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mnthpprt · 4 years ago

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Chapter 24: Blame It On The Juice

We finally arrive at the tavern and take a seat at a small table near the bar. Arthur is the only one to remain standing up, and he leans closer so I can hear him over the chatter.

“First round’s on me, darling. What would you like?” he asks. I ponder for a moment before answering.

“I’ve always wanted to try absinthe.” He nods, and looks over at Theo.

“Whiskey for me, half water.”

A few minutes later he returns, balancing three glasses between his hands, and proceeds to set them down on the table, careful not to spill any of them. Outside, it has begun to pour like there’s no tomorrow.

“Pernod Fils for the lady,” he says, imitating a waiter, “and whiskey for the ratbag.” Theo punches his arm, scowling, and sips his drink, making me laugh. Judging by the amount of teasing and insults between these two, they could either be good friends or truly hate each other. I know it is the former, because they seem to spend a lot of time together. They even walk their dogs at the same time every morning, and they do so willingly.

I take a small sip of the pearly green liquid, and am surprised by the sweet taste of anise and fennel in the drink.

“Yo, this is good,” I point out, satisfied. I lift my glass when I notice Arthur doing the same, and Theo begrudgingly joins in.

“To the green fairy, may she bless our dear Anaïs for the first time!” toasts the writer, holding back a laugh. I follow in with my own comedic announcement.

“To the Salon des Refusés du Salon des Refusés!” I say, jokingly, referring to Theo’s exhibition. The groundbreaking art I saw there would have been criticized even by the rejects of this time. “And to your and Vincent’s success, of course!”

“That, I can get behind,” Theo chuckles. “To you idiots.” He punctuates his covertly affectionate statement by taking a gulp of whisky, and Arthur and I follow suit. “So, hondje, you know about art. What is it like in your time?”

I am taken aback by the question. I don’t really know where to begin.

“Well... For starters, it’s incredibly different. To understand it one needs to know the history behind it, you know? Like, what happened between now and then for it to get to that point,” I explain, pausing to take another sip of absinthe. Theo leans forward on his chair, his blue eyes piercing me with interest. “I guess the main movement that started everything would be Dadaism. Do you know about World War One?” Theo shakes his head.

“One? By Jove, there are more?!” Arthur exclaims. I nod, my brows knitted together. If he lived through the first one, the Great War, I am concerned about how he might react if I continue. He seems to want to know more, so I keep talking.

“Arthur, if I remember correctly you died a few years before the second one. What was it, 1920 something?”

“1930,” he corrects me.

“Well, the Second World War started in 1939. It lasted for about six years, and it was brutal. But that’s not the point of this conversation.” I turn to Theo. “So, as you can tell by the name, the First World War was, well... massive. Pretty much all of Europe was involved and severely affected, both by the unprecedented death toll and the poverty that came after. People suffered while the rich clung to what they had, and the art world became increasingly inaccessible. You’ve seen yourself how conservative the elite can be when it comes to their precious culture.” He agrees with a nod. “So a movement emerged in response to this traditionalism, which some artists deemed unacceptable in a world where all of the rules had seemingly been broken already, and devastatingly so. I don’t know where the name came from, but Dadaism represents all the nonsense, everything that is irrational and ugly and primal. What these people were making was basically anti-art. Instead of it being aesthetically pleasing, their work strived to create a reaction in the viewer, to make them think.” I pause to drink again, and glance at Arthur. He knows what I’m talking about, he lived through it.

“And what does it look like?” Theo asks. I laugh.

“Oof, good question. It can look like anything, from sculptures made of random objects piled together to drawings and prints... More than anything, Dadaism was a concept, an ideology. It established that art should be reactionary, and not necessarily for the pleasure of the viewer. This became the basis for what in my time we call ‘conceptual art’, which is basically anything that makes a statement without it being explicit in the piece.”

“Like a riddle?” Arthur asks. He has already finished his glass of whisky.

“Something like that,” I chuckle. “But not always. One of the most outrageous ones I can remember is this man, Piero Manzoni. In the 60s... the 1960s, that is, he produced a series of cans labeled as ‘Artist’s Shit’, supposedly filled with... well, his own shit. It was meant as a critique of the art world at the time.” Theo’s eyes widen, and I hear Arthur let out a boisterous laugh. “Apparently one of his friends said that they were actually filled with plaster, but no one really knows for sure, because they’re too valuable to be opened. I think one of them was auctioned for like 300.000 euros.”

“Euros?” Theo asks after sipping his whisky, trying to recover from the surprise.

“Oh, right, that’s a new thing,” I remember. “So after that Second World War I mentioned before, a bunch of countries in Europe created a coalition, to protect the peace, and all that. And then, around the time I was born, it became a proper union and they changed the money, so we all use euros now. Well, then. Then?” I take a big sip of absinthe and savor it for a moment, frustrated with my own tangled words. “Ugh, time travel is so confusing. Anyway, one of those cans is worth, like, 100 million francs in ‘right now’ money, I think.”

Theo chokes on his drink. Arthur is just staring at me with his mouth hanging open, completely incredulous at my nonchalant statement.

“That is absolutely preposterous,” he finally says. I shrug.

