her out on top of them on the temple floor so he can join their bodies yet again, unhurried. They have the time for slow lovemaking in this life, and the grace. Her knees frame him as he moves and he cannot help but kiss one and then the other, reveling in her laughter (when he tickles her ribs, she tightens deliciously around him) as much as in her love. They lay together for a long time after that, cool and lazy in the quiet. When the rain is replaced by the first note of tentative birdsong, they know they should move in case someone comes to the temple. Despite the afternoon, they are a cautious couple by nature.

He attempts to clean her with their clothes, and carries her to their room to rest more comfortably. Her hair clings to the idea of a braid, but much of it is loose and floats about his arms in the sodden air. There is a satisfied tilt to her mouth when he helps her sit, and as he moves behind her the last he sees of her face is her smile curving deeper. He settles his robe over her shoulders and combs his fingers through her hair to ward off tangles. When he is finished, he replaits her hair and kisses the ribbon, then her mouth. She shakes her head, hiding her mouth and making him chase it. His rewards are sleepy giggles, enchantingly low, every time he catches her.

Several kisses later, he redresses and leaves for the kitchen to make them a simple meal. He delights in feeding her by hand as soon as he returns, because their closeness makes him feel whole and doting on her feels right. They stay near as they bathe, and then they go back to bed. It is early, but they will need to start early tomorrow to make up for the time they spent not working this afternoon. They have earned their sleep. He wonders if he will have the dream again.

Tucked into their bedding, she is in his arms, not yet dreaming herself. “Darling,” he says quietly into her hair, and murmurs love until she turns to kiss him sweetly and tells him to go to sleep.

He does have the dream. It is the most wonderful dream yet.

“Chichi-ue!” The voice is high and happy. It is coming from behind him, so he must turn away from the sight of his wife with a baby at her breast. Before he can see the little one who called him-- called him chichi-ue, his child-- the dream shifts and his wife is with an older child, tasting broth and listening patiently as the child recites ingredients. Then his wife is with two children, each holding one of her hands as they turn on the bend of the path to their home, and the smallest lets go of her to run to him. Their faces are all obscured by a sudden cloud of mountain dandelion seeds borne on the wind... all he can see are healthy little legs and feet in clean sandals, slapping against the ground as fast as they possibly can. The movement becomes a child’s hand with a brush, marvelously steady and precise. The same hand around a cluster of flower stems. Scraped knees and palms and little puffs of breath between shrieks and giggles as tears are soothed away. Two voices laughing over the plunking sound of skipped river stones ending their flights, and he recognizes the stream where they stand. The face and voice of the herbalist in the village, kindly telling them to be patient and then whispering something they might try. Four simple bowls, mismatched but meant to be together, set around a table. He can see this scene over his own shoulder, hears those same two voices dutifully expressing gratitude for their meal. The sounds change as his dream gives him the voices at different pitches through time, thankful for their rice, fish, vegetables; the bowls stay on the table, the food in them changing in dizzying whirls of color until he wakes.

“Good morning,” says his wife, in the voice she can only use for the first words of the day. Quiet and deep as a hidden pool. “I love you.”

He reaches to stroke her cheek, and tells her about the dream at last. She tells him her dreams, too.

Exhausted but awake, awed and unsure, he holds his son for the first time in the crook of his better arm. All of him shakes, because he is weeping at the perfect newness of this child. The baby, so unhappy with the village woman who came to help with the birth, settles into his father like poetry, and closes sweet dark eyes, and yawns flawlessly. They way the baby’s tongue trembles reminds him of a stretching cat. Master Tenkai of the mountain cannot look away. There is so much to see, and there is something about gazing at this tiny face, shifting magically from pinched to peaceful, that shows him the virtue of disregarding time completely. He should know it for what it is: another effort by man to control what he cannot. Everything that marks time in a human way can be broken. The sun rises no matter what people do in the night.

One of the temple cats senses a fellow creature and leans up to sniff at the baby. The baby’s father is happy to share the sight. The cat noses at the baby’s plumpness and then slinks off, but Tenkai stays where he sits, holding his son beside the bedding where the baby’s mother is gazing at them both with a tired, happy expression on her beautiful face. Her hair has all come loose from its ribbon. The woman from the village said it was an easy birth, but it certainly took its time. At the end, they have their perfect son, and she is alright. Everything is alright. The greatest challenge facing them at the moment is that he will have to learn to braid one-handed. He chuckles to himself and the baby blinks, then settles.

He will never hold a sword again. Whatever time may be, it feels like he made his peace with a more important truth a very long time ago, perhaps in another life entirely, and had only to relearn it. To hold his woman, and child, and the other he believes will join then... that is more than enough for the warrior who was once Mitsuhide, who became Master Tenkai of the mountain. All else may come and go. He will treat everything with respect, and allow all that is temporary to leave his hand like water. His family, permanent and indescribably precious, is the only thing that he will never, ever give up.

#slbp mitsuhide #slbp fanfic #slbp fanfiction #samurai love ballad party #fieryanmitsu

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imasimpforstevengrant · 5 years ago

Text

Why do we like this clown so much?

Change the "we" for "I" and you get an usual tag I use whenever I post my content in Tumblr. And it sounds funny at first but whenever you start diving into that phrase, the deeper it becomes. So, I finally have decided to share my thoughts about this strange but wholesome attraction to this deeply flawed character. It's not something I usually do since I don't know how to write down my feelings properly and also in english so please forgive any typos (I'm from Chile so don't be surprised lol).

So...Why do we like this clown so much?

Why was it that a character precisely designed to scare and to disgust the fuck out of us ended up unchaining a series of feelings that shouldn't have taken place in a beginning?

Let's take a look at the background: Joaquin Phoenix was cast as Arthur Fleck/Joker in 2018. The first image of him as the aforementioned character revealed a deeply disturbed man. We knew the plot. A man driven to insanity after a brutal history of abuse, creating concern in people if the upcoming film would inspire real life violence. Incel violence and mass shootings, more specifically.

(the image in question)

As 2019 arrives, the two trailers generated so much hype that media needed to fuel its concern about it. Since it wasn't your typical comic book film, media basically bombed our minds making us believe this film was going to be a total disaster, an excuse to cause harm to others among other nonsense, as if the film would justify everything Arthur would do in the film, eventually. As the release date is closer, the film receives thunderous applause and unanimous praise from critics. At this, fans rejoiced and expressed impatience to watch the film.

October 5th.

People left the theaters amazed, shocked and genuinely moved by the inhuman treatment Arthur received in the film. The fear media tried so desperately to infuse in us with all the incel bullshit and such turned out to awake one of the most positive, best feelings in humans:

E M P A T H Y

The word that so gloriously cleared away any dark thoughts or actions not only proves media was wrong but it turned out to ridicule it in way nobody will forget: Hundreds of people advocating for mental illness, calling out to the kindness that could change a person's bad day and questioning how politicians and rich people are indifferent to social problems proved how much as a society we have changed in comparison with the one shown in the film.

However, since we are on Tumblr, I'll get straight to the point and try to explain why the fuck does this clown has us dying out of love and compassion (and lust).

I. Background.

As nurturing as we women are for a biological matter, we see a man deprived of a good job, is on seven different medications, working like a slave to sustain his ill mother, putting aside his own health and well-being to look for her, struggling to make his dream of being a comedian despite everyone stepping on him, underpaid and treated like a freak for a disorder he did not ask to suffer, which makes it impossible to be indifferent to all the horrible ordeal that eventually will reach the limit of what he can tolerate without going insane. It is impossible to not say or think, at least, that someone (even if it's just one person) should stand for him just as it is impossible not to feel the need to throw ourselves at him to shield him from people who hurt him or simply offer him our shoulder whenever he has had a bad day, specially when he learns he was sexually assaulted by his step father.

This horrid behaviour terrifies newer generations because they get a taste of what being a social outcast was like more than thirty years ago in comparison with today, where there's more acceptance and treatment for mentally ill people like Arthur. We see in him someone who could have been saved with a proper education and emotional support instead of descending into madness as a criminal. Others simply saw themselves being treated like him at some point in their lives and couldn't help but put themselves in his shoes.

II. Personality.

TRUTH BE TOLD:

There's something called "attraction by proximity". It is the explanation to the eventual love you feel whenever someone doesn't catch your eye at first terms of physical attraction but his/her personality does attract you. This happens to be the base of this situation. His shyness, introverted nature, tenderness and innocent desire to make people laugh and put on a happy face awake some kind of tenderness we cannot resist. This combined with the gloomy background increases our understanding (but not justifying) of the bad decisions he'll eventually take during the course of the film. This traces a line of harsh, almost hurtful contrast of the violence he shows later on the film. Once again, it is not justified in any way but it is certainly understandable.

III. Appearance.

Arthur Fleck is unconventionally attractive.

This happens to be a plus for most women. He is out of the male beauty standards (no abs, not too muscly or particularly tall), which makes him even more unique. It is precisely the fact that he's not a model one of the reasons women love him. He could easily be your man next door or your colleague or the guy you always see but never dare to talk for fear to bother him Because it's about proximity. Arthur looks like your common neighbour. He's not meant to be your typical desirable male protagonist at all.

... And yet.

Jesus Christ, he's so fucking hot I can't even---

It's not about how beautiful his green eyes are, his long slender fingers, his hair or his smile only. It's the charm behind it.

Another "magnet point" is the way he dresses. I know he's impoverished and his wardrobe tend to be repetitive but it is so unpretentious, so simple that is hard to not fall for. The modesty of the shirts, ironed trousers reminds us of a mature man deeply withdrawn into himself, love starved and longing to be seen and loved by others, like a war veteran who still fights the most important war: with himself. Is someone who needs to be listened and understood.

AND OF COURSE WHAT'S NOT TO LIKE ABOUT IT?

He's also brought back the old gentleman outfit, white shirts, red/yellow vest, red suit and elegant dancing moves and the retro style of the film boosts this attractiveness.

People keep comparing him with the previous interpretation of Joker (Leto's) whose costume appealed to young women with a tattooed, gangster, mumble rapper crazy-guy wannabe which didn't connect with the audiences (young people in general). This supposedly was to match or even have a sexy, tormented and desirable villain like Marvel's Loki. We all know how that story ended but it's the link for the next point below.

IV. Transformation

This is a particularly strong point considering how much we loved to watch the process of this weak, powerless, forgotten caterpillar into a beautiful and visible butterfly that will gracefully stir its wings for everyone to see its colours.

When Arthur transitions to the Joker, it's so cathartic to see taking revenge on those who wronged him (even when we're not supposed to root for him) like seeing his shyness fading away into a vivid confidence when dancing half naked in the bathroom, or witnessing him making way to make his name known to people in Murray Franklin's Show:

Adding to this newly gained confidence, there's another turn on: the way he walks.

At the beginning, his pace is hunched and limping, displaying his submission to violence, which makes the viewer more satisfied to see his broken yet beautiful soul turning the past pain of his existence into art: he lets music guide his moves as a way to tell the world he's a new man by cutting most of the sick, evil roots that harmed him, that he's invincible, that no one can stop him. Watching this cathartic display of euphoria was the most iconic scene in the film, following his speech at the TV and the inevitable meltdown that caused Murray's death.

Going to further appreciation, even his clown make up is beautiful. Why? Simple. The combination of colours, shapes and the intimidating glare just embellishes even more the character.

The dark blue triangles in his expressive eyes makes the light green colour to highlight, specially in dark backgrounds, giving the impression he's piercing your soul whenever he stares directly at the camera. Same can be said about the red smile and emerald green hair. They boost an already intimidating look.

The cold and warm colours paint a picture of a man full of intense emotions, mirroring it in a simple yet masterful artistic way.

Another interesting point is the way Joker dresses. Usually we had almost every single live adaption of this character in purple coat, hat, etc. But this particular version is not following any comic, which gives more freedom to creativity and once again, out of the standards of what we could have expected.

Red is a colour related to passion, action, love, strength, motivation and excitement. As for yellow, it indicates freshness, happiness and enlightenment and finally, green. Green is renewal, growth and regeneration. Colours that represent a new stage in his life, a mirthful chapter at last. We finally get to see our battered, always humiliated protagonist (or hero) descending into madness, but finally free from his repressed man who held his soul captive like a bird to fly away, to never come back. An insanity that despite being his downfall, turned out to be his ticket to freedom as he walks to the light in Arkham Asylum dancing at the end.

Ladies and gentlemen: behold the film nobody asked... But the film we fucking deserved.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk

❤️💚💛

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oncetheearl · 5 years ago

Text

.Primary Colors

Grell Sutcliff

warnings: none, it's mildly fluffy prose

a/n: Written for @saturnberry. I hope you had a nice Valentine's Day. Because there were so many mentions of Grell in your posts I knew right off that's who I wanted to write for, though admittingly I feel like I don't have a good enough hold on Grell's personality (hence why I avoided a ship with another canon character.) This is technically Grell x Reader as it uses instances of second person; however, the gender of the reader is left open ended.

In a world where everyone is designated a color—an indicator of who they were to become as they grew older—you were born an unremarkable cluster of blues, not bright enough to add to the sky, too morbid for the painters to use.

It was as though everywhere you went, people outshone you. In school the other children were wondrous blends, and your shade felt understated, a waste of anyone's attention. Even the other blues were brighter than you: one girl you likened to the ocean, a sapphire crystal—so warm a shade it leaked into the atmosphere. In class you sat beside a yellow, a cheery snaggletooth boy with sincere eyes behind coke frames, a penchant for silly games, and a willingness to try anything. You knew the rainbow, a brown—tough as nails. She hardly flinched at an encounter with broken glass. A dark grey who only spoke to you once. Even a pink, who laughed with the purples. It came from his uncle, he told you one morning, picking dandelions from the field beside the schoolhouse.

You on the other hand, sat beneath a tree with roots ripped and picked weeds out the Earth, never at home enough in your own shade to cajole with the others. It'd all be different when you grew up, you considered. Adults weren't like this; they'd treat you better, teach you there was never anything wrong with your color—because surely, it couldn't have mattered in the real world.

Yet, when you grew, your sense of loss grew with you.

The world was organized by color files in a dusty cabinet, by designation and molds that weren't intended for expansion. Bosses had those they preferred. Oranges made good leaders, they said, and greens could be consultants if they wanted. Trichromatics were sought after inclusions. But blues were in abundance, and therefore mere grunts, worker ants; those that populated the factories of London's lower regions.

Needless to say, you did not need to ask in order to know what designation the casualties were; some accident in a factory you heard. But you always waited for your carriage here and chose to do so regardless, even though the air agitated.

As you watched the road ahead, out came someone, bemoaning their line of work (an investigator, you wondered? who else would be in there?), glasses askew, near knocking you forward into the pavement before the fact you should move presented itself to you.

The speed in which you felt your chest constrict was maddeningly slow (surely an instant, but forever in your head based on the lump in your throat.) Away you had looked, heart an unruly child turning pans into drums. You prayed that no one could hear it sputtering beneath your coat, that the stranger in red couldn't sense your nerves. The stranger was definitely a red, just as their clothes would have said. You could tell by the mannerisms, those teeth, the flop of hair into the vision. The annoyance that the rain kept pouring and pouring as though the sky had a rip.

But then that stranger gave you a look, and said something, and for a brief moment you forgot to add air to your lungs, the necessity of breathing.

You can't recall what you were told... cliche of love at first sight, and all. It could have been mundane complaints about how the sky was drenching you both, or questioning of why you seemed incapable of looking upward, or where White Chapel was—but you know it had to have been something sweet like 'what's someone gorgeous doing out here looking so glum' or 'what a pretty coat, where can I get one?'

(If not, why were you so flustered, then?)

You would later put a name to this stranger, but for now it did not matter. Grell had been complaining about the storm, eyes upward, expression turned near startled when you extended a hand and professed lunch on the Eastside, my treat, too willing to say please.

Oh, God. What possessed you to, you wonder? You were not spontaneous, or the type to offer lunch to a stranger in the dark. Reds and blues did not go together—because neither understood the other. Though it wasn't such a mystery why, the rain reminds. Red was your favorite color. That jigsaw smile, the collision of a million things into one, twisted upward, and you knew, no longer had to wonder: you liked red, even if it belonged to another.

And Grell brought out the red in you. Made you so always willing to run, to say I'm hungry, let's have dinner. Promise we'll have candles or flowers or a band that plays Saint-Saëns in fantasia.

I'll make it loud and bold, I'll make it red—because you wear it so.

How about the pier? The symphony? A massage—I'll do the planning.

Your hair is quite long, can I comb through it with only the tips of my fingers?

One day you had stopped to ponder, why is it I love red, I wonder?

Why not orange, or blue, or the shade of wet feathers? Why something so loud and abrasive and untamed. Untethered. Why stand out when it's comfortable in the rafters? Why did you feel more red than you were? But maybe those feelings didn't matter.

Your grandmother was a blue, and so was your father. Your mother had developed it one noon as a girl, came down with it like fever. It ran in your blood, slept in your grandfather's genepool, was inherited in your skin, lived in the liversplotches on your cousin's lips. You were a blue, and that was not worth denying.

You liked your books, the ones with the spines wrinkled. You drunk tea in evenings without sound. Your dwelling had seen better. Your wall clock swing was musicality; oh how boring, you'd imagine Grell would think.

Your shade of blue was mute, tired. A housecat slithered under a creaking armoire. An old weeping oak. A desire to rest before time ran out. But for all the inherent blueness of you, Grell never complained: and that confused you. Not even where you lived; an old building on a simple street with cramped beige walls and floors unnaturally even. At least if they were lopsided you'd feel more unique.

(Luckily, Grell had only insulted your abode once, when a long strand of red had gotten caught in the spinning wheel next to your bed and yanked from the scalp. It was in jest—you hoped—though Grell had been incensed and seemed alarmingly serious about cutting the thing apart...)

Fixing makeup in the mirror, spraying you with scents, Grell spoke where you preferred to listen; 'try this' 'no this smells much better' 'a maiden must always be adorned in fanciful arrangements' 'roses are my favorite, you know?'

Oh, did you ever. And so was bright weather, pretty corsets, lace feathers, heels that made the calves go on forever. Every utterance, complaint, and silly trait was inscribed in a tongue known to no one in the valley of your heart. You were a blue after all, and blues were dutiful lovers. Had memories like harp strings taunt; sharp. And how could you ever forget anything about Grell when there was always more to learn.

But you wanted to share that brightness. You'd walk and consider, could I make red if I mixed others? If I took his orange, my blue, that woman's green, maybe a splash of pink for authenticity... would I have a said shade like yours, a color that says 'look at me, I'm worth beholding'?