“I guess that proves Manzoni’s point, doesn’t it?” I down what’s left of the absinthe and set the glass in the middle of the table. Arthur scoffs.

“No, no, she’s right.” I am surprised to hear Theo agree with me. He looks rather impressed. “Collectors will buy anything with the right name attached to it. Artist’s shit,” he laughs. “That’s brilliant.”

Maybe it’s his adorable dimples, or maybe it’s the alcohol running through my veins, but I have the sudden urge to mock him.

“Wow, who knew you had a sense of humor, knabbeltje!” I put emphasis on the word, causing him to blush, which subsequently makes me giggle. Arthur puts his fist up, laughing, and I bump it. “Ayyy, you learnt it!”

Theo gets up abruptly, and for a moment I fear I have offended him, but I relax when I see him walk towards the bar. He soon comes back with only two glasses, and leaves again to get his own. I sip my new drink, also containing the green liquor from before, and let out a little moan.

“This drink slaps,” I declare, and Arthur tilts his head in confusion.

“Slaps? Gods, Anaïs, it’s like you’re speaking an entirely different language.” I laugh and proceed to tell him about the ‘snack’ thing, how Theo called me a ‘knabbeltje’ and I took it as a compliment, so now he can’t use it on me anymore. Arthur laughs too when I finish the story. “Oh my, is that why he was blushing? Here I was thinking you two might have- Ow!”

I elbow him before he can finish the sentence, in part because I don’t need to hear it, and in part because I see Theo approaching. When he sits down, Arthur’s face lights up with an idea. I wonder what he’s plotting.

“Let’s play a game,” he says. “Bet I can deduce something about each of you. If I’m right, you drink, and if I’m wrong, I drink. Anaïs,” he turns to me. “There is something between you and Leonardo. You two have been in an awfully good mood lately.” I blush and sip my drink. “Ha! I knew it! Our sweet darling and our dear friend have been basket making in secret,” he exclaims. Judging by his face, I assume that’s an euphemism for sex.

“We have not!” I smack his arm. Although that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to. “Okay, my turn. Theo!” I choose loudly, pointing my finger at the art dealer. “You act so tough because you’re protective of Vincent and want to be taken seriously so nobody messes with him.”

Theo drinks before clearing his throat, and then turns to his friend.

“The reason you’re being so annoying lately is because you’re jealous of Leonardo,” he states. Arthur simply leans back on his chair with a smirk.

“Drink,” he commands. Theo obliges. “You have already scoured this bar for my next potential conquest, and you disapprove of all the options.” Theo drinks again.

“Is that what you do when you’re not pestering Sebastian for more coffee?” I laugh. Then a thought occurs to me. “How do they not find out about...? You know,” I ask, tapping my canine with a fingernail. I can’t risk saying it out loud in a place so crowded.

“They simply look like love bites, dear,” Arthur winks. “And they are, in a sense.”

“Huh.” I tilt my head, trying to imagine what that would be like, but I fail and move on to the game. “You sleep around so much to try to forget your guilt.”

Finally, he drinks. I don’t know what he feels guilty about, but I could recognize that emotion on anyone. However, I don’t ask any further. I do not want to pry.

He changes the topic by pulling a deck of cards from his pocket. I guess he does not like losing at his own game.

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lorenzodemedisi · 5 years ago

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Whatever The Future Will Hold For Us.

PAIRING.

Vampire!Steve Rogers x Omega!Reader.

SUMMARY.

It had never happened before; an Omega werewolf who had imprinted on a Vampire.

Until you met Steve and everything went complicate, dangerous, tempting and desirable.

A/N.

Fantasy AU. A/B/O AU. Vampire AU. Enemies To Lover AU.

Angsty, Fluff, tensions (hate and steamy). I inspire myself from some theme in the Twilight series, mixed with some good A/B/O AU.

-not my gif, credit to the rightful maker.- Here another fantasy piece. I hope you will like it and thank you for reading. Don’t hesitate to give me your thoughts, feedback and comments.

A lots of Love. Lex!xx

WORDS.4452ish.

°°°

You tried, you tried to stop the beating of your heart and your sudden urge of need and secret want. But you couldn't stop it. You couldn't prevent it but only go along with it. Being the youngest member of your pack was hard, but what was harder was to imprint on a bloodsucker. It was odd and weird, nobody could understand. An Omega who had imprinted on a Vampire! A kind that was one of your worst enemies for Centuries. They were unnatural, and going against your pack's fundamental laws but most importantly, Vampires didn't care for anything or anyone.

" Can we get ten packs of cigarettes, the blue and green one. " Natasha grinned at you, while Bucky Barnes, her boyfriend, was too occupied to kiss her neck.

She chuckled trying to push on his chest which only made the man pressed harder on her frame. They were unbelievable, you rolled your eyes, turning your body toward the cigarette shelves behind you. Unfortunately, you caught the sight of the third one. Steve leaned into a candy shelf, his arms close on his chest and a cap set low on his face. Both of your gaze locked for only a couple of seconds but it was already too much since he had entered into the small place your thought was on him, your imprintee. You quickly took what his Vampire friend asked for and added them to her already full bags.

" Would it be all? " You demanded, avoiding to look directly at the couple too exposed PDA. " Yes. " Natasha smiled, pushing Bucky's mouth away from her lips. She reached for her wallet and started to put the money on the counter.

Bucky bit his lips looking at her, making you cringed and wanted to puke. He then looked at you and give you a devilish smile after he finally recognized you. The weird werewolf who had a "crushed" on his best friend but they all knew that it was more than that.

" You should come to the party tonight. " Bucky smiled, lazily putting one arm around his girlfriend's shoulders. " Keep company to the poor old Steve over there. " He grinned, pointing at his friend with his head. You hold your breath, dropping your sight on Natasha's movement. " Bucky…" Steve warned him in a low growl, still standing behind, his hands into fists. " Just a thought. " The dark-haired male winked at you while Natasha put the final bill on the small table.

You only nodded and took the money in your hand, you started to tap on the shop's screen. Quick, they gathered their stuff in their bag, turned their back and started to leave. Steve was already out.

" Keep the change. " Natasha called being her shoulder with a bright smile before she left the shop.

" Keep the change " You mimicked her with an ugly grimace, rolling your eyes. They were insufferable and out of the place. You didn't know why they came to shop here, which was own and controlled by Werewolves their worst enemies. Actually, maybe deep down you knew why. Putting the money inside the register you remembered what Steve had told you after you had imprinted on him. You obviously had rejected him, but nonetheless, his words were always inside your head; " I will always be there for you, even though you don't want me to. " By the fact you were both immortals, and that the Vampire considered honor and promise two valuable things to keep hold to, you would be stuck with Steve Rogers as an imprintee for the rest of your life. You bite your lips closing the register down, and raising yourself from the tip of your feet, eyeing the little group putting their stuff in their luxurious car. Bucky was saying something making the two other laughed out loud. They were carefree and loved to ignore the fact that most of the population of the town feared and avoided them. But seeing them, in the parking lot of the shop was making them almost normal. Like mortals.

°°°

" Maybe, I will just stay for 10 minutes and then leave. " You informed your friend, Wanda. You put her burgundy top in front of your frame, watching your reflection inside the mirror you cocked your head to the side.

She only huffed behind you. You frowned your eyebrows and turned your head toward her.

" What is it? " You asked her, throwing the sweater at her feet on the bed and taking a dress from the huge pile on the floor. " You always say this, after seeing him. " She put aside her pen and looked at you through the mirror. " Maybe I will stop by his place? Maybe I will ask him to take a coffee with me? " She mimicked you while you rolled your eyes, and turned around to fully looked at her. " That is not true. " You argued, putting your hands on your hips. " Sure it is, you are always weaker after you saw him. And you never went through your plan to reach for him. But give it a couple of weeks and you will fully be back to your normal self, full of pure hatred against these bloodsuckers." She explained shrugging her shoulders. Her face lighted up, watching the piece of clothes you were holding in your hands. " Wow, you should keep this dress, it would look really good on you. " She smiled, before putting her pen back into her hand and started to draw again.

You froze, giving hard thinking about what she had told you. Were you always like that? Weaker and maybe needier after seeing Steve? You didn't know and you didn't think so, but your decision was now taken.

" Put some clothes on, Wanda. We are going to a party. " You announced to her under her knowing smile. " Yes finally! We are breaking some rules. " She threw away her paper and pen on her already packed floor. " But you are definitely putting this amazing dress on." She exclaimed raising herself from her bed and going straight into her bathroom.

Yes, you were. Pulling on the dress and breaking the rules. You didn't know what to expect or what you were exactly doing, maybe trying to be carefree for once and going with your instinct.

°°°

The huge house set in the woods was full but you were taken by surprise seeing civilized and well-behaved Vampires talking low among themselves, faint classical music playing on the background. They were no food, or drinks though, which was entirely understandable. You quickly lose sight of Wanda, not even 5 minutes after you walked inside the mansion. You swallowed looking at every piece of art inside the luxurious home. You knew they were rich but for Pete's sake, they had a Picasso hanging on the wall. You were about to analyze that closer but soon you find yourself a rough hand holding on your arm and being yanked into a small hallway. Your back hit a hard wall, you rise your eyes to look at Steve's clear blue one.

" What are you doing here, Y/N? " Steve hissed under his breath, he looked away from you to watched left then right, watching closely every single person in the room. " I thought I was invited. " You replied quietly, his hand still holding your arm down against the wall, the cold of his palm making your warm skin shivered. " Bucky shouldn't have said anything. " The blond-man rolled his eyes, before looking at you suspiciously. "I'm quite surprised but also confused. " He continued, his eyes inside yours.

That's when you felt it again, the tension between the two of you, the ground moving, the light was on him and only on him. Nothing else mattered you felt your heart beating more quickly, your eyes lost in his clear one. Nothing mattered but this, right now. You leaned your head toward him, your mouth being apart for only a few inches. You yearned from him, even though you were taught to hate him and avoided his kind. For some unlogical reason, you were desperate to finally have his lips on you.`

" I have to put you in a safer place before we do something we will both regret," Steve informed you, taking a step back from you. " I came with a friend. " You announced to him, frowning your eyebrows. Why does he think about regret and why he doesn't want to kiss you like you were longing too? " The Alpha girl? " He asked, looking through the crowd then your face. You nodded your head, deep inside your thought. " She will be fine. She's not in danger here, but on the contrary, you are. " He yanked on your arm again making you following him inside the dark hallway.