Maybe the rafters aren't so pretty. Maybe I'd like them all to look at me even if there's no smiling. Be seen. Red stops everyone, always has them looking. But you cannot make red from anything other. You are born red. You are born yourself. You would never have that shade, ever.

Sometimes you both spoke of what it would be like to be reborn, who either of you imagined would be the other.

Grell would be a supernova; grand, the death of something and the birth of another, a force you can't stop. A contradiction, a paradox; the brute with the love of flowers. Grell was red to the core. Wore it as though it was summer. Red was fond. Red was sticking up for your lover. Red was passion, and great things, and goosebumps from too much laughter. A person who in death, found that bold was always inside them. The poet's encouragement to be yourself. Something strange: spring in the snow, a funeral full of smiles. Red and worthwhile.

Grell hoped you'd still be you, to your wonder, because no one knew Grell better. You smiled when you were told, and that's because you're blue, hun. No one would understand those little details, loves, see so well beneath the water. Only a blue would. Could. A blue keeps the order while maintaining the spontaneity of a boat ride at the shore.

It was because you were blue. Because you were you. And blue is a nice color, Grell told you. Imagine how boring it'd be if we were all red or violet or green.

'I'd be bored'

You laughed, because maybe there was a point. Maybe blue wasn't such a bad color to be, because balance is pretty, a necessary evil. Grell had a flair for losing boots in the gutter, sneaking out to join the ball, and you liked picking up Cinderella's lost shoes. You've got a lover who loves a kiss on the hand, and you, a romantic from reading at all hours. Together you'd make blends and yellows and greens and purples; the shade of sallows, the sandy crunch of the desert, capture the sunrise's caricature.

I love your red, you tell. And Grell thinks your blue is quite special. Because it's red and blue together that unlocks the rainbow.

#kuro coup de foudre #grell sutcliff #grell x reader #grell sutcliff x reader #kuroshitsuji #black butler #the read more tag isn't working so I apologize for the wall of text #i swear I'm not usually this terrible of a writer #had to hurry and submit before the day was over but i swear I will fix the spelling errors

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loveafterthefact · 4 years ago

Text

Love After the Fact Chapter 57: Wasting Time with a New Friend

Lotor makes some new friends. Together, they discover that word of Lance and Keith's union has reached video game developers in the worst, best way.

Featuring Leakira in the role of comic relief (Not to offend Leakira fans, this is meant to be a fun, happy place. I just thought it might be funny little detail) XD

First Previous Next

Lotor finds them sleeping in a hallway. A much-needed distraction.

More specifically, it’s an adolescent Olkari with orange feelers, dressed in green and white garb stained with red dust. They’re incredibly small, even for a smaller species. Pretty adorable, like a wolf cub.

So obviously he nudges them with his foot.

“Can I help you?” the kit growls, amber eyes glaring up at him.

“You’re sleeping in a hallway.”

“And? What’s your point?”

“... You know what? I’m not really sure.”

With a groan, the kit sits up, tugging on their feelers. “So what are you up to, Mr. Prince?”

“Oh not much. Wandering around, looking for trouble.” He’s actually looking for a distraction, but that’s almost the same thing as trouble.

“Trouble, huh?” The Olkari smirks. “I’m Pidge. Lance’s resident tech genius and vent crawler- I mean spy.”

“Ah-haha, I see. You’re one of his ‘associates’.” Lotor grins, helps Pidge to their feet.

“Yes. Working for Lance usually involves some level of trouble. What are the princes up to today, anyway?”

“Lance is with Allura. She’s having a hard morning. Keith is with Thace, our emergency medic and reproductive specialist.”

“Oh, really? Making sure his junk works?”

“That’s the idea. Why?”

“It’d be awesome to have some dirt on Keith. He’s just so perfect.” Pidge skips down the hallway, a curious prince following behind them. “The worst thing he’s done is drink a bit too much, find his happy place at a party, and get really snuggly with Lance.”

Following Pidge into what should have been an old, empty storeroom, Lotor’s eyes widen in surprise. The typically ignored room is set up with monitors and a work table covered with Balmeran crystals and a few other tools.

“Where did you get some of these tools?” he asks, eyeing a choice laser of Galra design.

“I crawled through the tunnels underneath the actual labs and stole them. I’m welcome in the labs, of course. I just don’t want to share my work with them. The field of science is rife with thieves.”

“You found the tunnels already?” Lotor stares. There are tunnels all under the mountain, his ancestors making the massive peak into an insect hive. There are escape tunnels and hidden caches and underground pools and even a forge made of volcanic glass that he discovered as a small boy.

He still likes to go down there on the rare occasion he can find the time. Someday, he’ll take his children down there, and tell them all about the stories carved into the ancient walls.

“Yep! Anyway, let’s see if I can hack into Thace’s equipment. And by that I mean give me like, thirty ticks because I can definitely do it.” While Pidge types away on their computer, Lotor sits himself on the floor, eyeing a faint square cut into the stone. Most people don’t notice, don’t know to look for the fine edges carved into the floor. “Ooh… Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?” Lotor asks. “Is Keith okay?”

“You really care for him, don’t you?” Amber eyes smile at him, intuitive.

“Of course I do! He’s my cousin! And my friend!” And he has more than his fair share of health problems. Lotor himself was not a healthy kit, so he understands the worries that his cousin might have.

“Aw-w. You’re just a big ol’ sweetheart, aren’t ya?” Pidge turns back to their computer. “What’s interesting is that Keith is… surprisingly healthy. His weight and body mass index are good… Thace is optimistic about a successful pregnancy.”

“Why is that interesting?” Lotor scratches his head, frowning a little.

“Because our boys requested contraceptives, probably due to health concerns.”

“Miscarriage risks are higher for him. That’s partially due to his sex, and partially due to his condition. Do you think they’ll use contraceptives?”

“Pfft. No. They’re young, they’re stupid, and they both want pups. I doubt Lance can keep it in his pants.”

“What about Keith?”

“He’s shy.” Pidge shrugs like that explains everything. It kind of does. Keith’s priorities are probably more of the cuddling variety than the ‘aggressive hugging’ variety. “Can I have some of your blood?”

“Hm? Uh… How much blood?”

“I dunno. A few vials? Maybe I’ll swab your cheek too? It might help with my experiments.”

“And what might those be?”

“I’m trying to invent Altean-friendly prosthetics. It’s not going well. Alteans are stupid inside and out.” Pidge gathers their tools to stick him, and Lotor stares. This tiny little Olkari is far more than they appear. “Who do you think will kill Lance for getting Keith pregnant? Krolia or Shiro?”

But they're young, still playful and carefree.

“Hm… My money’s on Krolia. Or the creepy friend.”

“Adam? Oh, he’s softer than he looks. More likely he’ll live vicariously through their children and terrorize anyone who tries to mess with them.” Pidge sticks a swab in his cheek as they fill a second vial with his blood. “Your fangs are adorable.”

“Thanks?” Lotor regards them. “So you do science, you do people… What don’t you do?”

“Relationships.” Pidge cleans the crook of his arm, bandaging the spot where they bled him. “And genders. Those are for more primitive individuals.”

Lotor laughs. “More highly evolved, are you?”

“Exactly. Unlike Alteans. Stupid, scaley assholes with stupid, cranky cells.”

“I don’t get it. What exactly is the problem?” Lotor peers over Pidge’s shoulder as they examine his cells under their microscope.

“Not sure, but Alteans have some odd properties that make their biology incompatible with metal, coral, bone, wood, and other prosthetic materials. When used, the Altean’s cells refuse to accept the forgein material, even if it’s biocompatible. Hence, their cells are stupid.”

“So it would seem. How are my cells?”

“Hm… I'll have to run some of my own, secret tests. I may try to culture your skin cells to figure out how it all works.”

“Have at it. Can I interest you in a secret?”

“Always!” The young Olkari’s eyes shine, eager to learn. To know. A person after his own heart.

“Most of Altea’s technology is rediscovered. Thousands of decaphoebs ago, there was what’s known as The Forgetting. The Altean’s powers were quite suddenly drastically altered, and their society descended into chaos. Much of their technology was lost, then rediscovered within the last few milophoebs.”

“No fucking way!”

“Way. This includes their lauded Teludav technology.”

“Those fakers! How have I not heard of this?”

“I know! It’s their best kept secret. Also, beneath Mount Sil’brana is a petrified forest.”

“Oh, that’s so cool!” Pidge makes a note on their datapad. “I wonder… I don’t know if I could interface with that or not. Probably not, since it’s no longer organic, but then again perhaps I could reach the echo?”

“Echo?”

“All organic life leaves behind an echo. Sometimes, I can reach that echo. I’d be great at solving murders!”

“Well, if ever I am murdered, do find my killer. I’m sure my wife would appreciate it.”

“Unless she did the murdering,” Pidge snickers.

“Some days, it wouldn’t surprise me at all. She’d say it’s my fault, but…”

“Pregnancy.”

“Yeah. How do you think Keith will be when he gets pregnant?”

“He’s relatively mild-mannered as long as Lance keeps him happy, so either unbelievably psychotic or unbearably sweet.”

“He is really sweet. I honestly didn’t expect it when he first arrived. Lance is a little… He’s reserved, but also high-strung at the same time?”

“He definitely can be. But he can also be very playful. Those two are either quiet and reserved together, or cutting up and goofing off together. But Lance is the high-strung one, for sure. Keith just wants to know whose head to crack open. Lance wants to know every single little detail about everything.”

“So he’s a control freak.”

“Little bit, yeah. We’ve all got our thing.” Pidge smiles. “But Lance gave me a home when mine was lost. He had no reason to do that. He didn’t know what I was capable of.”

“I had assumed you were on Altea for research?” Lotor's curious, but won't push.

“No. Though I do enjoy research. For example, I have the new Phantasm Killbot game. I just got to the first visual novel part where they introduce the characters and their little side plots and all. Wanna help me out? For research?” The Olkari holds up a controller.

“Yeah alright. Anything for research.” Lotor takes the controller, waits for the character introduction screen. He’s played this game before. “Player one… Leandro.”

“Player Two… Akira.”

The screen loads.

“Uh… That’s… Interesting. Is that- Does that look like Lance to you?” It really does, at least to Lotor. The only difference is that ‘Leandro’ has brown hair and his scales are a very pale blue.

“Wow, that’s weird. Okay. Let’s see where this goes- Oh my fuck, this is going to be good.”

Lotor can’t help but agree, staring at a screen of a smirking ‘Leandro’ lounging with a wide-eyed Galra presumably named ‘Akira’. The Galra has purple hair and golden irises, dressed in what might loosely be referred to as clothing.

It’s exceptionally weird, even weirder given that Akira is the name of Keith’s father, Lotor’s uncle.

“I cannot wait to tell my cousin about this,” Lotor breathes, coming to the realization of exactly what’s before him.

“Yes! We have to! Right now!” Pidge stands, tugs on his arm.

“Well, let’s not be too hasty.” Lotor stares at the screen, that mischievous part of his brain clicking and whirring. “I mean, we have to do our research, right?”

“You know…” Pidge taps their chin. “You might be onto something.”

“I mean it’s just courtesy, right? Making sure we can give them all the information we possibly can?”

“You’re absolutely right. Okay, so you get first choice for dialogue and it looks like Not-Keith has a prompt for us.”

“Oh, gods. Okay, I am so sorry, Keith… Let’s see, here.”

…

Akira: We can’t keep meeting like this. What if people find out?

Leandro: I’m a prince, my sweet. I do what I want.

Akira: But you could be killed!

Leandro: You’re worth dying for.

Leandro: It’s my fault, anyway. I just couldn’t resist you.

Akira: It’s not your fault. I let you have me.

Leandro: You should let me have you again.

Akira: Please… I need it…

*Kiss Passionately*

Leandro: Oh, my sweet. You’re in season!

Akira: Make love to me, and I will give you a son.

…

“I feel dirty,” Lotor mutters. “This is what’s passing for entertainment right now?”

“It’s so bad! I love it!” Pidge snickers.

“Lance is going to be mortified.”

“No, he won’t.” The two new friends turn to see Adam leaning in the doorway, smirking.

“And why, pray tell, is that?” Lotor asks, one eyebrow almost reaching his hairline.

“Lance is bigger than that. He’ll be filled with a sense of… well-being.”

“Oh, gross! Adam!” Pidge chucks a wrench at the Altean’s head, the trio laughing as he dodges, then retrieves it for them. “I don’t want to hear about my friend’s dick!”

“Am I wrong?”

“No, and I hate it.” Pidge drags Adam to the floor, sits in his lap. “Okay, you can help us. What should Leandro say next? ‘A daughter would be fine’ or ‘Honor me with the gift of your flesh’?”

“Who the quiznak wrote this?” Adam mutters. “And we want ‘Honor me with the gift of your flesh.’”

“I don’t know, but I will find out. And kill them,” Lotor mutters.

“Easy on the instincts, Mr. Prince.” Pidge continues to the next cut scene.

“It’s nothing to do with instincts! I just hate that I had to read that!” Lotor sighs. “At least that cut scene is over. Now we have… Brothers, Sven and Kuron? Lots of new characters for this one.”

Adam blinks, gaping at the screen. “What. The fuck-”

...

Allura sighs, running a hand through her loose curls. It's been a rough morning, one that doesn't promise to get easier. A howling chorus of laughter cuts through her stressed thoughts. Cracking open a storeroom, she spies her husband, Adam, and Pidge laughing away at a video game.

"I wOuLd DiE fOr AkIrA," Pidge mocks, cackling.

"Leandro, please!" Lotor laughs, cutting through a false simper as he pretends to swoon. "I couldn't live without you!"

"That's such a toxic sentiment, honestly." Adam shakes his head, but his eyes are glittering bright.

Shaking her head, Allura leans in the doorway, settling a hand on her slightly protruding stomach. Life is never perfect, not for anyone. But seeing her husband playing around and having fun with their friends -his new friends- suggests that everything might still turn out alright. Or at least, not as awful as it sometimes seems.

#LoveAftertheFact #LAtF #klance #galtean au #altean lance #galra keith #adashi #altean adam #galra shiro #voltron legendary defender #vld

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cosmicpeko · 5 years ago

Text

Tool ㅡ Chapter 1: Rage

Word count: 1,071

OTP: Fuyuhiko Kuzuryu x Peko Pekoyama | Danganronpa 2

Story type: fanfiction

Short summary: Peko Pekoyama dives into her most precious memories in an intimate journey to self-love, trying to live with emotions she can’t control and to discover what is like to be a real person. More notes at the end.

Read on AO3

ㅡ

My voice repeats: I am a tool. I was brought to this world to be by his side; I shall fulfill my purpose.

Mid-march rain falls on a wet wooden floorboard. Semi-open sliding door of the minka house hidden in the woods allows the wind to enter between the internal walls, run under the furniture, play with the paper on the floor ㅡ it untidies the room.

It caresses blonde hair. Freckles expose to the water ㅡ silky smooth skin becomes its path down to the pointy chin, through the neck, hides in the collarbones. Drops rest on his lips, tongue catches them, it drinks. He's smiling. He's relaxing every muscle of his body. He's resting ㅡ he's letting go. He breathes deeply. "I love rainy days. It feels like time stops for a while. Doesn't it, Peko?" A calling voice awakens my thoughts. Head raises, shoulders tighten. Humidity hurts my bones, angers my bruises. "It does indeed, Young Master." Red eyes wandering to finally meet hesitant green ㅡ I shall converse more, he demands, silently, as he keeps his gaze on me. I apologize. "...It feels like the sky is in a rage, too, though slowly but surely, it will pass. It has a rash temper, and it needs to let its anger go, then eventually, it manages to stop. Sometimes, it calms itself immediately, sometimes it destroys everything that falls victim under his reign. Mother Nature gave it immense power over us." Green eyes look delighted. Sweet humming slips from his still-smiling mouth. "You always get this poetic, dontcha? It's a women thing, you give them nothing, they play with words around it until they done covering it in fuckin' pink and flowers." He laughs. "How are you even 18? You sound like a nostalgic granny." I do not know what being poetic means. I happen to imagine inanimated objects embody different personalities. My Master ㅡ he reminds me of the sky. Every mood he owns is similar to its changes. He is calm and still like a summer night, he is impulsive like a storm. He is cheerful and fresh like a newborn sunrise, yet he is pained and melanchonic like a dying sunset. I've lived enough to see them all. "Does it hurt?" I am unworthy of his worried touch. But I don't dare to move. "It does not, Young Master." "Peko- you're literally a whole purple thing. Not even a mashed sweet potato looks this ugly." "I do not feel pain, Young Master. I live to serve you at my fullest - I need to be trained." Careless fingers gently press over the darkest spots on my left arm, then retreat, as he searches for even little hisses or whimpers of mine. Not one sound leaves me ㅡ I learned how to control myself with time. But I can still feel it ㅡ broken bamboo swords echoe inside my ribcage. Pristine fists turning purple and blue. Heart broken. Soul stronger. "Fine," his figure rises again and stands tall in front of mine. Distress contained in a self-hug, "I know this is your job and all, but please, don't push yourself too much. You are already strong enough. Just yesterday, you beat the shit out of that asshole at the pub like he was planning to destroy the world." "I do not deserve your worry, Young Master." "Peko, I said quit that "Young Master" shit-" he stops, suddenly, eating his own breath. I cannot decipher what is that is eating the perfect green of his iris as his gaze locks into mine. Something I never quite encountered before. Rage ㅡ but not the same as the sky's, nor the storm. Something different. Hot wind of the desert, carrying sand and flames. Burning hills. Searing gardens.

I am ashamed of how long I have been staring into my Master's eyes.

Hands rub together, trying to reduce the silence into a paste of aching shame, cold sweat, shivers ㅡ quickening heartbeats. "Fuckin' quit it, Peko." he repeats, voice calm and still. Summer night. "We agreed on it since we're starting school together again. I asked you kindly - this is starting to feel like I'm commanding you and I do not. Want. This shit. Got it?" Composure fights distress in an internal war I do not desire nor understand. I am still capable of holding myself back. "Yes-" tongue plummets in my throat "yes." "My fucking name, Peko." More heartbeats. Uneasiness. Silence. Composure. "I said what's my name, Peko." Head rises. Eyeballs tremble. Rain drips through blonde hair, through freckles, through silky smooth skin. The wind stopped cutting my cheekbones. "Young Master." Quick steps and pace ㅡ few seconds pass before his skinny figure starts rushing towards me. Red eyes follow instinctively like those of a fox preying on a rabbit in the snow, hands steady, knees firm. Last breath, a millisecond. Hold. He does not attack me. Instead, he kicks the wall behind me, where my back was laying, seeking relatively satisfying rest. I do not move, but I quiver. He retreats, then shouts. "My fucking name, Pekoyama!!!" Mind goes blank. Ringing sounds conquer my eardrums in a blink of time.