You walked fast behind, trying to keep the same pace as him. Steve pushed a door open and led you inside the room. It was a study where a large wooden desk stood in front of a window, a lot of bookshelves were set on the walls. You put your back against the closed door, watching Steve light some lamp on, a soft and warm dim light making you see the row and row of book, old and new. He walked toward the window, looked outside for a couple of minutes before closing the curtain in a sharp and quick movement. You let your eyes wondered on the small piece of furniture in the room, your instinct going back into ignoring mode.

" What are you really doing here? " Steve demanded, leaning his body on the mahogany desk. " I told you, I was invited. " You repeated, without looking at him but analyzing the different book titles. " No, what are you really doing here? " He asked again, closing his arms on his tone chest. " Is it because of your Heat? " The Vampire raised an eyebrow waiting for your answer. " What do you know about that? " You scoffed at him, shaking your head, still not looking at his perfect blue eyes. " I know, Omegas go through Heat once a month. I know that it's the time that a conception of a pup is more frequent. I also know that Omegas crave to have sex during their Heat imploring any Alpha to knot with them. " Steve explained with one shrug of his shoulders. " Whoa, since when did you become an Omega expert?" You mocked him, walking toward one bookshelf. With one finger you trace the letters of a book spine " Dracula ". " Since that day through the park, a pretty Shape-Shifter, imprints on me. " He announced to you, making his way toward your back.

You could feel his presence behind you, watching closely the books, you tried to ignore him, reminded you his crude words of earlier; " I have to put you in a safer place before we do something we will both regret ". You hold onto your breath, waiting for his next move.

" I tried to stop myself from thinking about you. It's been almost an all year, and I can stop my need to be near you every godman minutes. " Steve hissed behind you. You exhaled loudly, focusing your mind on the shelf. " I'm always wondering what are you doing, with who? What are you thinking about, is it me or did you found someone else? " He declared, pushing his chest against your back.

You swallowed hard, shivering while feeling his soft shirt against you naked shoulders. Steve put one hand on your hips, making you jolted with surprise, and pressed your backside against him.

" I wonder about who's making you laugh? Who's making you cry? " He pushed his lips against your ear, without controlling it you started to leaned into his touch. " Who's the bastard Alpha who knot you during your Heat? " He whispered his lips brushing your skin.

You closed your eyes putting your hand on his, stroking his long fingers with your nails.

" It really looked like you were the one who imprinted on me and not the other way around. " You remarked pushing your head into the crook of his neck. " I'm just happy that you are here. " Steve murmured. He put a soft kiss on your skin under your ear. " I would have wanted that it will be at a more appropriate time and place but I will make the most of it. " He continued, pushing his face against your neck.

You bit your lips, feeling very good. You should stop him and using your strength to shove hard across the room, but you couldn't. It was nice for a moment to just be in his arms and enjoyed the connection.

" Tell me, Y/N, who's the lucky bastard who took care of you during your Heat?" He asked, his head still on your neck. Steve descended his hands on your lower stomach stroking the soft fabric of your dress. " Who's the one I need to remove his head from his body because he had touched something that is mine? " He continued to whisper, a hint of angriness in his voice.

Possessively, he pushed your body once more into his chest and hummed into your neck, his hands closing around your stomach. You felt good and had forgotten almost anything the Leader of your pack had taught you. Until you felt his cold bite under your ear. You jolted with surprise, feeling his teeth brushing your skin. Fuming, you pushed his hand away from your body and turned on your heels. You glared at him, showing him your own canines under his puzzled but also amused face.

" What the hell are you doing?" You asked your voice husky but also angry by his behavior. " Here's the little wolf that was hiding. " Steve grinned, his blue eyes bright in the almost dark room. " I thought I made you yield to my killer charm. " " In your dream Rogers. " You mocked him, faintly smiling at him. " You will always be. " He declared winking.

You rolled your eyes, thinking that coming here was a bad idea after all. You tried to avoid his large frame walking toward the office’s door but his hand get a hold of your arm and firmly put you back at your place in front of him. You back hit hard the shelves behind you. Knocking off some books from their place. They fell hard on the ground. Furious you, snarled at him. Steve snarled back, pupils fully dilated, only darkness in his eyes.

" Let me go! " You cried out mad, you pushed on his chest but he wouldn't move. " No, I told you, it's not safe for you out there. " He pointed out, a faint smile on his face as he watched you trying to make him move. " I thought Werewolves were stronger than that. " Steve smirked.

You saw red, and without thinking you put all your inner force into one blow, your palms hitting his chest fast. Steve's body was thrown away across the room colliding hard into the wall in front of you. His body cracking and destroying the massive and strong bricks, he felt hard on the wooden floor. You only watched your mouth wide open. You never had done that before. Hearing loud voice and commotion behind the close door, you walked toward the window, pushed the curtain back. Without looking once at Steve who was grunting from pain or something else, you kicked the window open and jump through it. The cold air of Massachusetts blowing against your exposed skin, you started to run, never looking back at the house. Your head wondering about a thousand thoughts at once.