"Yes, Fuyuhiko!!! For God's sake!!!"

A growl leaves with the wind, scratches my throat and steals my breath. Every wall of the minka house shakes as I step upwards, stand taller than him, confront him unconsciously head-on. Teeth unraveled like fangs.

"When did you lose yourself, tool?" I want to know. When did I first witness my balance crumble. When did I allow emotions to get the best of me. How. How did I lose track of my inner being. "Don't you ever forget your life's only purpose. You don't get to have any other meaning than that."

How dare I confront my Master like that.

Instead, something is born anew through his face. Simultaneously. Fresh and wet sunrise across shiny lashes. He saw me, getting weaker under his command for the first time. He knows something I don't know. He sees something I don't see. He cracked me open.

Delicious chuckles flourish beneath his teeth. "Let's go," abstract flowers crown his newborn smile, perfume so numbing, "I want to go deer hunting last time 'fore we join a brand new hellhole." The distance between us increases as he runs outside the safe perimeter, completely run over by pouring rain.

He holds the keys to my soul.

ㅡ

So hello again. I really hope you liked this first chapter! More are to come. Peko is an extremely fascinating character to me and I can’t wait to dig into her a bit more and let you meet my version of her personality! This was heavily inspired by @thewildwilds beautiful art.

A special thanks to her, who indirectly taught me to love Kuzupeko in a brand new way - I’m so obsessed with them. (I also really hope she sees this ,,)

#danganronpa #danganronpa2 #fanfiction #kuzupeko #fuyuhiko kuzuryu #peko pekoyama #romance #otp #a little poetic but it's just my style #also ily ahn #notice me senpai

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ks-caster · 5 years ago

Text

The Future is Infinite (Chapter 2)

Chapter-specific warnings: slightly graphic descriptions of violence in battle, suicidal ideation, character experiences a panic attack, vomiting.

Start

“Steve Rogers,” Steve introduced himself to the strange woman, holding out a hand.

“Octavia,” she responded, switching her sword to her other hand to shake his. Her bare upper arms both seemed to be intact, which was strange, since Steve was absolutely certain her arm had been broken a moment ago. Before he had a chance to comment, a bright yellow light appeared to his left, and all four of them jumped to ready stances, only to be faced with a similarly exhausted and grime-covered group of people limping out of the portal.

“Tony!” Bruce exclaimed, having finally freed himself from the wreckage of Veronica. Steve’s breath caught in his throat - his genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist former friend was indeed limping through the portal, supported by that spider kid from the airport and holding his bleeding torso.

“Time stone,” one of the newcomers was listing as he leaned down to retrieve the glowing dot of green, placing it in an ornate golden pendant he was wearing around his neck. His red cape fluttered eerily against the light breeze.

“What, did Thanos just drop it?” Tony demanded in confusion as the man took a few steps forward to pick up the orange stone, letting it hover over his scarred hand.

“Octavia hacked some of them off the gauntlet before he retreated,” Steve responded. “Where’s…”

“Soul stone,” the grey-streaked man said, holding up the orange gem, and then turned to Octavia. “And the reality stone, safely inhabiting one Octavia Blake. Welcome to Earth your majesty,” he added with a respectful nod to her. Her eyebrows both arched, but her face gave nothing more away.

“And what should I call you? Other than disturbingly well-informed?” she asked coldly, folding her arms across her chest.

“Dr. Strange,” he introduced himself.

“Inhabiting?” Banner repeated, looking quickly between Strange and Octavia.

“The Aether, or Reality Stone, appears in multiple forms,” Strange explained quickly, weaving more golden light around the Soul Stone until it was encased in magic, then releasing the spell to leave a faintly glowing orb of material about the size of a pool ball lying in his hand. “It can be solid, it can be gaseous, or it can inhabit a living host. In this case, it’s inhabiting Octavia.”

“Guessing that’s why my arm suddenly works again,” she responded, flexing the muscle, face betraying nothing about how she felt regarding all of this strangeness. The doctor nodded, pocketing the soul stone and turning to T’Challa as he emerged from the woods, Bucky, Sam and Okoye on his heels.

“And also why your ribs are no longer puncturing your lungs, and so on and so forth,” he finished for her before switching conversations abruptly. “I take it the army has retreated?”

“Moments ago,” T’Challa responded, eyes moving quickly between everyone in the clearing. “Thanos?”

“Ran for his life,” Strange chuckled, “but still has two of the stones in his possession - Space and Power. He’ll be back in search of the others.”

“Then it is imperative that my sister finish removing this one from Vision,” the king responded. “We cannot in good conscience destroy it if it is attached to a living being.”

“Destroy— what the hell did I miss?” Tony demanded as Rhodey emerged from the forest and immediately took him from the spider kid.

“Medical attention first,” T’Challa decided, placing his own shoulder under Steve’s sagging weight, “explanations later.”

“Octavia,” Dr. Strange addressed her, and Steve turned to look in her direction, just in time to see her face go completely blank as she slumped to the ground in a graceless tangle of limbs.

“Her body needs time to get used to its new symbiote,” Strange explained dispassionately as Bucky strode over and lifted her up in a fireman’s carry, her fallen sword fitting neatly into his belt. “Anyway,” he added with something that sounded almost like compassion, “she’s had a worse day than any of us. She could probably use some rest before I make it worse yet.”

-0-

Every cell in Octavia’s body was on fire. The pain had begun after the Big Purple Bastard had slammed her into the ground, but it wasn’t just the feeling of all the bones that had surely shattered at the impact. Before she’d even had a chance to comprehend that pain, the burning had started, covering her whole body and filling her mind with white noise until she could hardly keep from screaming. She’d felt the burn intensify around her back, ribs and broken arm, but then those areas faded back into the agonized mass that was her body a moment later.

She’d forced herself to her feet, tried her best to be aware of her surroundings, but once she knew that her enemy had escaped, all of the energy she’d been expending to keep herself on her feet seemed so pointless. Without really meaning to, she let herself crumple, face pressed into the sweet-smelling grass for what she hoped wouldn’t be the last time.

Still vaguely lucid, she felt someone lift her, and heard snatches of conversation as they went wherever the hell they were going. Pressing her eyes shut, she breathed through the pain, trying not to vomit all over the guy carrying her.

Apparently the Big Purple Bastard’s name was Thanos; he’d gotten one of the gem thingies from Dr. Strange a few minutes before he’d arrived to fight Steve Rogers, and Dr. Strange had known she and Steve would be there to keep him from taking the stones any further when he’d given his up. That was more than a little presumptuous of him, she thought sourly, and the injured man named Tony seemed to agree.

After that, she could no longer focus on anything but how her body felt. At some point her center of gravity moved and she was on the ground again, her stomach heaving up bile and probably nothing else - when had she eaten last? Three days ago? Four? Someone was holding her hair back, and then time seemed to smear itself around her, and she was lying on her back in a bed, with entirely different voices conversing above her.

“When Jane had the Aether inside of her it was killing her!” a man was insisting, loud and agitated.

“Octavia’s people and those on Earth here and now share a common ancestor,” Dr. Strange was explaining tiredly, “but she’s several evolutionary steps farther along. She’ll adapt and survive.”

“Her cells are mutating to handle the stone’s presence,” a reedy woman’s slightly accented voice explained. “Based on the pattern here, I’d say she’ll have reached an optimal balance in about two hours.”

“But if the idea is to blow the thing up, shouldn’t we...” someone else muttered worriedly, and Octavia recognized the voice of the man who’d told Bellamy and the others to stay put. She wondered if they had.

“You don’t blow up an Infinity Stone,” Strange enunciated slowly, cutting the speaker off, and Octavia could almost hear him rolling his eyes. “Sure, Wanda Maximoff’s abilities could have fragmented the mind stone, but only because it would have regenerated inside of her due to the shared nature of her power. No, the stones are here to stay.”

“The ‘here’ part worries me,” interjected a speaker, accompanied by a slightly pained shuffle of footsteps. What had the man in the big red armor called him? Tony?

“You shouldn’t be up yet,” Strange admonished, and a number of other voices began speaking all at once. The cacophony of sound was too much for Octavia to follow, and she drifted again.

-0-

The pain faded to a warm ache that reminded her deliciously of the way her muscles felt after a good workout, and Octavia breathed deeply, savoring the welcome change. She blinked, her eyes taking in the well-lit room without the normal headache of awakening to light in her eyes that she expected.

“Back with us?” Steve’s voice greeted her, and she turned her head to see him in the bed to the right of hers, sitting up, one of his arms wrapped in bandages. Behind him, a man in blue leather armor with some sort of metal sleeve over his arm leaned sideways to look at her around Steve’s torso. Octavia glanced to her left, taking in the continuous row of white-sheeted beds and the clearly injured patients in them, and sat up gingerly, not sure she trusted the newfound relief in her body.

“I came to your planet on a refugee ship,” she started, wanting to rip the bandage off quickly. “Has anyone—”

“T’Challa sent a delegation to welcome them and see them to temporary habitation until there’s a chance to properly relocate them,” Steve assured her. Then he paused, looking uncomfortable. “Dr. Strange instructed the team not to let any of them know you were here. Is… everything okay?” Octavia blinked, taking in the wounded puppy look he was giving her, the way he hunched forwards, and the softness in his voice - and the way his brunette friend’s face was carefully blank, but his eyes were barely restrained from rolling.

She burst out laughing. Doubling over and clutching her miraculously healed ribs, she let her body shake out mirth until she couldn’t breathe.

“What? What did I say?” Steve was asking from somewhere above her.

“I’m sorry,” she giggled helplessly, wiping her eyes. “First I step on you, then I laugh in your face… I’m making a terrible first impression! Not my worst one, I guess,” she added sourly as she got herself under control. “It’s a long story,” she declined to explain, clearing her throat and reached up to pull the last of her hair free of her ruined braid.

“No idea how Dr. Knows-Too-Much knows about it, but I guess he does,” she grumbled.

“Yeah,” a young voice explained suddenly, and three heads lifted to see a teenager reclining in a hammock that was apparently stuck to the ceiling, “Mr. Strange did the time stone thingy and looked into like 14 million different futures while we were on the titan planet.” Lifting himself free of the hammock, he walked down the wall like it was a flat floor and jumped lightly down between the beds.

“How long has he been up there?” the brunette man demanded in a gruff whisper. Steve shrugged helplessly.

“He said there was only one where we win, so I guess this is it. Or I hope so anyway. Hey, they said you basically swallowed an infinity stone - what did it taste like?” Octavia’s eye twitched. Undeterred, the kid forged ahead. “What planet are you from? They were saying you had a common ancestor with humans - I didn’t know that was a thing, like there are other planets out there with other humans on them? That’s so cool!”

“Let her breathe, Peter,” A deep, even voice instructed. Octavia vaguely recognized the richly robed man as the one who’d worn the strange black armor. “I’m sure you have a great many questions,” he added as he reached the end of her bed. She swung her legs over to the left side, avoiding the now-apologizing teenager on her right, and reaching a hand out to shake his offered one. “I am king T’Challa, of Wakanda - the country you are in now. You are welcome here, and at the request of Dr. Strange, we have extended asylum to you until the political situation among your own people can be resolved.”

“Yeah, a resolution would be me dying - or leaving,” Octavia said bluntly, locating her sword leaning against a small table and reaching for it. “I hadn’t intended to stay this long - didn’t expect killing the big purple bastard to be more than one fight.”

“Cocky,” the brunette in the background commented.

“I’m missing something serious here aren’t I?” Peter said quietly.

“Ya’ think?” the brunette hissed.

“Bucky,” Steve said warningly.

“Well,” T’Challa responded calmly, “any plans that involve you dying will need to be postponed - according to our analysis, you’re functionally immortal while the Infinity Stone remains in your system.”

Octavia blinked, not sure what to think about that. She blinked again. And again. King T’Challa was opening his mouth to speak again, and she could see Steve out of the corner of her eye - he had that look again, like he was going to ask if she needed a hug, and—

“Yeah, that’s—” she felt herself saying, “that’s not going to work for me.”

“I understand that you may—” he started, but she cut him off, her words coming out in a sharp growl.

“Shop of! Yu getin laik nada, nomonjoka!” She shoved past him - he reached out to catch her arm but she shook him off. He made another grab, and as she whirled her arm in an arc to dislodge his grip, a blast of red light exploded from her skin where he touched her.

King T’Challa went flying head over heels - Octavia saw Peter jump in and catch him safely out of the corner of her eye as she fled the room.

Her heart was pounding in her throat. People were shouting behind her, and two sets of footsteps started to catch up. She didn’t look back to see whose they were.

Couldn’t even kill one guy.

Couldn’t even walk away afterwards.

Strangers knew everything about her.

Functionally immortal…

She wished the floor would open up and swallow her.

And then she was falling, watching neatly cut sections of floor after floor passing her by. In the space above her she saw Steve and Bucky’s faces staring in shock at her descent, and somehow that snapped her out of whatever state she’d been in; the next floor was solid and she smashed into it. With a bitten off cry of pain she pulled herself to her feet and took off running in the first direction that suited her. What the hell had just happened?

Infinity stone.

Cells mutating.

Functionally immortal.

She fell to her knees in the middle of some hallway somewhere, heaving up bile again. Voices speaking in an unfamiliar language approached her, and she stumbled to her feet again, eyes searching the space for an escape route.

“Octavia!” she heard Steve shout, just as she located an outside window. She bolted for it, unsure of what she hoped to find on the other side: a manageable drop so she could run off into the woods, retrieve her bag, and keep going until she was far, far away from everyone and everything - or a fall far enough to kill her and put her out of everyone’s misery.

With a wave of her hand, she peeled open the glass like a curtain, flinging herself out towards the setting sun.

The fall was long. But before she could get anywhere close to the ground, a sparking gold circle opened up beneath her, and she had the sudden sensation of falling upwards for a moment before crashing back onto a wooden floor. Rolling to her feet in a ready stance, she drew her sword as the portal closed.

“Stephen wasn’t kidding,” a portly man in dark red robes commented with a deep belly laugh. “You really are a live wire.”

Trigedasleng Translations:

I had to make up a couple of words because I couldn’t find the translations online - if you notice an error in my use of trig, please feel free to message me and let me know what it’s supposed to say!

Shop of! Yu getin laik nada, nomonjoka! = Be quiet! You understand nothing, motherfucker!

To Be Continued...

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hannah-deactivated20220725 · 5 years ago

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Elves (Kyle’s Story/HD/DHaF Universe)

So, since I’m the one that created elf characters for the roleplay/DHaF/HD world, my friend left it up to me what elves are like in our world...

That being said, I KIND OF went a little crazy developing them... so... here, have what elves are like in our world... also, it’s under the cut because when I say I “kind of” went crazy... I mean I really went crazy. So, enjoy!

Elves cannot drink more than 2-4 shots of liquor, depending on the elf, without dying of alcohol poisoning

When the elves realized this, they started experimenting with different things to see if they could get a buzz off of anything

Eventually, they found that they could get buzzes off of certain poisons

The poison will kill any other species

There are a few different types of elven liquor

One is a green drink called kumir

This drink causes giggle fits and tequila-like effects

Lots of elven babies have been born after the parents drank this drink

If another species drinks it, this drink causes explosive diarrhea and vomiting until they die of dehydration

As of now, there is no antidote for this poison

One is a bright orange drink called luuha

This drink is usually the cause of bar fights, so most elves tend to steer clear of this one

It can also cause an elf to see bright colors they otherwise wouldn’t normally see

If another species drinks it, this is the most painful of the poisons to drink

This poison is used in poison darts when an elf is trying to slay an enemy to not only kill them but also to disable them so that they cannot attack back

As of now, there is no antidote for this poison

One is a pale yellow drink called luisae

This drink causes contentment and over-affection

Lots of elves have professed their love for friends and crushes under the influence of this drink

When an elf drinks Luisae, it causes a tingling sensation along their whole bodies and makes kissing and holding each other a lot more enjoyable for most

If another species drinks this drink, it causes dizziness until they fall asleep… and never wake up

Elven scientists have been working on an antidote for this poison but have not found one yet

One is a bright blue drink called Rusta

Pronounced “ROO-STUH

This drink causes rowdiness and otherwise quiet elves to become much chattier

This drink is known as the Poison of Truth because it makes the inhibition disappear so that an elf can truly speak their mind

When another species drinks this poison, it causes them to foam at the mouth and die almost immediately.

This is the least painful of the poisons, though it does cause an… odd sensation

There is an antidote for this poison, but you only have 4 seconds to drink it before it’s irreversible

One is bright pink called Hoopa

Hoopa is known as the Dead Man’s Poison because it causes elves to fall right asleep

This is one that elves that have difficulty with sleeping will take

This particular poison, when taken by another species, is very painful but will just make the drinker fall asleep and never wake up.

You can usually tell when someone is poisoned with this poison because all of their veins will turn black

Has a connection to the earth that no other elves do

When an elf puts their ear to the ground, they can hear the “earth’s heartbeat”

No one else can hear it, so the other species refer to elves as the “schizophrenic species.”

Elven mages can use nature to revitalize their magics and boost them

Elven mages can do certain things with nature, like boost a flower’s lifespan or cause one to grow early

Elves have a special connection to other magic-using creatures

Elven mages feel it more strongly

Elven mages feel more connected to other nature magic-users

Magic-using creatures such as…

Witches

And familiars

Elves have royalty

There is a king and queen of the elves

The royalty is not always chosen by bloodlines, though 99% of the time, it is

If the elven people do not like a royal family, they have the right to kick them out of their position

Most elven royalty have been very good to their people

In the elven world, the queen has more power than the king

Most elves pray to have a daughter, but they will love and cherish their children no matter what sex

Female elves are spoiled and usually have a “nature room” where they can soak up that wonderful feeling of being close to nature

Female elves are even more connected to nature than the males

Elves do not typically participate in human activities or go to human places

They have their own stores that are similar to human grocery stores, only they are filled with mostly hunting supplies with just enough food to feed those elves that don’t wish to or are bad at hunting

At the end of every night, these stores will hand out food to the needy elves

They also have buildings that are like indoor forests, as a means for revitalizing the elf’s body and chakras and kind of like their form of relaxation therapy

Elves are a big believer in the healing power of colors

Being as they are beings of nature, most of the colors they believe in are nature’s colors

They believe that pink flowers will heal wounds

They believe that blue flowers will heal the mind

They believe that laying in a field of grass and staring up at the blue sky will put you in a trance that will also heal your mind

They believe that red flowers will bring back your passion *nudgenudge*

They believe that orange flowers will bring you peace

They believe that black flowers will poison the soul

They believe that the brown of tree trunks (and other parts of nature) will bring great pain

Elves have their own pantheons, all based off of different parts of nature

The goddess of all gods is the goddess of nature, or as humans call her, Mother Nature

Her name is Elais

She has long, flowing green hair the color of grass freshly rained on

She smells like your favorite flower

She has beautiful eyes that change color depending on what she wants you to feel when she talks to you

She has a voice that sounds like a soft breeze

The god of fire and the ocean (yes, fire and water) is Leonari

He has hair made of fire

He has eyes that look like an ember, glowing in the middle of an otherwise empty firepit

When he’s angry, his eyes turn from a soft ember to a roaring fire

He has a temper but he also is great at calming others in the middle of a rage

He curses the most out of the other gods and goddesses

He’s also seen as the god of depression

Not that he causes depression, but he helps elves to be able to deal with their depression

Elves with high tendencies toward depression tend to worship and pray to him the most

The god of the flowers and trees (plants, basically) is Gerardi

His hair is short and spiked

It’s rainbow colored and the colors shift every time he moves

His eyes, much like the nature goddess, change color, but his eyes reflect your soul and your intention in the world

If you’re “evil,” they turn red

If you’re “good,” they turn purple

If you’re “neutral,” they turn green

The goddess of weeds and other “undesired” plants is Magis

Her hair is green, short, with yellow tips

Her eyes are also green

She has pale skin that changes color depending on what species the person that is looking at her is

If a witch, her skin is like a pale grey

If an elf, it’s a pale green

If a werewolf, it’s white

If a vampire, it’s a pale brown

If a siren, it’s a pale blue

If a djinn/genie, it’s a pale pink

She has a look in her eyes that calms people when they are in the middle of a panic

She is the goddess that people with high anxiety tend to worship and pray to the most

Elves typically prefer to wear as little clothing as possible

The less clothes they wear, the more connected they feel to the world

The buildings I mentioned earlier with “nature rooms” are clothing optional

In fact, they encourage you to go in nude, like a spa

Most elves prefer to wear like… basically a bikini

Just enough to cover the vital places

Elves see the body as a holy temple of Elais

They eat specific berries that will boost their connection to the earth

These berries also cause hallucinations where they will see Elais

They are very big on natural exercising and going on runs out in nature

Lazy elves (yes, they do exist) are looked down upon because they’re seen as being careless toward Elais’ temple

Elves live about 300-400 years

This is partly due to their diet, but it’s also partly due to the fact that they’re connected to the earth

When an elf picks a berry from nature, that berry has a certain magic in it that boosts their lifespan

Just like how elven mages can boost the lifespan of plants, plants can boost their lifespans as well

Most elves are excellent hunters

As I said earlier, those that don’t, there’s a special section of the store for them

Most elves live in 3 places across the world

Most elves prefer the cold over the heat, but they also love LOVE tropical rainforests

When an elf is turned to a vampire, it turns into an entirely other creature

Elven mages don’t typically share their given names

If they do, they lose their power

The only way after that that they can use it again is if in nature while using it or if the person who knows gives them permission

#elves #worldbuilding #species development #my world #about my world #creating my own world #elven mages

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belovasangel · 6 years ago

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Au Lait .3

Summary: Shawn falls into routine, and you stumble into his heart.

Pairing: Mob!Shawn x (fem)Reader

Warnings: So much fluff, mentions of violence, cliffhanger

Start from the beginning

The beauty behind books is that a storyline can hold you for pages upon pages, keep you going as long as the main character survives. Protagonists and antagonists alike share a bond, to keep the plot going. A story never stops, it expands and develops, even when the cover is turned. The people we’ve met and known for days, weeks, months- they shape our lives. Much to our displeasure, we cannot admit that fake characters change ourselves, alter our minds and personalities. They corrupt our morals and give us a stronger sense of who we wish to be. As if their story never ended, but continued within ourselves.

That’s the appeal to series like Harry Potter, Divergent, even A Series of Unfortunate Events. We find ourselves in these characters, and carry on their lives as if they could see through our eyes and find their happy ending. That’s what we want. A peaceful stop, the end of our own personal novels, our lives.

Shawn came into the shop the next weekend, holding a coffee from the cafe you two met at. His assumption was correct, you did enjoy how they made espressos. He walked in every Thursday at 11:25 precisely, holding the goods and standing behind the counter, watching you check out and help customers.

He had never felt such a connection to anyone before. Shawn loved his family, his cat, his business, but no amount of familiarity can fill the void that you created in his heart. Shawn never admitted that he purposely took the train to this side of Toronto, just to walk by the bookstore and watch you work. He never thought that the reason he finally began to read again was because of a small shop owner.

Shawn couldn’t force himself to admit that (y/n) was the girl he saw in his dreams. The one he wished he could wake up to, make breakfast for, love on and die with. She was his one. He knew it, but he would never say.

Looking over his shoulder, Shawn caught your eye and gave a slight smirk, you shooting a wink. He longed to reach out, to hold your hand again, or wrap his arm around your waist. Shawn wanted to put his fingers in your hair, hold your chin as he kissed you, and cover your throat in him. Red and purple reminders of his love. Shawn let out a slight cough, clearing his mind, and took a sip of his lukewarm coffee. He hated the bitterness and the temperature.

And you knew it.

You read Shawn like the books you saw everyday. From the red ears he gets by a look, to the puppy dog eyes he gives when you don’t pay attention to him. Shawn Mendes was wrapped around your finger, and you wanted to say yes, ease his mind. You wanted to be the one to clean his wounds, kiss his knuckles and wrap his cuts. He was your escape into the worlds you read about.

Shawn Mendes, mob boss, part-time lover boy, was the book you wanted to pick up and never put down. He was your story, your new universe, and a place you were ready to dip your toe in. But, he would never open his heart enough for a little bookstore owner. So, you drank your coffee and indulged in the glances and simple touches he gave ever so often. And that would be enough, for now.

He looked over at you momentarily, taking in a sharp breathe as the customer left with a new book, a smile on her face. “Have a nice day, enjoy Les Mis!” You turned around and began writing something on a sticky note. “So, Shawn, is this simple life everything you’ve ever dreamed it to be?”

“It’s great, however, it could be better.” You looked up, tilting your head with furrowed brows. “I’ve only ever gotten coffee and muffins, which might have been good in the beginning, however the taste is growing on me. Do you know anywhere local that I can go for... I don’t know, dinner? I want to try a new restaurant, maybe one fit for two people?”

You bit your lip, crossing your arms and looking up at Shawn. His cheeks were red and his hair was a slight mess, most likely from running his hands through it. Before you could answer, Shawn cut you off. “Okay, listen, do you want to go on a date? It won’t be anywhere lavish or expensive, but somewhere you and I can go to relax. I know this has been a weird thing, with me just coming in an-”

Before Shawn could talk himself into an asthma attack, you placed your hand on his chest, gently. “Shawn, of course. I’d love to go on a date with you. There’s this place a few blocks over we can go, very quaint and nice. Tonight?”

He let out a shaky breathe, bringing his hand up and taking your fingers between his. “Of course, that’s what I was hoping. Seven on the dot, I’ll pick you up here, okay princess?”

You brought his knuckles to your lips, today they were more pink than red, and the cracked skin was healing. Giving a quick kiss, you nodded. “Perfect.”

We all crave the kind of love that books give. Our Prince Charming, or our Aurora’s, can hide between the cracks of day and night. They walk by us daily without glancing over twice, feigning to be busy or occupied by other things. Yet, we always catch the subtle glances and tender smiles. It comes time for us to make the first move, that’s the hardest.

Looking over at the clock, the time had hit 6:45. You ran your fingers through your hair gently, fixing the rings on your fingers and the earrings dangling between empty space. As you made sure the sign on the door was flipped to close, you did quick inventory behind the desk.

The door opened to the store, bell ringing and the clicking of boots walking in.

Stories always end how we want. A classic love story, a cliche that we’ve all seen before. The characters show a life that we want to have, where the ending is romantic. You’re swept off your feet and taken far far away, to start a life and begin your happy ending. That’s our goal, to see and believe, that love can save us from peril, our own internal and external struggles.

“Oh, excuse me sir, we aren’t open right now. You can come back tomorrow, we open at 9:30.”

With furrowed brows, the man kept walking towards the counter. Standing up, you reached for your phone. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave, or I will call the police.”

He placed both hands on the counter, one open handed, the other clutching a pistol. The man looked up with a dead set face, staring you in the eyes. A chill went though your spine as your phone began ringing. Looking down, you saw Shawn’s face, his ringtone blaring into the quiet store. The man picked up his gun, aiming between your eyes. “Pick up the phone.”

Maybe what we read isn’t all that true. What if the endings we want aren’t what we get? What if love isn’t enough?

Part 4

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes imagines #Shawn Mendes Imagine #shawn mendes x oc #shawn mendes x you #shawn mendes x reader #shawn #mendes #mob #mob!shawn #mob!shawn imagine #mob!shawn imagines #mob!shawn x reader #mob! imagine #mob!au

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theimpossiblescheme · 5 years ago

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Never Altered: The Theatre de Bourgoyne Ten Years Later

I had the idea a long time ago of having Cyrano bump into the buffet girl who was so kind to him in that first scene again, and the amount of sweet sweet content on my dash as of late gave me the kick in the pants I needed to finally write the scene I’d imagined. So here it is—feel free to tell me what you think! My grasp on that particular language style needs some brushing up, I’ll admit, but I gave it my best go, and I’m rather proud of how this turned out!

---

In ten years, the Theatre de Bourgoyne had barely changed a stroke of paint on its doors. At the moment, they were flung open to let in the steady trickle of playgoers here to see one of Moliere’s classics—one that Cyrano had already seen twice, but it was always interesting to see how different companies of actors interpreted the same lines. He kept one hand on the head of his cane and the other curled around his ticket as he watched the stream pass by him. Toward the front of the uneasily staggered line were the poorer of Paris, their hair unwashed and their clothes muddied and torn from the daily grind, but there was a brightness in their faces and a hunger in their eyes. They came for the love of the art and an escape from their humdrum lives, and Cyrano felt a rush of affection for them all as one man caught his eye and grinned in anticipation.

Behind him, a nobleman in purple ribbons—some duke or baron of somewhere or other—sniffed in distaste and gave him a shove to tell him to hurry up. It wasn’t too great a shove, though; it was barely a poke with one finger, as if he were afraid he would catch some disease from his poor neighbor if he let his hand linger too much. Flanking him, like a fleet of fanciful toy ships every color of the rainbow, were yet more men in flowing ribbons and silver buckles and women with more lace and fake flowers in their hair than any doll had ever worn. Every so often one of them would wave an enormous fan to someone they recognized and start discussing, in simpering voices like cats mewling for their masters’ attention, what box they would be sitting in, who was expected to be joining them, what each other thought of the latest court scandal… not a word about the play. They couldn’t have cared less about the play—they were simply there to be seen. And to look magnanimous, Cyrano supposed, since a handful of their gold could feed any of these actors’ families for a week. At least he’d had the grace to pay back the entire theater after the Montfleury incident.

As soon as he reached the doorway, a harried looking usher—dressed in burlesque servants’ clothing, distinguishing him as one of the play’s ensemble—rushed to the entrance with a small barrel slung around his neck, making him look like a lost St. Bernard puppy. “Tickets, please! Let me have your tickets! Box tickets, right here!” The poorer audience members ignored him and filed past, as they had no boxes to pay for, but the beribboned and caped members drew their tickets out of cuffs and purses and handed them over before hurrying to their private balconies. Cyrano himself had been saving for a seat among the lower balconies on the right of the stage; they gave him a wonderful view of the action, and the actors had a tendency to enter from the right side and mutter their lines to themselves, just to make sure they were memorized, before going on. If it was a play he’d already seen, it amused him to catch their gaze from far away and mouth their next lines to them if they looked particularly lost.

But before he had a chance to surrender his ticket, something ran headlong into his side, and he looked over to see a young woman clutching his arm like a lifeline at sea. A man’s dark brocade cloak nearly swallowed her slight frame, and there was a shoddy black domino mask, obviously cut from some larger garment, perched over her eyes. “Please sir,” she whispered, her voice ragged as if she’d been running for her life before reaching him, “if you would be so kind… let me sit with you in your box.”

“Why, does it not please you to stand?” Cyrano asked, not unkindly. Ridiculous as the rules were, there were still rules: if this girl was found in a box she couldn’t pay for, she would be thrown out of the theater completely. And no doubt he’d be thrown out after her for letting it happen.

She shook her head frantically. “My brother’s friends are here—my brother is part of the company… I can’t let them see me. If even one of them were to find me…” Wrapping her cloak tighter around her, she shuddered violently, and Cyrano could see the thin red line of a recently healed scar right at her hairline. So…

“Are you afraid of these men?”

Not looking up until she had thoroughly swaddled herself in the cloak, she nodded, and he was struck by how young she was. The poor girl had to be at least twenty, and perhaps even that was generous. “They’re still very young,” she ventured, a half-hearted attempt to defend them. “Young men… can be much crueler than older men. I’m sure you know—they think they have no one to answer to. Oh, no offense meant!” she quickly added, her eyes wide under the mask.

“None taken.” The frazzled young usher flexed his hand hurriedly toward them, and Cyrano tore his ticket in two and gave the halves to him. He took no notice and slipped them into the barrel all the same. “Let me ask but one thing in return for this, my child.”

The girl’s face twitched with momentary fear, but she still nodded. “N-name it, anything…”

“Your name, please.”

“My name?” For a second she looked confused, but it quickly faded into a look of relief. “It’s Clemence. Clemence Voizin.”

“Then let me formally extend an invitation,” Cyrano replied with exaggerated courtesy, sweeping a hand out behind him toward the boxes just out of sight, “for the esteemed Baroness Clemence Voizin to accompany me to the theater.” Another wash of relief came over the girl, and she finally smiled and fell into step beside him as they wound their way through the crowd. Occasionally she would start, thinking she recognized some man brushing her shoulder, and Cyrano would put a hand very gently at her back to guide her. When they finally reached his box, Clemence looked a bit bewildered, looking down at the ground floor like she’d never been this high up before… like she wasn’t sure if she belonged here. She lowered the hood of her cloak, and a spray of dark brown curls fell over her shoulder; Cyrano noticed she’d made an effort to dress for the occasion by threading the stem of a tiger lily through her hair.

“De Bergerac?” called a nasally voice behind them. Clemence startled, and Cyrano turned around to face the Marquis de Bassompierre, his long yellow plume and the ends of his outrageous black mustache bobbing with every inch he moved his head. It wasn’t often he made the voyage from Normandy to Paris, but when he did, it was always to drink in the city gossip and loom like a loud, preening bird of paradise over his peers, sneering at anyone else who fell beneath. “I am surprised to see you without your regiment. Even after their impressive victories, do the Gascony Cadets shun peacetime and prefer battle to poetry?”

“Some do,” Cyrano replied, unruffled. Original as the Marquis thought he was, it was a variation on the same tune he’d been hearing every time he came to see a play. “Some prefer to recount their own glories rather than see pale reenactments of them upon the stage. And some still prefer a poetry that no man’s pen can justly capture, the serene beauty and sublime quiet of their homes in the old country. You must understand, being a country squire yourself.”

De Bassompierre bristled, his mustache curling at being called a mere “country squire”, but he merely gave a thin smile and averted his eyes to Clemence. “And who is this… rustic rose?” he inquired, giving her an appraising look.

“You mean you don’t recognize her?” Gesturing for Clemence to turn around, Cyrano proceeded to gallantly untie her cloak and throw it over his arm with a flourish. “You stand in the presence of Clemence Voizin, daughter of the Baron de Constant de Rébecque‎. I offered to be her chaperone for the performance tonight, the rest of her family being preoccupied with court affairs.” Catching on, Clemence took a corner of her simple pink skirt between two fingers and dropped an elegant curtsey.

“I cannot say that I recognize her,” de Bassompierre said slowly, looking her over between narrowed eyes. “She isn’t exactly dressed for the theater, is she?”

“Her purpose is to admire the actors’ craft tonight, not to distract with being admired herself. Besides, bangles and lace serve only as foils to a greater diamond—does not her beauty speak for itself?” Clemence blushed at his last comment, and Cyrano took her hand very daintily in his own and guided to her to her seat, never breaking eye contact with the Marquis. De Bassompierre still didn’t look completely convinced, but a fanfare from the stage stole his attention as the play was about to begin.

“That was quite a close save,” Clemence gasped, leaning close to Cyrano across the arm of her chair. “Thank you… I don’t know what I would have done if I were stuck alone with any of them.”

He simply flicked a hand to dismiss it. What sort of soldier would he be if he turned aside a distress call, particularly from a defenseless young woman? “One learns with time that opinions and entitlements of boors matter less than they think they do, noble or common. Never waste your time paying them any mind.” Pressing a finger to his lips for quiet, he leaned forward to watch the play, and Clemence mirrored his posture.

Tartuffe was a success that night. Granted, Orgon was a little wooden and stale—the actor seemed to take for granted that he wasn’t the one the audience was there to see—but the title character was a divine charismatic force, drawing laughter and gasps from the audience by turns. Elmire and Mariane were both lovely, the former a stately and almost imperious beauty and the latter fluttering and rosy-cheeked as a new blossom, and Valère was charming and pathetic by turns. There was a moment where Damis forgot a line to his sister in a moment of panic, and Cyrano had to mouth it to him three times once he made eye contact, prompting sniggers from the box inhabitants across the way and a genuine giggle from Clemence. And if the various servants were a bit too broad in their comic relief and the sudden entrance of the unseen king at the end a bit too ridiculous, nobody minded too much. Even Cyrano had to admit it was a damn good show, and he rose to his feet to applaud with the rest of them as the company came out one final time for their bows. Beside him, Clemence was clapping feverishly, smiling like an excited child down at the young man who’d played Valère.

“Couldn’t I go down and say hello to him?” she insisted once the applause had died and the audience was beginning to file out, her fingers picking at the edges of her mask. “I came all this way—"

“Not yet,” Cyrano hissed, staying her hand. “Your brother’s friends may not be gone yet, and you mustn’t risk recognition if you fear them so much.” As Clemence wilted a bit and nodded, letting her hand fall into her lap, his eyes darted back up to the thin, angry scar on her forehead. “How did they inflict that mark, might I ask?”