Everything your pack has been teaching you was to never trust a Vampire. And you've been staying true to their words and your learning. But tonight you have done the stupidest thing you could ever have done. Maybe you had caused a true act of war against the pack of Bloodsucker. Against your Imprintee.

°°°

Steve Rogers looked at the mess he had made, because of a foolishness remark he had said. When Erskine had bit him, he advised too cocky Steve to never " underestimate your enemies. " A piece of advice that could help him, on the battlefield, but also in love. Opening the door smoothly, Natasha quickly caught sight of him, his body on the ground of the room. A faint smoke made by the destruction of the wall was slowly covering every bit of furniture in the study.

" What in the ten Hell, have you done? " The red-haired woman, chuckled looking at him raising his body from the floor. " Not me, but the little 'Mega who don't appreciate a little bit of teasing. " He mumbled, dusting his clothes. His body was fine, but his shirt was completely good to throw in the garbage, and his emotions were a mess. " What have you done, Rogers? " She raised an eyebrow, a faint smile on her lips. " You, who usually are such gentlemen with the ladies. " Natasha reminded him, putting a hand on her hip, and leaning her body into the doorframe. " Mostly, teasing. " He replied, shrugging his shoulders. Natasha cocked her head to the side, waiting. " And also, I maybe have mocked her strength. "

Natasha shook her head and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. Faintly party noise was coming from the hallway, but nothing near them. Nobody was minding that Steve had almost shaken the house to the ground.

" It's rule number one, of every Werewolves books Steve. " Natasha exclaimed, disappointed by her friend's behavior. " Never mocked a wolf's muscles. " She shook her head, taking a big breath. " Now, what? " " What, what? " Steve asked, puzzled. " How, are you gonna fix this?" She simply demanded shrugging her shoulders, like it was the simplest thing of the world. " I mean you are into this filthy animal of girl and you just humiliated her and she smacked you so. " Natasha declared, pursing her lips. " How are you gonna win her over? "

Steve licked his lips and put his hands on his hips, thinking about how to settle all of this. He wanted to bury the hatchet between the two of you, and maybe starting something meaningful with you. He really wanted that. But apparently, the odds were against you both. His friend was about to turn around but stop before crossing the threshold of the door.

" Oh, and by the way, Rumlow is here. He was sent by Pierce who had heard about our little wolf crushed on you. " Natasha announced, wincing a little bit. "I think they are scared. " She added taking a step into the hallway. " I know he's here. But they are scared about what? " Steve frowned. He didn't like any of her information. " A truce between us, and your girlfriend little pack. You know how powerful we could be. And with her Omega DNA, she would be pregnant with your offspring within a minute, you know what werewolves and vampire babies could do? " She asked him, her face dead serious and her body stiff.

Steve could feel her emotions changing and was surprised to see that his dear friend Natasha was scared. He shook his head.

" Me neither, Steve. So please, be careful. " Was her final words before leaving him, in his deep reflection.

°°°

You heard a loud knock on your bedroom window, leaving your bathroom you stopped dead in your tracks seeing the pale face of the last man you wanted to see tonight. Steve waved at you, his face pressed against the glass. You were debating between ignoring him or letting him in. But it took you only a few seconds before walking toward the wall and opening the window with one swift motion.

" What do you want?" You greeted him, already angry. You closed your arms on your chest and backed away a little bit to make room for him to come in. " Well, hello to you too sweetheart. " Steve smirked, pushing long and strong legs inside your bedroom. " Don't worry I'm ok, and my back is already healing, so thanks to my amazing DNA for that. " He explained to you, his tone a little bit mocking your previous encounter from earlier this evening. " I'm sorry about that. I just don't like to be underestimated. " You bite your lips, dropping your gaze on the purple carpet of the room. " I understand, and I'm sorry if I pushed you too hard. " He only replied, raising his body from the edge of the window and stood firmly on the floor.

You take another step away, rising your head and looked at him warily. It was the first time he broke the invisible boundaries you have created since your imprinted on him. Something was wrong.

" Why are you here? Is it Wanda? " You inquired, nervous and afraid to hear his answer. " No, no don't worry your little Alpha friend can fight her own battles, trust me." Steve chuckled under his breath and shook his head. " What do you mean?" You asked him, more confused than before. " She's fine, Y/N, however, you are not. " He explained to you, his voice quiet inside your room.

You frowned your eyes, not really understanding what he meant. Maybe he was here to ridicule you even more or worse, maybe he was planning to attack your pack, starting with you before going to kill Sam, the Leader.