For a moment, he wasn’t sure she would answer at all. Her hands twisted at her skirts, her fingers forming claws amid the fabric. With a quick glance to make sure de Bassompierre’s box was empty, she leaned closer to Cyrano again. “Robert—my brother—had come to visit me with his friends between rehearsals here. He said it—it would be a relief from my duties.”

“You worked here in the theater?”

She nodded. “I used to man the buffet. It was all the work I could find for so long, and for ten years I’d gone completely without incident… until that night.” Assailed with the painful memory, her face tightened for a second, and she took a deep breath before the moment passed. “One of the boys… made a pass at me. I might be an old maid, but I know that no kiss is meant to be so violent as the one he gave me.”

“Even if you were a maiden of sixteen, that would still be true,” Cyrano interjected, his voice gentle. “And beside that, if you are as old as you call yourself, you carry your age well,” he added with a smile. Ten years she’d been manning the buffet at the same theater… perhaps it wasn’t the worst job, but he could imagine how bored she must have become over so long a time. Especially with the louts this place used to employ and how rowdy the patrons could become. Maybe he’d done his fair share of contributing to that as well, he mused wryly… ten years ago he’d entered a lengthy duel with a viscount he’d only known for about five minutes. If he were a domestic caught on the sidelines, he might very well be terrified.

Clemence smiled a little sadly at his compliment before dropping her gaze back into her lap. “Well, as—as soon as he’d finished kissing me, Robert jumped in to defend me and hit him. And before I could tell them to stop, all four of them were having the most horrible row, throwing punches and breaking glasses over each other’s heads. I tried to intervene, but… that was right when one of them took out his sword.” She swallowed thickly. “I never saw who it was, but… that’s how I got the scar. Robert’s friends never apologized—not that I ever heard—and the theater manager scolded me for getting in the way… so I handed in my apron that night. I’ve seen too many fights, and this—this one was the worst.”

“There was still an element of courage to your intervention,” Cyrano said after a moment’s silence, unsure if anything he could say would comfort her. “And of nobility, thinking of your brother’s safety rather than your own. In a duel, to mark an opponent’s face is considered the height of dishonor, being so easy a target… but one never lets the other’s dishonor discolor one’s own outlook. You are a woman with many enemies, you bear their scars openly—be advised, wear them like armor. Be proud that yours is the moral vantage, endure as a martyr would, and other men such as Robert’s friends will know that nothing they do can damage that armor. Scars fade, but it will withstand and serve you well.”

It wasn’t anything special—his fellow cadets would have scoffed at the sentiment and dismissed it as childish. But they were hardened men, not a young lady with so little experience with the world and its violence; she needed gentleness and encouragement, not a rousing call to arms. And no doubt his lack of experience was showing. Roxane… Roxane hadn’t needed such words in years… not since they were children playing among the bulrushes together. What did he know of that kind of naivete anymore? But it was still a lesson they had both learned so long ago, one that he still held to with so many years lining his face… and it seemed to do the trick. Clemence’s smile was a little more sincere as she looked back up at him. “You’re as eloquent in person as you are in the Gazette, Monsieur de Bergerac,” she said with another blush painting her cheeks. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Cyrano merely smiled in response and leaned beside her against the balcony to watch the patrons trickle back out the doors. Occasionally she would crane her neck to see a certain pod of half a dozen men or so, bantering boisterously among themselves and shoving each other in that way that only not-quite-boys can, making their way outside. He heard her breath catch as they stopped by the door, as if they were waiting for someone—her brother, no doubt—and she unexpectedly darted her hand out to squeeze his, which he let her after a moment’s surprise. Whatever it would take to calm her nerves—it was better than Ragueneau’s habit of nearly fainting when he’d endured more than he could take. It took the young pod about ten minutes to decide it wasn’t worth the wait and join the exiting stream, to which Clemence seemed to finally exhale and let go of Cyrano’s hand. “Thank you,” she breathed, reaching up for her mask and peeling it away to reveal…

Well, well, well… this was an interesting turn of events. “My dear mademoiselle, you have deceived me. You might have mentioned that we had met before those ten years ago.”

This time she blushed even more furiously. “I didn’t think you would remember me, Monsieur.”

“Ah, but you do my memory a great disservice,” he retorted with an even broader smile. “The little guardian angel who offered me a month’s satisfaction in a single free dinner.” How fate loved a jest indeed—but this one he would welcome. “If you may think nothing of a moment’s boldness, dear child, you look no different now as you did then.”

Clemence laughed, a fuller and less timid sound. “I’ll accept being called a child this time, the way you say it. You’ve hardly aged a day yourself, Monsieur.”

“Oh, don’t lie so—you mar what might have been a flawless second impression.” Cyrano’s own expression was wry as he got to his feet, leaning on his cane as the floor momentarily spun under him. “Remember what I said about scars, wearing them with pride… I have cheated death many times and find myself no more handsome for the wear, but no less undefeated.”

“What happened?” She rushed forward to take his arm, but he shrunk from her as he drew himself upright. “They called you the Heroes of Arras, but I can’t imagine what must have happened…”

“A great deal happened,” he replied glibly. “In my own case, a stray cannonball sought an argument with my skull. Miraculously, my skull emerged victorious… and I stand before you now… more or less the same Cyrano de Bergerac who refused more than a handful from your table years ago.” Remembering her cloak on his arm, he unfurled it like a magician with his cape before draping it back around her shoulders.

“And thank God for it, too,” Clemence said, smiling up at him even as she busied herself with the ties of the cloak. “Or else you would not have been here to hide me from my own enemies.”

“A trifle, my dear Mademoiselle Voizin, a mere trifle. It is payment enough to finally know your name.” Lifting her hand, he kissed it as he would the hand of a princess, the same as he had a decade ago. “And now let me ask but one more thing of you before your brother spirits you away.”

“Anything you like—you have an hour of my time, Monsieur.”

“Allow me to buy us both dinner from the downstairs table. Think of it as repayment.”

“You don’t have to repay me for anything… but thank you.” And Le Bret was right—her eyes didn’t avoid him as she followed him back downstairs to pass another pleasant hour, and her smile never faded. Of all things that the Theatre de Bourgoyne had never altered in all this time, perhaps this was the best of them all.

#cyrano de bergerac #my fanfic #I might write another missing scene sort of affair like this--this was really fun to write.#Finding the right words for Cyrano himself was a bit of a challenge but the good kind of challenge. XD

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vincent-frankenstein · 5 years ago

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To My Heart and Soul

[ 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | you are here | 17 | 18| read on AO3 ]

Warnings: major character death, villain/abusive deceit, blood, fighting, panic attacks, creepy imagery

Pairings: logince, hints of moxiety, a tiny smidge of remile and past abusive anxceit

“Get away from them,” said a new voice — a familiar voice, a figure standing cloaked in darkness among a sea of purple and black. Dorian cried out as he was shoved backwards, the weapon falling from his hands with a clatter — his magic dissolved and the smoke cleared, and Logan’s eyes widened.

“Anxiety?” he whispered.

“Virgil!” Roman cried, his face lighting up with relief and pride and excitement all at once.

“Hey, Princey,” Anxiety — Virgil managed, beads of sweat lining his brow as he held Dorian back. His magic flared a million shades of violet, reflecting off his pale skin. For a moment, it seemed as though it would be enough to keep Dorian down; he struggled beneath the deluge, pain flashing across his sallow face.

But then Dorian pushed back with a furious growl, and yellow overtook purple until both colors vanished in a rush of smoke. When it cleared, Dorian was on his feet, breathing heavily, rage twitching on his face.

“I should have known,” he growled, yanking his cloak back into place. “I should have known that you would be too cowardly to listen to me. What did Roman tell you? What lies did he use to make you betray me?”

Purple magic jumped back to life around Virgil’s hands. “He made me see that there’s more to life than just — than this! He made me feel like I’m worth more than this! That’s more than you ever did.”

“I loved you!” Dorian yelled.

“You hurt me!” Virgil screamed, with all the fury of a thousand nights of pain. “Again and again and again — and you made me hurt everyone who ever actually cared about me! I’m done! You can’t control me anymore!”

“Fine,” Dorian said, molten gold lashing around his hands, eager to attack. “Then you’re in my way, and you will be eliminated with the rest of this world. We could have had it all, Virgil. The future was ours.”

“I don’t want any part in your future,” Virgil snarled. “And you’re not going to be doing any eliminating today.”

Dorian blinked, his face going blank. “So confident,” he said, his voice eerily calm, devoid of the ragged emotion he’d held just a moment ago. “I’ve already enacted the spell, Virgil, and you alone cannot stop it. This world will be destroyed, and I will usher in a new one. You could have ruled alongside me; now you will die at my feet.”

Virgil glanced back at Logan and Roman, his eyebrows furrowing. “I’m not alone,” he said, softly at first, and then again, stronger. He lifted his head, standing tall. “And maybe I can’t stop you… but they can.”

“Who —”

The wall behind Dorian exploded in a kaleidoscope of a million colors, dozens of different magics bursting through to wrap around Dorian, twisting again and again and again until he was bound from head to toe. It barely slowed him down — he burst through with a flash of gold, with a flash of fury, and raised a shield against the man cloaked in blue who stepped through the hole in the wall, followed by the Arcane Council.

“Get out of here,” Virgil hissed at Roman and Logan, as Patton countered Dorian’s attacks. Logan had never seen such anger on Patton’s round face; righteous fury flashed behind his glasses, spurring on the azure flames that curled protectively around him. Roman gazed at his brother like every problem in the world had just been solved, his name falling softly from his lips. Neither could find it in themselves to move.

“That’s for hurting my friends!” Patton cried, shoving aside Dorian’s magic and pushing him back with a blast of blue. “That’s for tearing apart my family!”

The other Council members fanned out around him, throwing attack after attack until Dorian could barely keep up. For the first time, Logan saw fear in Dorian’s eyes. Virgil joined the attack, standing beside Toby like he’d always been meant to stand among them, his magic lashing through the air.

Dorian fought viciously, molten gold dripping down his arms — but for every ounce of fury in his attacks, the Council returned it tenfold, anger laced through every shade of the rainbow. He was shoved back, further and further, until he was cornered against a wall —

And he didn’t have the weapon.

He didn’t have the weapon, Logan realized with a start. It sat abandoned behind the battle, glimmering in the magical light. He gripped Roman’s hand and Roman followed his gaze, his eyes widening. His ring seemed to burn insistently on his finger, pulling him towards it.

Hand in hand, they dodged through the battlefield. Logan scooped the weapon up off the floor, and Roman placed his hands over his so they were holding it together. Warmth bloomed from the weapon’s core and flowed through them both, driving away their pain, filling them with strength.

“Enough!” Dorian bellowed, shoving out a wave of magic so powerful that the entire Council was pushed backwards. Logan braced himself — but the magic parted around them the moment it hit the weapon’s tip. Dorian panted heavily, his clothing torn and his hair disheveled and his skin marred with a myriad of cuts and bruises. Molten gold dripped from each cut, and slipped, like tears, down his cheeks, trailing from his inky black eyes. He didn’t even look human anymore.

Logan suspected that he wasn’t.

His dark eyes landed on them and widened, a hissed curse falling from his lips. “Roman,” he breathed. “You wouldn’t kill your brother, would you?”

“You’re not my brother,” Roman snarled. “I know exactly what you are. I know exactly what you’re trying to do.”

Dorian — or, rather, the thing that wore Dorian’s face, froze. Then he began to laugh — slowly at first, so faintly that Logan could barely hear him, but then he grew louder, his laughter hinging on insanity, cold and high-pitched and horribly cruel. “Congratulations,” he said, and suddenly the thing flickering around him came into full view, if only for a moment. Logan caught a glimpse of long, golden fur and deeply malevolent golden eyes, dripping with darkness and blood. “Took you long enough to figure out.”

“The Golden One,” Patton whispered behind them, terrified realization shaking through his voice.

“A destroyer of worlds,” Roman continued for him, when Patton’s voice failed. His grip around Logan’s hands tightened. “He invades realms, destroys them, and then replaces them with his own. He and his silver beasts lay waste to every living creature they can find.”

Logan’s eyes widened. His breath hitched in his throat. “Beast of gold and world of silver,” he breathed, so quietly that no one heard him. His prophecy was right. He couldn’t bring himself to say the next words — end of all, beginning of one. Instead, he slipped his wedding ring off his finger, with a silent promise to never let it come to pass.

“I don’t know what you did to my brother,” Roman said, his voice reverberating powerfully around the room, “but for his sake, I will stop you. For everyone’s sake, I will stop you. This ends now.”

The beast snarled, Dorian’s face contorting with rage. Molten gold dripped from his hands, surrounded by a fog of yellow magic, casting sickly light across the room. Roman lifted the weapon; Logan pressed his ring into the hole.

Light burst to life around the blade — a burning crimson fire, spreading down the hilt. Though smoke curled from the flame, Logan felt no heat. It spread up Logan’s arms and grew until it engulfed them both, blazing bright red; power buzzed through his chest and glowed in his lungs, burning with potential. He tightened his grip on the weapon.

The world seemed to stop, time itself holding its breath — in one moment they stood, silent, on opposite sides of the room, their magic waiting — and in the next moment —

The beast’s magic rushed forward and Roman and Logan released their hold on theirs — and the two powers collided in the middle of the room, in a rush of heat and blinding light — and the weapon’s magic burned through, piercing the veil of gold —

And it collided with Dorian’s chest, crimson spreading along his golden veins, engulfing him, surrounding him — the weapon shook in their hands, the warmth reaching a burning peak, the light growing brighter, brighter — the beast flickered around Dorian and bellowed in pain, gold giving way to crimson rot as it dissolved beneath the magic —

And with a rush of heat and a mad burst of light, it exploded.

#virgil sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #deceit sanders #ts deceit #villain deceit #abusive deceit #to my heart and soul #celeste's portfolio

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sosthemortalcoil · 6 years ago

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Fluff Fueled by Spite

Alright so on the discord it was said that @thesearobberssun and I couldn’t write fluff. ( @thenickelportrust is a brilliant game--also just updated, so even more reason to go play it if you haven’t!--and I adore it to bits.)

We were given two prompts: Sleepy morning cuddles, and flowers. Limit of 5k words which I just squeaked by. We also let the discord pick characters. Since Rena did her angsty boy, it was decided I would do one as well (There are a lot of them though >.>) and therefore Mr. Oblivious aka Ramiel aka Walking Talking Trouble is featured. Written from his POV, per agreed.

Enjoy this pure fluff and lots of flower stuff!

The first light of morning enters the bedroom, painting gold bands of light across their sleeping face. Smiling down at them fondly, Ramiel strokes the top of their head gently, bending down to press a soft kiss to their forehead. He doesn’t want to leave their side, but he has plans.

A touch of corrupted Grace ensures that they’ll stay sleeping while he carries out his plans. Carefully he extracts himself from their embrace, pulling the sheets up around them and giving them another fleeting kiss on their cheek.

The first bazaar he enters smells of incense and metals, sweat and brimstone. It’s warm, but the only flowers he can find are dried and pressed. That’s not what he’s after.

The second one is even noisier, with the marketplace covered by a canopy of masterful tapestries that turn everything into a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors. At first he believes that this, too, is a bust, but right as he turns to leave he catches a glimpse in his peripheral vision of a riot of glowing flowers being hauled away on someone’s back.

Heedless of anyone else’s comfort, Ramiel dives through the crowd, twisting and weaving through the various sundry denizens as he struggles to keep the bobbing flowers in sight. The streets grow narrower and the noisy din starts to fade, but Ramiel still doggedly pursues his prey.

He’s sure he’s finally found the flower bearer, but when he rounds the last corner he saw them disappear down, he finds only shoppers swaddled in dark cloths and not a single glowing bloom in sight. Mumbling under his breath about the nuisances of trans-dimensional markets, he once more goes to give up with a diminutive figure tugs on his pants.

“You seek something for a love?” they ask, too many eyes to count blinking up at him from beneath their headscarf.

“I—I wanted to bring them flowers,” Ramiel admits, knowing better than to ask silly questions like how this creature could know why he was here. It was relatively safe to answer anyways; the markets had their own laws preventing any acts that would endanger customers.

The creature grins, the teeth appearing above the eyes, thousands of little needles. “This way then! Java knows best. He speaks the language of many flowers.” The little creature scampers away, Ramiel following the tower of their bright head-wrap to a plain wooden door, no windows in sight.

“Here, here!” As expected, Ramiel fishes out a gold coin and tips the small creature. They toss it into a fold of their head-wrap, bow, and vanish in a puff of smoke.

Ramiel pushes the unmarked shop door open, a chorus of bells jingling softly as he enters.

“One moment,” a low voice like that of tectonic plates shifting greets him. It takes Ramiel a few moments to adjust to the darkness of the shop. He’s disappointed when he sees a ton of buckets with not a single flowering bloom in sight.

“What brings you to Java’s?” The shadow behind the counter moves, a hulking creature of rough angles and jutting protrusions speaking to him.

“I was told I could find some flowers here,” Ramiel admits, rubbing the back of his neck. Another dead end. He might need to give up and find an earth florist. Gabriel isn’t going to stay asleep forever.

“You won’t find what you seek,” Java responds. Ramiel sighs.

“I thought as—”

“I was not done speaking,” Java interjects, a note of reprimand in his voice.

Ramiel shuts his mouth.

“You will not find what you seek here,” he continues to rumble, restarting from before Ramiel interrupted him. “But you will find what you need.”

Ramiel arches an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure that’s what every merchant would prefer I believe,” he states with amusement. “And if you don’t have any flowers for me, then I’m afraid I must be going. I—”

Once more he’s cut across. “Old yet still so young and impatient. The lessons you learn best are the ones that come with a heavy price.”

Ramiel’s jaw clicks shut.

“You seek some pretty blossom to present to your soulmate.” When there’s a deliberate pause, Ramiel gives a cautious nod.

“But you are deaf to the language of the flowers, blind to the way they speak. I shall enlighten you.” Anywhere else, it would sound like a load of hyperbole and hogwash.

Here, Ramiel bows his head in deference. “I would appreciate that greatly, Java.” The huge figure comes around the counter, squeezing through a space that doesn’t look like it should hold him. Ramiel blinks, and decides not to think about it.

“Here.” Java jabs one blunt finger at a bucket. Ramiel raises a questioning eyebrow.

“Touch the flowers.” Wary, but curious, Ramiel reaches out and brushes his fingers over the stalks. A soft gasp escapes him as a riot of golden sparks fall onto his outstretched hand, a riot of color exploding into the dim interior of the shop.

The long petals fall across his fingers, bleeding from gold in the center to a fiery red-orange on the outside edges. The stamen reach for his fingers, dusted with more of the glowing golden embers, the entire flower casting soft flickering light like a torch.

“The Flames of Passion,” Java informs him. “All of these flowers bloom because of what you feel; they are not simply pretty items to be tossed hither and thither as part of an archaic courting ritual.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with the classics,” Ramiel protests, leaning forward. His surprise is increased when the blossoms smell like Gabriel, their Grace scent rising to meet his nose.

“If I did not appreciate flowers and the sharing of them with others, we would not be here,” Java reprimands.

“The Flames of Passion usually bloom for new lovers, part of a new relationship, a new, consuming love where-in there is room for little else. This love has not had time to mature, raw and consuming.”

Ramiel lets out a nervous chuckle. “I’m not sure—” This time he stops himself, letting Java continue at his slow and controlled pace.

“For you, it is a revival. This love has been a long time coming, but each day you wake to be surprised by its existence. You want to share some of that wonder. Which is why the Flames of Passion are not the only blooms I will share with you. Please, touch them all.”

Feeling like a child, with a whole new world of possibilities spread out before them, Ramiel reaches out, dragging his fingers across rows and rows of stalks, occasionally hissing as he encounters thorns or fine hairs that prick against his skin.

Several types of flowers open partially, some give him a token shudder of growth, but in the end three more open fully, creating patches of soft blue, white iridescent rainbows, and another one that doesn’t cast a wide aura but instead fills the air with stars.

“Misty Waters, Eternal Love, and Traveler’s Guide.”

Java points to the dark blue flower, something that looked vaguely like an earth lily, if Earth lilies were the size of small children and had glowing blue orbs at the center of them, freckles of purple scattered across the giant petals. “Misty Waters. It’s not always been the easiest course. Sometimes you’ve lost sight of each other. Sometimes you’ve wandered without direction, unsure of where or how to proceed. But the waters calm, and while your eyes may say you’re lost, the heart knows better. As long as you have each other, you will only wander, never again lost.”

“Eternal Love might seem self-explanatory,” Java muses, tickling the riot of gossamer white petals that send out an intense white light with rainbows dancing on the edges, as if refracted through some crystal or prism. “But the colloquial use is one that detracts from the truth this flower speaks. They will only bloom for those who have found an eternal soulmate. All the youth seem so concerned about romantic love, but the truth is there are many soulmates for a single person. Platonic, familial—there are many kinds. However, not all soulmates remain so across the multitude of existences.”

Java pulls his hand away, and the light narrows, chasing his retreating fingers. “Rarely do they bloom, for they only do so if the bond is true, returned, and eternal. This is the kind of love that death cannot touch, that survives and goes on even after whoever it binds has passed from living memory. The last one I saw blossom was well over six centuries ago. Many come in, believing they have found true love, and often it is true love, but true love is not the same as eternal. This love will pass the test of time, past the end of one and beginning of another.”

Finally Java trudges over to the last flower. “Traveler’s Guide. I believe an Earth equivalent might be the North Star. In this case, for you, it means your partner is the course by which you plot your life. No matter how far you wander or how far you drift apart, you will always come back together. They are your home, your light in the darkness, keeping you safe and warm, guiding you back to them.”

Ramiel swallows. “These are—something else, aren’t they?” he asks in wonder, watching the array of lights.

“That they are.” Java moves, and the lights slowly peter out, the flowers folding back up into themselves. “I’ll have them delivered.”

“You do deliveries? The penthouse is warded.”

Java chuckles. “Do not concern yourselves. The wards keep out any who mean harm.”

Ramiel doesn’t bother asking anymore questions. All he’ll get in response is more cryptic non-answers. “Very well. What do I owe?”

“Nothing much. To bloom they require a depth of emotion many do not possess. They feed on emotion, basking in it like the plants on Earth do in the sun. It does not lessen your own emotions. Simply keep them in a place of honor and nurture them.”

“That seems too simple.” Ramiel tilts his head.

Java turns around, and suddenly his back erupts into a riot of colors, a rainbow of living lights. “Our existence is symbiotic. The flowers need a voice, and we need their light.”

He turns back around, and a smile spreads across his rough-hewn features, showing off a mouth of crystals. “Not unlike your feelings for…” Java inclines his head. “Gabriel.”

Ramiel sucks in a breath, a smile curving his lips. “They are my everything,” he agrees, rubbing his chin. “And I want to—I want to be there for them.”

Java nods. “You are now. Or will be, shortly. You should go, return to them.” Ramiel holds up his hands, chuckling.

“As you say. Merry meet and farewell again till the suns shall rise and the moon hold safe your slumber, the mother mountain’s embrace home as the meadow flowers share their secrets for your soul.”

Java lets loose a chorus of grating, rumbling noises Ramiel recognizes as laughter. “Merry meet, traveler. Journey safe to the arms of your love.”

Farewells exchanged, Ramiel steps out the door—and into another shop. He takes a breath, and blows it out, cheeks puffing as he looks around.

“You again.”

The voice is airy, and sounds bored.

“Me, again?”

Ethereal hands appear in front of him, crossing. Even without seeing more of a body, he gets the impression that they are less than pleased. “Most people only share one, uggg, how to say this in your simplistic understanding of language, hmm… heart? Heart-fruit. You share it with your love, and you will never be alone again.”

Ramiel’s eyes widen. “You! I remember you!”

One hand flaps at him while the other wanders off. “Yes, yes, the impressive multi-dimensional being whose shop you stumbled into because you just had to try showing off your language skills and instead insulted a whole troop of Rhivunians. I’m fairly sure your name is still considered a foul word in their native tongue.”

Ramiel shrugs, cocky grin in place as he leans back. “I’m memorable, what can I say?”

Something comes hurtling out of the interior of the shop, and he catches it by reflex. “Now leave, before you do something,” the voice orders.

“I don’t even know how I got here! For once, I am completely innocent.” The hand still in front of him points at him, the large forefinger tipped in a blunt claw approaching with such vehemence that he stumbles back a step.

“You? Innocent? I’ve never had to give someone two of those! I don’t want to know what your love life looks like, but take it and get out.”

Ramiel rocks his head from side-to-side, a chagrined smile affixed in place. “Well, to be fair, I think you used a different word last time and I might have shared it with my nestmates not realizing it’s only meant for lovers—”

“GET OUT!”

This time the finger jabs at him, and then at a barely visible exit. “Are you sure? I’d be happy to—”

The other hand reappears from around a corner and Ramiel takes that as a sign to make his getaway.

This time he exits into the main square of the marketplace. It’s easy enough to hop a few portals back to earth, though he doesn’t return home, not right away.

“Oh my goodness gracious is that my favorite fallen angel?!” The voice that greets him is quickly followed by a chorus of squeals. In a moment Ramiel is surrounded by a group of dryads, all of them fawning over the strange fruit he has cradled in his arms.

“Is that for us?” Veracaea rises up on her tiptoes, reaching for the strange looking fruit. Ramiel quickly holds it over his head. Only Betulacaea is tall enough to reach, and he’s observing calmly from the edges.

“All right, settle down!” Salix claps their hands, and with some mumbling, the dryads give Ramiel.

“What can we do you for? Need snares? Instant forest growth?” Salix has their hands on their hips, appraising him.

“Nothing quite so dramatic, but much more important,” Ramiel informs them, lowering the fruit so he can cradle it against his chest again. “I…need two flower crowns. For me and my lover.”

The squeals this time could pierce eardrums. Betulacaea is the one who restores order this time. “Finally settling down?”

“Finally returning home, to where I should have been,” Ramiel responds, his smile rueful.

Varacaea bustles him over to a chair. “Wait here. We need to confer.”

The dryads disappear into the back of the shop, leaving Ramiel alone up front. He hopes this is quick. If Gabriel wakes up before he returns, then the surprise will be ruined.

The minutes tick by painfully slow on the clock. He squirms in his seat, and glances down at the fruit in his arms. It hadn’t tasted great the first time, but apparently it was supposed to tie together the hearts and souls of whoever ate it. Strange, it hadn’t seemed to work the first time. Maybe that was because he hadn’t understood what he felt back then.

The thought of him and Michael being tied together permanently makes him snort. That would have been a disaster.

Salix pokes their head out. “Come here. We need you to listen and learn.” They smirk. “Not your specialties, but I have a feeling you are particularly invested this time.”

Ramiel grumbles, but gets to his feet and follows the cheeky dryad into the backroom. A pair of flower crowns rest on the table, a myriad of plants artfully woven together.

Salix picks up the first one. “Each features a centerpiece of an acorn,” they say, pointing to the little oak nut. “This symbolizes life and immortality. The base of ambrosia is reciprocated love. Arbutus sprinkled for you only do I love.” They point to yellow-green flowers and then the white waxy ones in turn.

“Varacaea wanted some camellias, but they’re just not well-suited for crowns.”

“But I won on the daisies,” Varacaea chimes in smugly, pointing to the delicate chain of the small white and yellow flowers. “Daisies for loyal love.”

“Technically innocence too, but we all know you don’t have any of that left,” Betulacaea interjects. “But add a dandelion or two for faithfulness and happiness, contrast with some blue forget-me-nots for true love, and it works out.”

“I wanted to add some grass to yours for submission,” Varacaea takes over the conversation again. “Never seen you so in love.”

Salix smacks her with the back of one of their long-fingered hands. “Instead some white heather to represent wishes coming true, as well as protection of your love and life.”

Varacaea waggles her wispy brows. “Especially the bedroom ones.”

“I am never letting you hang out with the Greek gods again,” Salix moans, pinching the bridge of their flat nose. “Anyways, bells of Ireland for luck—”

“Heaven knows you need it,” Varacaea interrupts, dancing out of Salix’s reach.

“Some myrtle for yet more love, and stock for an expression of your bond and that you will always find each beautiful.” Salix finishes, turning to Betu.

The tallest of the dryads takes a breath and finishes the spiel. “Lastly, stephanotis for happiness in your relationship. Technically most understand it as happiness in marriage, but we take it as happiness in your bond, may it be eternal, for unlike mortals, death is not a given and marriage is not a state endemic to your kind.”

Ramiel nods his head.

“You’re not going to remember half of that, are you?” Salix asks, sympathetically.

“Nope,” Ramiel affirms.

They pass him a list and the two crowns. “Don’t get caught reading from the list. It’s not very romantic.”

“Hey, I can do romance!” Ramiel protests.

“No doubt about that, you flirt.” Varacaea pushes him out of the back and towards the front. “Now go and be a romantic sap elsewhere and leave us to our business.”

They all wave him off as he juggles the crowns and the fruit. Glancing about, he slips into an alleyway, moving between planes to arrive in front of the high-rise he now calls home.

He carefully opens the door, tiptoeing in and relieved when he doesn’t find Gabriel awake and waiting for him. What he does find, however, is a fair amount of the flowers from Java’s shop, still closed up, resting on the counter.

Now that he has everything, the real work begins.

The first problem he discovers is that the second he makes contact with the flowers, they bloom, and none of them are the paltry size of the flowers found on Earth. So he wraps a pair of kitchen towels around his hands and carries them to the bedroom like that. The second problem is that he can’t arrange them until he touches them because he has no idea what they are closed up.

The towels come off, and he only gets hit in the face by one of the large Eternal Love. To check the ambiance, he artificially thickens the blinds until the only light comes from the flowers. Closest to the bed is a low blue glows and a scattering of stars projected above the bed. Then comes the rainbows within the white light, and finally a core of flickering orange-red at the foot of the bed.

Not bad, if he says so himself.

The next stage is breakfast. A single plate, the fruit centered on it with a pair of forks crossed above it, and two cups of coffee. Cream and sugar just like he knows they like it.

Carefully he brings it to the bedroom, and then slaps the heel of his palm to his forehead. The crowns.

He goes back to the living room and puts his on, trying not to look at any reflective surfaces. It probably looks ridiculous on him, as ostentatious as it is. Instead he reads over the list again, trying to commit all the components woven in together. Then he takes his off and switches it, realizing that the one he had been holding had grass. Looks like Varacaea had snuck some in anyways.

Gabriel probably didn’t even put any stock in these meanings humans had conjured for the flowers. Still, he wants to do this. Even if it is silly, the gesture alone is important.

Carrying the remaining crown carefully in his hands, he slips back into bed.

Gabriel murmurs restlessly in their magic-enhanced slumber. Smiling, he leans down and presses a kiss to their forehead, removing his magic in the same motion.

A pair of sleep-befuddled eyes open, blinking up at him. They squint, following the motion of small stars through the air.

Then they take in his appearance. Their mouth drops open as their eyes widen. “That is, uh, quite a statement going on there,” they murmur, reaching up and tucking a strand of his hair back behind his hair.

“I hope you like it, because I have one for you!” Ramiel produces the crown from behind his back and holds it out for Gabriel.

Gabriel arches their eyebrows, trying to conceal a smile. “Did you make this yourself? Should I be concerned about spiders in it?”

Ramiel pokes the tip of their nose. “One time. It was one time. No one specified checking for insects prior to putting them on someone’s head.”

Gabriel shakes their head in mock pity. “Some would say it’s self-explanatory.”

“If my life made sense, I wouldn’t have you,” Ramiel murmurs, leaning over and placing the crown on their head before kissing them gently. “My own personal miracle.”

Gabriel strokes the side of his cheek. “What brought this on?”

Ramiel laughs, the sound seeming to increase the intensity of the light the showers shed. “You.”

“Me? What did I do?” Gabriel looks confused.

“Nothing and everything.” Gabriel scowls at that answer and swats at his crown. Chuckling, Ramiel catches their hand, kissing the inside of the wrist. “Time is a construct that is subjective and we often move outside of it. But I want you to know I love each moment, each second. Waking up with you is the only way I want to start every day, until the sun dies and beyond.”

He reaches out, touching the centerpiece of Gabriel’s crown. “Acorn for eternal life—immortality. Ambrosia forming the foundation, as our love does. Arbutus, because it is you alone I love.”

Gabriel’s eyes soften, watching him carefully as he continues, trying to recite everything perfectly. “Mine has grass, for submission, for as I am your equal, I want to submit to your love, let it rule over me.” Ramiel licks his lips. “Forget-me-nots for true love, for you are the only one I have ever, and will ever, truly love. My heart and soul are yours. Heather, white, so that all our wishes together come true, and that our life together, our love, is protected.”

There’s a green one, with vaguely bell-shaped blossoms that takes him a moment. “Oh! The Bells of Ireland for luck, because with my record, I need all the luck I can get.” He threads his fingers with Gabriel’s. “Though I think I used it all up when you told me you loved me,” he whispers, voice choked with emotion.

Gabriel squeezes their clasped hands. “You forgot a couple. I know daises are for loyal love, ,and dandelions for happiness. Daniel made me a flower-crown once,” they explain.

“Right!” A nervous chuckle escapes him. “That leaves… you know what, it’s all more of the same. Love, happiness, good wishes and that we may never part.” He leans forward, Gabriel meeting him halfway, pressing their forehead together, breathing in each other’s spirit.

“You’re a dork, and I love it,” Gabriel whispers. They find his lips, their free hand grasping the back of his neck, holding him captive. Unnecessary; he’s already spell-bound by the smile he can feel against his mouth.

Then Gabriel’s eyes flick sideways, motion catching their attention. Their brows lower and they pull away. “Okay, the flower crowns I get, but what are the rest of these?”

“Er…” Ramiel stares at the flowers. “Flowers from the bazaar on Aadzt. They only open in the presence of emotions. The red ones are the Flames of Passion.”

Gabriel’s lips curve in a knowing smirk. Ramiel blushes. “Eternal Love,” he points to the white flowers, their outline hazy due to the light they emanate.

“What is the one that is putting out stars?”

“Traveler’s Guide. It means that you are my North Star. I will always find my way home to you, guided by our love,” Ramiel murmurs, nuzzling Gabriel’s cheek. They laugh, and this time Ramiel’s certain the flowers glow brighter.

“Lastly, Misty Waters. We haven’t had the easiest of stories, which is mostly my fault. But sometimes it takes setting aside what you take for granted or obvious to find what you’re truly looking for.”

Gabriel leans against him, nestling their head beneath his chin. “I’m impressed,” they admit, still holding one of his hands captive.

“Then wait until the grand finale!”

Gabriel tilts their head back. “Ramiel, I love you, but hearing those words from your mouth strikes a chord of fear deep within me,” they inform him.

Ramiel kisses their brow. “Have some faith,” he chides, using his free hand to awkwardly bring the tray to his lap.

Gabriel stares at the fruit. “Is that the awful tasting fruit you brought back that one time?” they demand to know, nose wrinkling in disgust.

“We were eating it wrong,” Ramiel informs Gabriel, picking up a fork.

“Oh really? And what do we need to do differently this time?” They pick up their own fork, but use it to poke Ramiel’s side instead of the fruit.

“Well, for starters, you’re only supposed to eat it with your soulmate,” Ramiel comments. He nudges the thick skin of the fruit.

“If you’re trying to say the company you eat it in makes all the difference, then I have questions,” Gabriel comments. Ramiel squirms away from their offending fork, only to still as the coffee cups lurch precariously.

Gabriel’s smile turns devious. “Nowhere to run,” they murmur, kissing his throat and up to the underside of his jaw, rubbing the faint trace of his stubble against their cheek.

“The only place I would run is into your arms, and I’m already here,” Ramiel retorts. He narrows his eyes at the fruit. “I’m certain that it isn’t as bad as we remember it.”

“That makes one of us,” Gabriel says in resignation, moving their fork to also tentatively stab at it.

“Hmm.” Ramiel drops his fork, and tries to dig in his nails to peel back the skin. “Well, last time we ate this part so maybe we shouldn’t?”

“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

“I have some ideas.”

Gabriel snorts, dropping their fork and grabbing the fruit to stop it from tipping the plate.

Abruptly the top starts to curl away. Both of them jerk their hands back, exchanging a glance. “It didn’t do that last time,” Ramiel offers helpfully.

“No, it—oh, that’s different.” As the skin falls away, it reveals a mound of pearl like seeds, their insides swirling with different colors. “You’re still trying it first,” Gabriel declares, reaching out and prying one from the strange tower. It comes away easily.

“You feeding me by hand? Of course it will be goo—oof,” Ramiel’s mouth opens as Gabriel elbows him, popping the piece of fruit between his lips.

He chews ponderously, lips quirked to the side.

“So?”

Ramiel takes one and offers it to Gabriel, raising his eyebrows and smirking without offering a word of comment.

“If it’s as bad as last time, you will regret this Ramiel,” they threaten, before taking it delicately from his fingers.