" Steve, I think you should go. " You warned him, unclosing your arms from your body, and already taking a defensive stand. " And I think you should listen to me. " He replied, looking at your disbelief state across your face. " I won't attack you if it's what you think but my enemies will." " My pack will never turn their back against me, even though I fell for you. " You declared, your voice a little bit louder, confidence taking a hold of you. " I'm not talking about your family, but about Pierce, Alexander Pierce. " Steve announced to you taking a step toward you. He licked his lips, his blue eyes searching for a once of trust inside your gaze. " He's my enemy, and soon he will be yours. He heard about you imprinted on me and apparently he's shitting himself right now. " " Why? " You demanded confused, forgetting about your little idea of battle, you sat on the edge of your bed and crossed on legs under yourself. " I didn't do anything. " " Not yet, but if… " Steve swallowed his anxiousness and sat next to you, leaving a little space between your two bodies. " With we get along and start what the hell imprintees are doing, Pierce is scared of a truce between our two Clans and what consequence are relationship would do." " What do you mean? " You shook your head and got up from the bed. You were still drawn by him, and being this close to his body with a bed being involve was not what you needed right now. So, you took one step, still puzzled by Steve's strange revelations. " I mean, a baby Y/N. That's what he's afraid of. "

You sharply turned on your heels and looked at him, biting your lips from laughing.

" It's totally impossible and unlikely! " You cried out, skeptic. " You are dead inside! " You pointed at his tone chest, still yelling from surprise. " And you are an Omega, who perpetually go into Heat and practically had a 100% chance to conceive every time you had sex with someone. " He shouted out, wanting to make you see his point. " Not every time! " You snorted rolling your eyes and putting your fist on your hips. " And, sorry if I repeat myself but you are dead Steve! " You cried out once again, but quickly calm yourself thinking about Sam living in the apartment next door. Steve rose from the bed and dropped his gaze on the floor. " It's rare but it had already happened that, Vampire having offspring with Mortals. It's very rare but it's not implausible." He quietly explained to you.

You turned your head from him, understanding what he implied behind his words.

" So, what you say is that if it can happen between a Vampire and a Mortal, a Vampire and an Omega have more potential to have a baby as well? " You started to shake, your brain going numb.

You could avoid Steve, but not indefinitely. You knew like tonight that the longing would be too painful, especially during a hurtful Heat and you will crawl and beg for him to take you. Nothing will ever be easy, especially if this Alex Pierce was a constant danger for the two or three of you. You heard him walked slowly toward you and felt his arms embracing you, pressing the side of your face against his chest. He put his head above yours and started to rock both of your bodies calmly.

" It's going to be ok. " Steve reassured you, pressing a soft kiss on your head. " How? " You muttered, your lips brushing the cotton of his fresh shirt. " I don't know, but I promise you Y/N. " He started to tell you, stroking your back with one hand the other reaching for your cheek. He tilted your head to make you look at him. " I promise you that if anything happened I will always be there to protect you. " He faintly smiles before pressing a chaste kiss on your lips. His mouth was smooth and sweet against yours. You brushed your nose with his and let a delightful sigh escape your lips. Steve backed away a little from you, his thumb stroking your skin. " Promise me that at your next Heat you will come to me to take care of you. " " What if I get pregnant? " You murmured, concerned and dread feeling your stomach. " Then I will protect the both of you. " He smiled, pushing once again his lips on yours. " Promise me, Y/N that I will be the one you will come to." He demanded you, his lips brushing your mouth. " I promise. " You replied, in a whisper. " Good. " Steve smiled.

He kissed you once again more deeply, his lips sliding against yours. You could feel the flutter of his long eyelashes against your cheek. But before you could take a good hold of him, Steve broke away from your body. He pressed a faint and quick kiss on your cheek.

" Until next time. " He murmured against your ear, before walking toward the open windows.

Without a final look, he jumped through the open space. You heard him started to run inside the woods of your clan, and soon enough he was gone. Taking with him every little resolution you had to stay away from him.

°°° Tag List; @jtargaryen18

#Vampire!Steve Rogers x Omega!Reader #Steve Rogers x Reader #Dark!Steve Rogers x Reader #Steve Rogers fanfiction #A/B/O AU #Vampire!Steve x Omega!Reader #Steve Rogers x You #Steve Rogers AU #Steve x You #vampire au #Steve Rogers Imagine #Story: Whatever The Future Will Holds For Us.

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sebthesnipe · 5 years ago

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Manners And A Muzzle (My Dearest Procyon Part 2)

(AKA Part 2 of The Cat and The Raccoon)

February Prompts 2/10

Prompt List

First // Previous // Next

The February Collection on AO3

My Dearest Procyon on AO3

Other works by me

Prompt: Manners / Muzzle

Ship: Prinxiety (kinda…)

Original story based on this wonderful post by @underdog-arts

“I still don’t understand,” Roman whined as he stumbled after the lanky wizard. Honestly, he shouldn’t be going along with this at all. He should be at home, in his cozy four poster bed, under a giant mound of blankets, not picking twigs out of his ruined locks, and no doubt catching fleas from the mongrel in his arms. However, the situation being as it was, he wasn’t quite sure which way home was… or if it was even still standing.

“Perhaps if I explain it again?” Logan offered, ducking under a low hanging branch before holding it up politely for the other man. He may be a witch but Roman had to give him props for his manners.

“No, no. Just…” Roman huffed with a shake of his head, “can you just summarize?”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Logan nodded. “Virgil and I are young witches. As such, we are required to draw our power from a single source; that source usually being another person. Typically, this other person needs to be a powerful magic user as well, though there are exceptions. Whenever a young witch finds their source, in this case our Lord Noname-”

“Still think that is a horrible name,” Roman grumbled under his breath as Logan continued.

“We are bound to him. Each binding is different. For some, it is nothing more than companionship; a mutual bond with equal gain and loss. For others, it is eternal servitude. In Virgil’s case it is the latter.” Logan explained once more, his frown deepening.

“And you are bound to this Noname guy too?” Roman added, still trying to follow.

“Yes… and no,” Logan sighed, “It is quite complicated. I was once bound to Noname as well, but he quickly grew tired of me. You see, each witch has their own…” he seemed as if he were searching for the correct word, “Talent.” he supplied. “An area of expertise that they excel at. Virgil is a master of physical manipulation. I-”

“Can read minds!” Roman interjected excitedly.

“Well, in the most simplistic sense, yes, but I can do far more than that. If I concentrate, I am able to see worlds you have never even attempted to dream of. Places where no man has set foot.” Logan couldn’t help but smile as he explained these visions, his heart beginning to race with elation. “I can see the past and the future, each mingling with one another. I can see stars that are millions of galaxies away, or beasts that crawl far beneath our feet.”

“Wait…” Roman hummed, brows furrowing in confusion. “What is a galaxy?” The question earned a soft sad huff from the witch who simply shook his head and continued on.

“Never mind. I apologize, I seem to have gotten off topic. Where was I…” he mumbled softly. “Ah, yes: the connection Virgil and I share. Noname wished to use my gift for his own gain. When I refused, punishment ensued. Eventually, after a few years he seemed to have given up hope that I would break. As punishment, he cut off the constant supply of magic I received from him. Unfortunately, once a witch has had a taste of power, they will fade without it.”

“What do you mean, fade?” Roman pressed.

“They will die, Your Majesty. Quite quickly, at that,” Logan provided.

“Oh…. So… What happened then?”

“As I tried to explain before-” Logan offered.

“Not in English,” Roman grumbled under his breath, though if the witch noticed, he gave no indication.

“Virgil, who had been apprenticing with Noname’s brethren, had found me. Naturally, I attempted to latch onto him as a source. He was not too thrilled at the idea, but slowly came around. You see, he was as eager as I was to get away from our bindings, so eventually he agreed. However, the new bond had unfortunate, and unforeseen, consequences. Virgil’s bond with Lord Noname weakened down to a trickle, which meant that there was not enough magical energy to keep both of our human forms alive and well.” The witch averted his gaze in shame as they continued on. “If I had known…” he paused before shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. Knowing that we would both perish if we stayed too long in our human forms, I cursed Virgil to take the appearance of the animal that most resembles his personality while I remained human.”

“So… he has the personality of a… badger?” Roman asked arching a brow as he lifted the creature in his arms high enough to examine.

“It is a Procyon Raccoon,” Logan corrected with a huff.

“Whatever,” The Prince shrugged. “That still doesn’t explain the whole cat thing.”

“It would be cruel to curse someone that had just saved my life in such a way,” Logan pointed out, “So, I cursed myself as well. Only one of us may be human at any given time, lest we both die.”

“That sounds like a pretty rough existence,” Roman admitted, hugging the still snoring Virgil to his chest.

“I will admit it is not easy,” Logan confessed. “It is also the reason we are here. We must find new sources if we are to return to the natural order of things.”

“And you think you can find them here? Why?” Roman asked curiously.

“Because I have seen it,” Logan answered vaguely. “My visions are cryptic, but they are usually correct. We will both find a new source for our powers here in these woods. I just… need time to figure out what that-”

A roar echoed through the trees, sending droves of birds startling into the air and the still shirtless witch hunching low in the brush. Roman followed a moment later, unsure of what else to do.

“What the hell was mmph!” he began to snap, just to have Logan’s hand clamp over his mouth. These two witches may be telling the truth about saving him, but they sure didn’t have any concept of respect.

“Sssh! We’re close.” Logan whispered softly, removing his hand slowly.

“Close to what?” Roman hissed back.

“Come on,” Logan urged, inching towards the large vine covered rock face a good ten meters out.

“Listen,” Roman began to complain as he followed the witch, “I get that you’re on a whole quest thing, but I have a entire kingdom I have to worry ab-”

“Roman, you really need to be quiet.” Logan interrupted.

“Don’t tell me to be quiet you no good, sorr- AH!” Roman snapped, dropping the raccoon in his hands with a loud cry. “It bit me!”

Virgil plopped on the ground, scrambling to his feet in a hurry. He turned a vicious eye onto the prince and hissed mercilessly at him, saliva dripping from his jowls. Roman reared back in sudden terror of the small monster before him, holding his injured hand to his chest.

“Virgil,” Logan called softly. He bent low enough to place an upturned hand on the ground, cloak falling open to reveal his still bare chest. The raccoon glanced briefly at his partner, hackles still raised, before shooting another hiss at the prince. He then promptly scampered over to the tall man, using his arm as a ramp to clammer into the backpack.