It’s worth it to watch the way their eyes widen in genuine delight and surprise, touching their lips in wonder. “I don’t—that’s not at all like it was before.”

“It really is all about the company though. It’s to be shared between soulmates. A taste of the bond between us.” Ramiel takes another piece, holding it up to Gabriel’s lips. “You are the light and love of my existence, so for me, it was sunshine and hope and the comfort of your arms.”

Gabriel takes the second piece, eyes closing and head tilting to the side as they chew, slower this time, savoring the flavor. “It’s familiar, like an old friend, but matured with age.” Their eyes open, meeting his. “It’s full of love and wonder, untouched by the darkness you think consumes you because you are good, and you are loved, and you are my soulmate as I am yours.”

Ramiel feels a well of emotions rise within him. Once again he leans down, pressing his forehead to Gabriel’s. “Yours, always and forever, pinna.”

“Always and forever,” Gabriel echoes.

Then they pull away. “But you’re going to have to fight me for this fruit because there’s only the one and after last time, I think I definitely get a larger portion to make up for it.”

Warm laughter, rich and full, fills the air. “We’ll just see about that, love,” Ramiel retorts, picking up his fork again, dueling with Gabriel for the fruit.

In the end it gets eaten, but no one keeps count. Sprawled together on the bed, heads together, hands still entwined; that’s all the pair of lovers care about.

#Ramiel #Ramiel RO #fluff #see? I can do fluff #Fluffball attack?#Fluff attack!#Spite writers #apparently that's what we are #flowers #flower language #cuddles

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ageeksnerdyworld · 6 years ago

Text

A Birthday Bash

Characters: Avia Carstairs, Kelly Ronan O’Connor, Scribe Jenkins, Isabelle Lombardi, Emery Becker, Jett Leach, Mazarin Leach, Holland Ayer, Kalenn Birch, Walker, Scout Carstairs, Paisley Carstairs, and October Ispen

Word Count: 5,405

Trigger Warning: N/A

Notes: This idea has been bouncing around my brain for a real long time so I finally wrote it. But this took like ten years to write. This is as good as its gonna get. As always The Cyber World and the viruses therein belong to @voiceoflarka

Summary: The gang gathers at the Carstairs manor for Avia’s birthday. An unexpected guest arrives. Much to Scout’s dismay party shenanigans ensue. Click the read more if you’d like.

~~~

That morning Avia woke to find a hand written note on her night stand.

Happy birthday to my wonderful niece. May your wishes for today come true. I love you with all my heart. --Aunt Paisley

The ivory white paper was on the thicker side, with a golden border, and a small intricate flower embossed into the middle of it. At the bottom of the flower were the initials P.E.C. The message was written in neatly penned, and amazingly precise, black calligraphy. A smile formed as she read it. But her happiness was short lived as she realized that her father hadn't said anything. Part of her didn't expect him to even remember what today was. But a small piece secretly hoped he would.

She pulled the covers off and got out of bed.

Returning the lovely note to the nightstand she grabbed her phone.

She checked her messages as she crossed to the bathroom.

Most were from her teammates. All sending birthday wishes her way. There were also a few extra messages from Kelly. Each one of his texts were signed with a red heart emoji.

In the bathroom Avia washed her face from the lull of sleep.

When she was finished with that she went back into her bedroom and changed. She wore a long-sleeved, white, shirt with a boat neck. She also wore a red plaid patterned skirt with a hemline that ended just above her knees. The hemline was asymmetrical with the right side a bit shorter than the left. Two angled zippers sat on either side of the skirt. Underneath the skirt she wore a pair of thin, black, pantyhose.

Sitting down at the ivory white vanity she brushed her hair.

Before doing her make-up she sent “thank you” texts to everyone. She also sent a purple heart, and a red, emoji to Kelly. As she opened the drawer of her vanity there was a knock at her door.

“Come in,” she called.

The door opened and the small form of October Ispen stepped in.

They were her father’s driver, bodyguard, and the family’s butler. For as long as she could remember they had been a constant presence in her life. As Avia did her makeup she saw the reflection of the virus in her mirror. They wore a black suit, with a white dress shirt, an obsidian tie, and impeccably shined shoes. Their skin was white and covered with dark rosewood veins. A stone-cold, serious, expression marked their face. An expression which was even more threatening due to the utter lack of hair on his head and face. Even their eye ridges were entirely void of any hair.

Everything about October Ispen was unsettling. The veins that crawled along their bare skull. Their uncanny talent of being able to stand perfectly still. The black leather gloves they constantly wore. Their unnerving, relentless, brown eyes.

She knew why they were there without them having to say anything.

She sighed and said; “Already?”

October gave her a silent nod.

She shook her head and quickly took the dress she wanted to wear later out of her closet. Avia carefully laid it on her bed. Quickly finding the matching heels she set them at the foot of her bed. Just before leaving her room she slipped on a pair of sleek black boots.

Together the pair walked through the hallway and down the winding staircase.

When they arrived at the landing Avia gave October a pleading stare. They didn’t react. She sighed; not expecting anything else from them. They were her father’s employee after all. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he used his powers to keep October in line. He had done so many times before to other less important people in his employ. He often said that he owed the success of his business to it. People often said that his powers were the only reason he landed her mom. Whether the rumors were true or not she had no idea.

As she rounded the corner and crossed the hallway all these things ran though her mind. She steeled herself before entering the dining room.

He sat at the head of the long, rectangular, dining table. His light gray hair was a bit messy as if he had been stressfully running his hands through it. As always the crawling scar under his right eye glowed lightly. He wore a dark gray jacket over a white dress shirt and a pair of cream colored dress pants. A dark brown belt sat on the waist of his pants. On his ring finger sat a thick, plain silver, wedding band. A series of files covered the area in front of him. In his right hand was a tablet and he held a stylus in his left. He twirled the stylus between his fingers as he read whatever was on the screen. When she entered the room October immediately walked to her father’s side.

Scout Carstairs always liked to keep his possessions close.

He looked up just as Avia walked through the open doors.

“Good morning,” she said.

Returning the sentiment he smiled slightly. The emotion was barely reflected in his eyes. He motioned for her to walk over to him. She did.

He held her hands in his. It was always strange when her father chose to show emotion. Every time he did it felt wrong, as if it was only half there, and fake. But she didn’t flinch away. She didn’t want to deal with any of the aftermath today.

“Happy birthday,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Do you really want to have the party here?” he asked. “Dad has a lot of work to do, sweetheart, and it might not be a good idea.”

Avia rolled her eyes and let go of his hands. Of course he wanted something from her. He was barely ever nice just for the sake of being nice. Even the trips they had taken in the past were more often work related than not.

“This is about my team coming isn’t it?”

“No, I just--” she cut him off.

“It is! You think they’ll tear the place apart or something. They’re my friends, father. You still want to me be to be the little girl who liked staying inside all day? But that ship has sailed, father. I’m finally being myself and I have friends.”

“Avia, stop,” he said harshly.

“Not until you admit the truth--”

“I SAID STOP!” he yelled.

The lighting of the room shifted as he spoke. The lights dimmed significantly. When she looked at her dad now he seemed to grow twice his size. He loomed over her like a giant. If it was possible October looked even smaller than usual. Scout’s face darkened with anger. His voice now boomed and echoed.

“I can’t have that tattooed punk ruining tonight. He’s uncultured, disrespectful, and vulgar. Even the smallest, cheapest, thing is worth more than his life.”

“Tonight isn’t about you, father. Emery’s coming. They’re all coming.”

Avia was unshaken by her father’s powers. He tended to have his abilities up in some capacity almost all the time so she was accustomed to them. She stood firm and kept her face as calm as possible. She nodded in agreement. Scout was very surprised. Sitting back down he switched it off and the room returned to normal.

“Very well,” he said; returning his attention to his work. “You may go. Paisley would like to go shopping with you. Her present this year, apparently. I do believe she’s waiting out front for you.”

Avia said nothing as she turned on her heels and walked out.

Just like her father said Paisley was waiting for Avia on the front steps of the manor. She wore a slim fitting dress and a pair of black stilettos. The dress was mostly white but there were a few intersecting black lines across it. Some ran vertically and others ran horizontally. A few of the sections were dyed different colors; red, blue, yellow. A pair of black sunglasses sat on her face. She looked stunning as always.

“Didn’t go too bad, I see,” she said as Avia approached.

“Father’s letting my friends attend so I think not.”

Paisley nodded approvingly. She handed her niece a small, thin, rectangular envelope. The paper was clearly expensive and just like the note it was thick. It was black in color and the writing was silver. Avia’s eyes went wide.

“Father said we were going shopping,” she said confused.

“Oh, we are. But, one cannot really shop without stable finances,” she said with a smile.

Avia opened the envelope and the card inside was plain black with a small message. It read; Get yourself something nice, in that same silver font. Inside the card was a thin blue credit card. A small receipt showed how much money was on it. It was a lot more than Avia expected.

“Oh my,” she whispered in shock.

“If your tall, ginger, friend is coming then you’ll need something new. And fabulous. Also, it would greatly anger Scout and that is always a plus.”

Avia smiled and they descended the front steps together.

~~~

While the birthday girl was getting ready so were her friends. The Leach siblings were the first ones dressed and ready. So they met in the hallway outside the rooms and hung out. Mazarin, who was the odd one out in the group, stuck by her older brother. From what she had seen of Avia and her family differed so much from her own Mazarin didn't know what to expect.

"Je," she whispered to him as they waited for the others.

"Is Avia's family nice? Are they like how mom and dad used to be?"

"I don't really know," he said staring off at the opposite wall. "That's more of a question for Kell. He's the only one of us who's met Av's dad. Why? Something wrong?"

Mazarin wrapped her arms around her torso and hugged herself. She dug her toes into the carpet. Jett could tell something was bothering her. He reached over and put his arm around her shoulder; pulling her into a side hug. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

"Don't worry, Maz," he said. "I'm sure everyone's gonna be fine. We're going to a birthday party after all."

She turned away from the wall and hugged her brother tightly. Her face was buried into the front of his jacket. With her this close he didn't have to hear her to know she was crying. He could feel it. As she silently cried Jett began to slowly, soothingly, stroke her hair.

"I miss them so much," she said; her voice muffled a bit from the fabric of his jacket.

"Me too."

They stood like that for a few more seconds before she let go and wiped her eyes. Jett straightened the front of his his jacket. Then he noticed that her headband had fallen so he fixed it for her. He tucked his finger under her chin and gave her a soft smile.

"Don't you worry, little lady, we've got each other. And that's all that matters."

“Everything alright, Leach?” Walker asked.

Neither of them saw Walker enter the hallway, but, they weren’t bothered.

“Yeah. We’re good,” he said. Noticing the rabbit virus’s attire he chuckled; “You look almost the exact same you do every day, Texas Ranger.”

They wore a white, long-sleeved, button up which covered their upper body. A maroon, double-breasted, vest partially covered the dress shirt. Dark black pants covered their legs and the dark dress shoes poked out from underneath the fabric. A black waistcoat tightly hugged their frame. Their usual goggles were replaced by a black and brown vertical striped top hat. The hat hid their long, black, ears. The outfit was complete with a black tie that sat under the shirt collar.

“He’s right you know,” a voice called from the end of the hallway.

The voice belonged to Isabelle who had just exited her room.

She wore a pastel blue dress and silver colored heels. Her hair was pinned up on one side with silver, sparkling, barrettes. The rest hung down and was neatly curled. The hemline of her dress was shorter in the front, stopping above her knees, and longer in the back. A thin, white, ribbon ran along her waist; separating the sections of the dress. The bottom half was comprised of many layers. The very top layer was sheer and continued to just below her shoulders. Patches of small flowers were embroidered on that layer. She twirled around to show the others the back which was laced up like a corset. A small, white, clutch sat in her right hand.

Walker rolled their eyes at her but said nothing.

“You look nice,” Jett said as Isabelle joined the others with a smile.

Mazarin, who was sitting on the floor, looked up just as Jett spoke. Her eyes went wide and she gasped quietly. Isabelle walked over to where she stood and leaned her back against the wall. She jumped up from the floor and preceded to excitedly talk to Isabelle. She asked the skitty virus a multitude of questions. Jett knew that Mazarin admired Isabelle so he let them talk. He plugged his headphones in his ears and closed his eyes.

Walker spent the time analyzing the various dents, scratches, and stubborn stains that were scattered around the carpet. The four of them were all in their own worlds that none noticed Scribe enter the hallway.

“Ready,” she said; quietly approaching the group.

Scribe wore a dress that stopped just above the knees. The dress was white with gold and blue half oval accents. The design was clearly supposed to look like scales. A thin, light gray, cardigan comfortably sat on her shoulders. She wore an armillary sphere ring that hung from her neck on a thin gold chain. The sphere was open and the five bands circulated over one another. The outermost bands were engraved with simple recesses to form swirls and curves with the metal. Behind those a thicker band was engraved with her name in Atlantean runes. The two middle bands were then like the two outer ones. But, these impressions had a message engraved into the metal. It was written half in binary and half in Atlantean runes. A message just for her from the one who gave her the ring. She wore it on the chain to keep her mom’s memory close by.

Her outfit was complete with a pair of light gray flats.

"Scribe, you look so cute!" Isabelle exclaimed with a beaming smile.

She shrugged and pushed her glasses back on the bridge of her nose. Looking away, slightly embarrassed, she muttered her thanks. Returning the compliment she moved over to stand next to the skitty virus.

Holland, Kalenn, and Emery all entered the hallway at the same time.

Holland’s inky black hair was combed back; styled as it usually was in a short pompadour. They wore a dark teal suit. The lapels, and the pockets, were a dark navy. A white dress shirt poked out from underneath the end of the sleeves. Emerging from the collar of the shirt was a bright coral tie. Monochromatic coral paisley designs were embroidered onto the fabric. A matching coral pocket square was neatly folded into a winged puff. Their shoes were white and pointed at the toes. The soles were black and a slight heel. A sliver, rectangular, clasp sat on the outside.

Kalenn wore a short sleeved, black, dress. Much like Isabelle’s dress his was multi-layered. The hemline stopped in the middle of his thighs. Under the dress he wore a pair of gray faux leather pants. But unlike any of the outfits the others wore his was tattered and ripped. He also wore a pair of black boots that stopped at his knees. His outfit was completed with a sheer gray shawl and a silver antler shaped necklace.

Both the dress and the shawl had slits in the back for his wings.

While the couple stopped to talk to the group Emery rushed to sulk behind everyone. It was clear to Walker, who was the only one who saw, that he wanted to hide.

"I'm actually surprised at how well you clean up, Becker," Walker said with a smirk.

As a matter of fact this was the only time most of the team had seen Emery Becker with his natural hair color. His deep black hair wasn't spiked up in his typical mohawk either. It was combed down and slicked back with gel. And he had taken out some of his piercings; the nose ring, the double studs in his eyebrow and the claw shaped ring in his bottom lip. All of his ear piercings remained.

He wore a black leather jacket over a black button up. A bright, plain, white bow-tie sat just under the collar. He wore dark black dress pants and a white belt. The pants were obviously too small for him. The hem of the legs stopped just above the top of his boots. A small section of his mismatched socks poked through.

Despite the clear signs that his attire was hastily thrown together it seemed that Emery had put in an effort.

“Don’t listen to them, Beck,” Jett said. “You look like shit.”

Emery chuckled; “Least I’m not as ugly as you right now. You look like road kill, dude.”

They laughed and playfully threw insults and obscenities at one another until Isabelle made them stop.

Kelly was the last person to enter the hallway. He wore a simple black suit and tie. He was clearly nervous. While he walked over he kept readjusting his sleeve buttons and straightening his tie. Muttering to himself he wasn’t looking where he was walking at all. He was so distracted by his own nerves that he bumped into Walker.

“Watch where you’re going, O’Connor,” they snapped.

“Oh, fuck, sorry,” he said.

"That's everyone," Jett said; trying to take the heat off Kelly. "Let's head down and see what's what."

The group entered the elevator, taking up two of them at the same time, and descended to the lobby. Stepping out of the elevator doors they looked around. Avia had told them that her family’s butler was going to pick up the group. But they were nowhere to be seen. So, the gang decided to wait around until October showed up.

It was a long, boring, wait.

After what seemed like forever a short, bald, virus approached the group. The virus wore a black suit and had a serious expression. The group thought that this might be the person who was supposed to pick them up. Kelly was about to ask them who they were. But he was cut off when the virus lifted their hands and began signing something.

“I.. um, we don’t, uh, rea--” Kelly stammered nervous and unsure of what to say.

But Emery shoved past him, saving him from further embarrassing himself, and said; “Don’t worry, dude. I got this.”

A minute or so passed with Emery and the other virus signing back and forth. Even though he was speaking while he signed the entire exchange was very awkward for the rest of the group. When the short conversation was over Emery motioned for the group to follow.

As they made their way through the parking lot Kelly walked up to Emery and tapped him on the shoulder.

“How’d’ye know how ta do that?”

“Sign?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Kelly shrugged and nodded at the same time.

“Kinda had to learn it,” Emery replied with a somber smile. Then he chuckled lightly as if reminiscing about something. “Honestly, Irish, lemme tell ya it was pretty hard to talk to her without it.”

“Who, if ye don’t mind me askin’?”

“My mom.”

Emery jogged to catch up with the others and left Kelly standing in the parking lot with his mouth hanging open in shock.

~~~

It didn’t take long for them to arrive at the Carstairs manor. October was instructed to drive fast so they did. The group filed out of the limo and up the front stairs. Most of the group rushed inside, ready to get their party on, except for Jett and Emery. The boys took their time; awestruck by the expanse and the aura of the filthy rich of the place.

Emery felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around to see October behind them.

Hurry it up, alright, they signed.

Yeah, sorry, he quickly signed back. Then he grabbed Jett by the arm and rushed inside.

The open foyer was spacious and inviting. Streamers hung from the ceiling and along the banister. The streamers were dark eggplant purple and navy blue. A large, rectangular sign, hung across the large chandelier. In the same purple and blue as the streamers the sign read HAPPY BIRTHDAY AVIA. Unsure of where to go the boys hung around and tried to listen to where the party was.

They heard Kelly’s very loud, and extremely awkward, nervous laugh.

The rushed over in that direction.

Stepping into the room they took in the scene. Neither were surprised to find that it was a large ballroom. Just like in the foyer there were purple and blue streamers hanging from the ceiling. On the left hand side of the room there was a long, stylish, buffet table. A wide array of food and desserts lined it. Next to the buffet table there was a smaller one. Bottles of champagne and a bowl of punch sat on it. On the right side of the room there were a series of round tables. Each table had four black chairs and was covered with a white tablecloth.

A small, black, bird shaped, centerpiece sat in the middle of each table.

The rest of the room stayed as the dance floor.

“Over here,” Mazarin called; waving the boys over to their table.

The table that the group had sat was actually two tables pushed together. Someone had fixed the tablecloths so that they covered both tables equally. On either side of the middle of the tables there was a centerpiece. When they approached only Mazarin and Isabelle were there.

“Where’s everyone else?” Emery asked.

Mazarin shrugged as she pulled Jett over to sit next to her. She started filling him in on what he missed.

“Scribe’s getting something to eat.” Isabelle said.

“Holland and Kalenn are slow-dancing; it’s adorable. I think Avia and Kelly are talking to her dad. Not really sure where Walker is though.”

Jett suddenly realized how hungry he was. Asking the others if they wanted anything he got up and walked over to the food. He got himself a plate and then had to awkwardly try and hold it white pouring himself some punch. Then he noticed how stupid he looked. So he set the plate down and poured the punch. Just as he started walking back to the table Kelly walked up to him.

“How’d it go?” Jett asked.

“Feckin’ awkwardly, an’ probably horrible, to be honest.”

“Sorry, bud.”

Kelly shook his head; “Ye don’t get it, Jett. He’s more intimidatin’ than he looks an’ he’s got that scar on his face. Ye can’t ignore that shit. No matter how much ye try.”

“Hey, Jett, can I ask ya somethin’?” Kelly asked; clearly changing the subject.

“Sure, what’s up?”

Kelly explained the earlier events as quickly and clearly as he could. His hands moved about wildly and his talked too fast. But he repeated himself enough so Jett eventually got the gist.

“It’s not my place to say. That’s something you really gotta ask him, Kell.”

Jett walked back to the group’s table.

While Jett left him alone Avia walked up behind Kelly. She tapped him on the arm. He turned around with a smile. Avia grabbed his face and gave him a long, deep, kiss. His bright, blue, eyes went wide for a split second. Then he relented and melted into the kiss. When she let go she lead him by the hand to the dance floor.

~~~

The couple danced close.

Avia felt a tap on her shoulder. She ignored the obvious vie for her attention. Whoever this was they could wait. In this moment it was just her and Kelly. His arms were around her waist. She had placed her arms over his shoulders. They were looking into each other's eyes; swaying back and forth.

Whoever stood behind Avia loudly cleared their throat. They spoke with a conceited and very posh accent. The voice alone exuded a pompous and conceited air.

"Pardon my intrusion but I haven't given the birthday girl my respects."

Avia knew exactly who it was without needing to see his face.

Elias Dekkart.

He was the son of one of her father's business associates. Dallas Dekkart and Scout Carstairs had known each other since the earliest days of his business. She was one of the few people Scout trusted with his life. They often met for lunch or dinner to advise each other on business matters. From time to time the adults would spend entire days with one another surveying other business prospects.

Which meant that Avia and Elias had spent a lot of time together as young sprites. Over the years he developed an intense crush on her. While she never expressed even the slightest return of his affections he persisted. She hadn’t seen him in a very long time and she wanted to keep it that way. Hearing his voice put a damper on her mood but she had been taught better than to ignore guests no matter how unwanted they were.

So she put on a smile and turned around.

He wore a black pinstripe suit with a plain black tie. A silver tie clip kept the fabric in place. In his breast pocket sat a bright white pocket square; folded neatly. Wine red veins covered his daisy white skin. His chocolate brown eyes matched his perfectly coiffed hair. Everything about his attire and his look had a pretentious opulence to it. Even his stance was overtly grandiose.

"Oh, Elias, it's been so long I almost didn't recognize you," she said in an obviously bothered tone of voice.

"Whereas I could never forget your beautiful face. Many happy returns of the day, my dear."

He took her hand and kissed it gingerly. As he slowly, and very uncomfortably, let go Kelly stepped up next to Avia. She made a big show of kissing him. He understood what she was getting at so he too made a very obvious display as he hugged her. The message was clear and she hoped Elias would get it this time around.

She would never be his.

"Who might this be, my dear?"

The question was meant for Avia but she deferred to her boyfriend. It only made sense that he introduced himself after all. Kelly stared Elias down and stood on the balls of his feet; making himself appear even taller. Elias didn't seem to be intimidated but then again Kelly knew next to nothing about the young man.

"Name's Kelly Ronan O'Connor and I'm her boyfriend."

Elias stuck out his hand and introduced himself. Kelly didn't take the offered hand. Instead he muttered something about "being absolutely parched" and walked away. It was clear to both Avia and Elias that he was mocking the unwanted guest. Barely five feet away Kelly looks over his shoulder and cocked his head to the side. Avia saw the slight gesture and excused herself.

She turned around and called to Elias, mimicking his accent; “Don’t embarrass yourself by crying to mummy.”

Elias Dekkart was left alone.

~~~

The group spent the rest of the night having the best time. Scribe and Avia started devising a plan to get Elias out of her hair for good. In void of paper they had been typing notes in their phones and drawing maps on napkins. Jett, Mazarin, and Isabelle danced together. Holland and Kalenn were sitting at the group’s table making up stories about the other party-goers.

At some point in the night Emery took control of the DJ booth. He rummaged through the pre-set music before getting rid of all of it. With an over the top motion and gravitas he reached into the inner pocket of his leather jacket. He pulled out one of the very few copies of Midnight Decoy’s first CD.

Without even giving it a second thought he put it on. Seeing the anger on Scout Carstairs’ face made him smile.

Almost out of nowhere Walker appeared at his side.

“Pissing off her old man?”

“You know it,” he said with a nod and a smirk.

“I have an idea. Be right back.”

Walker rushed off without another word.

Meanwhile Scout was sitting near the entrance. He was sitting with Paisley and Dallas Dekkart. The latter had five glasses of champagne and was starting on her sixth. The Carstairs siblings were daintily drinking their champagne in moderation. October, the ever dutiful butler, stood within earshot of Scout. Elias rushed over to his mother and tapped her on the shoulder. Dallas tried her best to hang on to her son’s words but she was very drunk.

He desperately threw some water in her face and said; “She told me off, mother. Her and her ginger boy toy. I was just trying to be nice.”

“What? Scout, is this true?” Dallas exclaimed.

“October, be a lamb and tell Avia to play nice,” Scout said.

“Don’t listen to him,” Paisley said. “She doesn’t like this sniveling brat and she’s quite within her rights to. He’s been after her since they were sprites.”

Unsure of what to do October walked over to the birthday girl anyway.

October stood there until Avia noticed them. Scribe actually took notice of the virus first. She tapped Avia on the shoulder and pointed toward October. Avia looked at them and they gestured to where Dallas and Elias were sitting. They began signing to her but then remembered that she didn’t know ASL. But it seemed that she figured it out quickly enough with the context. Avia eventually gathered the guts to tell October to roughly escort the Dekkarts out of her house. They did without the slightest hesitation. Much to their surprise Emery joined them. As they telepathically threw Elias and Dallas out the front door Emery stepped up next to them.

Just as Elias rose to his feet Emery let out a glass-shattering scream. Both of the Dekkarts fell on their backs.

Slamming the doors in the Dekkarts’ faces the two of them went back to the party. Instead of joining the others they hung around the buffet table and talked in ASL.

You sign fluently.

Thanks. Had a pretty good teacher.

You have stories don’t you?

Tell you mine if you tell me yours, Emery signed with a smirk.

Meanwhile Walker went around messing with the decorations. They made sure to do so without being seen. After a while Kalenn and Holland joined in. The trio went around popping balloons and tangling streamers. Emery went back to playing music from the unmanned DJ booth. Kelly began spraying, and drinking, the champagne over Avia like she just won NASCAR. Walker ran to the coat room and came back with bags full of silly string. They threw cans out to everyone and the group ran around spraying each other with silly string. Some overturned tables and teamed up as if they were playing paintball.

Scout watched all of this in silent horror.

“Leave them be, brother,” Paisley said; laying a hand on his shoulder. “They’re just kids. They’ll tire themselves out eventually.”

She was right and they did. Tired, and out of ideas, Isabelle was the first to start dozing off. Over time they all began to succumb to the lull of sleep. Jett tried to rally the group so they could get back to the hotel. But Avia shot him in the face with silly string; effectively shutting him up. Emery and Mazarin laughed and after a bit so did Jett.

After a bit more of silly string fighting the group collapsed into a massive dog pile on the ballroom floor.

“Sleepover!” Mazarin yelled as she crawled into the pile.

#my writing #oc writing #larka's virus community #lvc #avia carstairs #scout carstairs #paisley carstairs #jett leach #mazarin leach #emery becker #kelly ronan o'connor #isabelle lombardi #scribe jenkins #holland ayer #kalenn birch #walker #october ispen

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fangirl-faye · 7 years ago

Text

Time be damned

Characters: Steve Rogers/James “Bucky” Barnes, hinted Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Howard Stark, Natasha Romanoff, Tony Stark, Clint Barton

Summary: He comes from the future he says. He hands them a set of coordinates. Tells them to meet him there at the time on the bottom of the page. He makes them promise they won’t tell Captain Rogers a word.

Warnings: Mentions of Canon-Compliant Character Deaths

He comes from the future he says.

It’s the only thing he tells Howard and Peggy when he stands in front of them in Howard’s laboratory. He wants to talk to them about Steve and their future. When they don’t believe him, he tells them, that there are very many types of fondue in the future.

It would have made Peggy blush if she was like that but she composes herself and looks at the man.

He wears a weird beard and has dark hair. His clothes are strange and nothing any of them has ever seen before.

He floats when the long red cape behind him blows in a non-existent breeze.

He hands them a set of coordinates. Tells them to meet him there at the time on the bottom of the page.

He makes them promise they won’t tell Captain Rogers, Sargent Barnes or any other soul a word. This was a secret just for the two of them. Peggy is still not sure if she trusts him, but the comment about the fondue gives him the benefit of the doubt. Steve would have never revealed it, if he wouldn’t trust this man. And no one but her, Steve and Howard knew about that story anyways.

A few weeks later, the Howling Commandos come back from a mission, bringing in Doctor Armin Zola. Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes are absent. Falsworth tells the two of them what happened. A few hours later, Peggy finds Steve in a bombed out bar in the next town here in south France.

Two days before the meeting Steve dives his plane into the ice. Howard wants to keep looking for his friend, contemplates not going, but Peggy drags him along. The man was from the future after all. He would know what just happened. That’s her reasoning and Howard thinks she is right.

They make their way to the coordinates on the paper.

The man, and three other people wait for them, in the outskirts of London. They are waiting in front of a warehouse.

“These are my… colleagues.” He points at a robot in red and gold; a woman, almost naked, in skin-tight black leather with fiery red hair and a man, blonde in black and purple, bow and arrows on his back.

The man makes them follow. He is walking this time and makes a few complicated gestures, glowing symbols appearing in the air. Peggy pegs him for a wizard. She feels a headache coming on. The future seems to be full of strange people, if that really is where they are coming from.

“Where are we going?” Howard asks and the robot turns around. Its face opens to reveal a man. It’s a helmet; a suit. He looks a lot like Howard, Peggy thinks but keeps it to herself.

“We help you change history for the better.” He replies curtly and turns back.

“Then why did I have to come? Not the Commandos or someone?” Howard asks, slightly annoyed.

The glowing in the air opens a door in front of them and they enter a room. It is like standing in Stark Expo, surrounded by technology that no one could believe to be real before seeing it with their own eyes, and apparently everything worked.

“Because you are one of the few people who could appreciate my genius.” The armored man mutters smugly as he sees Howard looking around in awe. Peggy meanwhile is still skeptical towards them.

In the middle of the room is a big, white coffin-like box. When Peggy gets closer she gasps, turns around and glaring at the strange people from the future.

“What have you done to him?” she snaps. She knew about the place this man held in Steve’s big heart. She would gladly have shared Steve with Barnes, if it meant making Steve happy. After all they were the only two people to see the heart under the muscle.

“We have done nothing. He fell from the train as you know.” The wizard begins. “When he had been taken prisoner in Azzano, he had been experimented on, much like the Captain had been, only it hadn’t been his own choice.”

The woman takes over, motioning Peggy closer to the coffin.

“He survived the fall thanks to the faulty serum Armin Zola had given him.”

“In a future where we’re from, he becomes the greatest assassin of all times, controlled by the Russians and later a new generation of HYDRA.” The archer adds and Peggy stares at him.

“He killed you later. He didn’t know any better. He was brainwashed and tortured.” The armored man says, looking at Howard.

“We went to get him, after his fall but we can change history only so much. There are rules.” The magician continues calmly. “He lost his arm, we gave him a new one. You will not be able to get back into this room again when we leave. You cannot access this technology before it is time.”

“You do needed to know how grave the situation is. Keep a close eye on Zola, or HYDRA will grow a head again, where Steve just cut it off.” The woman says and Steve’s name rolls easy from her tongue as if it’s one of the most normal things in the world. Peggy doesn’t know what makes her trust these people now. But maybe it’s the way she hears the woman talk about Steve and sees the obvious affection and how the woman’s glance always lingers on Barnes’s coffin for a second, protective and caring.

“Is Steve alive as well?” Peggy asks, because she always had the suspicion that Steve wouldn’t die easy and if Barnes was alive after getting a faulty serum and falling off the train, Steve could be alive as well?

“You know he can’t refuse when the world is calling for help. But I advise you against waiting for him. Live a happy life like he will always want it for you and shape the world to make him proud. For now he is dead and will be for a long time.”

“Do not look for him. He will be found when the time is come.” The wizard says, when dust whirls up in the room and something resembling a portal appears.

Peggy turns to the woman, because she knows time will be up soon.

“Why did you tell and show us all that? Why not just change it and go back?”

“It was their wish. They wanted you both to know that the future will be alright.” She shrugs smiling. “And you asked me to make them happy. No matter the cost. It was your choice. Strange probably has his own reasons, but he rarely reveals them.”

Peggy nods. Changing the past sounds like something she could consider one day, if it meant, seeing Steve happy for once.

The portal begins to glow green. Peggy and Howard take a step back and Peggy realizes it is time for Howard and her to leave. The red-haired woman smiles and makes a dismissive gesture at them and Peggy drags Howard out of the room.

When the door falls closed behind them and they turn around to look at it, the door is gone.

(Inside, Clint looks at Tony.

“Who will kill him now?”

“A Black Widow. The red room starts earlier because they don’t have a subject for Project Winter Soldier.” Tony looks through the files on his phones. “It says, Natasha killed her in Odessa.”

“I’ll probably remember that encounter when we’re back in our time. Come on, boys. We got a wedding to attend.”

“So all Winter Soldier kills were now made by Widows?” Clint clarifies when Natasha had left through the portal. Tony nods solemnly.

“History won’t change much. Most events will happen, no matter how much you try to stop them from happening. But you can tweak things a little, if you are careful.” Strange says, then motions Tony and Clint back towards their new, altered timeline. Natasha was right. They got to attend the Rogers-Barnes wedding. And even time-travelers could be late.)

When they round the warehouse later in the light of day, the room doesn’t exist.

And Peggy is fine with it…

… after a while. She pulls herself together and when she meets her future husband (not that she knows that at the time), she begins to fall in love again. After all, she sometimes needs to tell herself, time-travelers know what they are doing, right? And in her heart she knows that she’d see them together again, one day. James Barnes and Steve Rogers as the pair they are.

Some days were hard. Full of the thoughts of Steve somewhere frozen, asleep and not knowing that Bucky is alive, not being assured everything will be fine like she was after his death.

Yes, some days it hurts, but most days, she is fine. And some days, she even tells her daughter Stephanie Jamie stories about how brave her uncles were, sacrificing themselves, that they could live this happy live they have.

“You are named after two of the bravest men I knew.” She sometimes says to her and then louder, that her husband in the kitchen will hear, “except for your father, of course.” And he will chuckle but admit every time that he maybe never will be as brave as Captain America and his trusty Partner, Sargent Barnes. But that is fine because in the end it was Captain Rogers who pulled him out of Azzano and gave him the chance to meet Peggy Carter. No hard feelings about an ex in his book.

And even if Peggy stands there in 1944, frustrated, with no plan and only a shadow of knowledge of what the future will hold, wishing they would have brought Steve back to her, deep inside she knows, the future will be fine.

Captain America would come back when earth needs him most. And for now it is her place to make sure he will have allies when the time comes.

~ 68 years later ~

Steve wakes up, eyes focusing on the white ceiling over him. Next to him someone clears their throat.

“Awake at last?”

He sits up straight and looks to the side.

“Is this heaven?”

The clear laugh fills his chest with warmth.

“If this would be heaven, I wouldn’t be here, that’s for sure. But it’s not the forties either, pal. We’ve missed almost seventy years. At least that’s what Howard’s kid and Peggy’ve been tellin’ me when they woke me up.”

“Woke you up? Howard’s what?” Steve turns completely, legs dangling over the side of the bed and he looks straight into clear blue eyes. Bucky does not look a day older than when he fell, but Steve notices the arm that doesn’t add up with his memories.

“I remember falling. Then I woke up. There was this man, he says his name is Tony Stark and he is from the future. He’s telling me I lost my arm during the fall and he just makes sure I will have one when I wake up. I’ve asked about you and he shushed me and told me to sleep, they will wake me, when you’re back. And they did. They told me it took you almost seventy years to come back from your mission. So I’ve been asleep for a while as well.”

That wasn’t everything that they told him, but some of it he rather keeps to himself for now. After all Steve had just woken up and always been a bit slow on the uptake in the morning. Bucky shifts from the chair onto the bed, next to Steve. Pulls him into his side and gives him a smirk.

“I told you, we were going to the future. Just a bit further than we thought.” He says chuckling and Steve doesn’t care in that moment. He surges forward and presses his lips against Bucky’s because a week ago he saw Bucky fall from a train and just hours ago steered his plane into the freezing cold water of the Arctic, ready to die to save the world.

And maybe he had been ready to die to be reunited with Bucky. Because that was what his whole transformation into Captain America had always been about to Steve. If this was real, he was quite happy not to be dead. So the future can wait, he thinks, when Bucky’s lips move against his. What’s important is that they are here together now, time be damned.

#marvel fanfiction #fanfiction #slash fanfiction #steve/bucky #steve x bucky #Stucky #captain america #Steve Rogers #Bucky Barnes #canon divergence #captain america: tfa #fluff #angst #timetravel #Doctor Strange #peggy carter #howard stark #tony stark #natasha romanoff

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