“I asked him to carry you,” Logan clarified. A small hiss sounded from the bag as two beady eyes seemed to glow just under the flap of the now bulging leather.

“That thing needs to be muzzled,” Roman growled as he shot Virgil a glare of his own.

“Virgil!” Logan snapped in a harsh whisper. There had obviously been some telepathic exchange between the two men that Roman obviously wasn’t privy to. “Manners!”

“What did he say?” Roman pressed, his curiosity overpowering his fear as he moved closer.

“Nothing that warrants repea-.” Logan started to sigh before another roar interrupted him.

For a moment, the grey and black fur of Virgil’s snout appeared over Logan’s shoulder, whiskers twitching as he sniffed the air. His small claws fisted against the hood of the cloak wrapped around Logan’s shoulders, giving a snarling growl in response to the monstrous cry.

The sound was not the only thing that pulled their attention this time. Smoke began to billow farther down the cliff face where a large string of fire burst from a cave mouth, torching everything within a stone’s throw from the entrance. In the next moment, Virgil was gone, as quickly as he had appeared. He was back in his bag to hide, vastly aware of his suddenly meager stature.

Roman’s heart raced, his fear of the bitey minuscule monster that was now nestled against Logan’s back all but forgotten. He had something much larger to worry about now… and apparently it knew that they were there.

“A DRAGON?! REALLY?!” Roman cried.

To be continued...

Taglist:

@hiddendreamer67 @nightashes @aequinoctiale

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worryinglyinnocent · 5 years ago

Text

Fic: Of Comic Books and Sushi

Summary: When his dad’s visit to him at college clashes with an important class, Neal asks his roommate Belle to look after his dad for a few hours. Belle takes it upon herself to introduce Neal’s father to the wonders that Boston has to offer.

Written for the @a-monthly-rumbelling prompt: Trying something new for the first time.

Rated: G

=====

Of Comic Books and Sushi

Belle would admit to being somewhat nervous about meeting Neal’s dad properly for the first time. She’d met him in passing, obviously, over the course of the two years that she and Neal had been roommates, but this would be the first time that she was meeting him without Neal there as well, and she was anxious to make a good impression.

Especially since the very first time that she had ever seen the man, she had been wearing a bright pink fleece onesie with ‘Princess Fabul-ass’ embroidered on the butt, with her hair in a towel turban and a bright green mud mask on her face. She had never fully forgiven Neal for not warning her that his dad was coming that day, and the onesie, a gag gift from Ruby, had never been worn again despite its cosiness.

She didn’t even know why she was so nervous; it wasn’t like she was dating Neal.

In fact, it was probably quite a good thing that she wasn’t dating Neal, because if she remembered correctly, having got over her initial mortification, Mr Gold was really rather attractive. Ruby had said that her liking for older men would get her into hot water one day, and if having a sort-of crush on your roommate’s dad didn’t constitute hot water, then she didn’t know what did.

She had the sudden urge to kill someone in the art department, because it wasn’t Neal’s fault that he was leaving her alone with his dad for three hours. One of his presentations, a pivotal one which counted towards his final grade, had been rescheduled at the last possible moment, and since he couldn’t cancel it, he’d had to draft in Belle to keep his dad entertained.

How on earth was she supposed to do that? Neal had probably already shown his dad all of Boston’s usual tourist attractions on his previous visits, and it would be awkward indeed for them to just sit in the apartment for the entire time.

There was a knock on the door and Belle gulped. It was zero hour. She checked her appearance in the mirror. Although he had, thankfully, seen her looking much better than she had been for their first meeting, Belle was still acutely aware that she had never seen Mr Gold himself looking anything less than pristine.

Finally, she opened the door; it wouldn’t do to keep him waiting after all. When she got a good look at him, Belle had to double take, and she was sure that she stood gaping at him for at least five minutes before either of them spoke.

“You cut your hair,” she said. As greetings went, it could have been worse.

“Yes, I decided that it was time for a change. And hello to you too, Miss French. How are you?”

“It looks great. I mean, you look great. I mean, I’m great, thanks for asking. Do you want to come in for a cup of tea? Has Neal explained the situation to you?”

She stepped aside to let him in, aware that she was gabbling but unable to stop herself.

“Yes, he told me that he was leaving me in your capable hands. Tea would be lovely, thank you.”

Belle busied herself with kettle and teabags, deciding to break out the teapot since was an occasion - well, a guest - that merited a bit of class. Hopefully, making the tea would distract her enough that she wouldn’t do or say anything that she might regret after the heat of the moment had passed.

Because Mr Gold did look great, as did his short hair. If she’d found him attractive before, then he was practically sex on legs now. Good God, had she actually thought that phrase, and in connection with her roommate’s dad, as well? She really shouldn’t be thinking of him in that way. Neal was like a brother to her, which meant that Mr Gold should have been like a father to her, and…

Nope. She brought the teapot over and poured two cups. Nope, the feelings that she was feeling now were definitely in no way familial.

“So, did you have any plans for today, Miss French? I know that this isn’t exactly how you were anticipating spending your Friday.”

“You can call me Belle, Mr Gold, honestly. And no, you’re not interrupting anything. I was going to go to the comic store and treat myself to some sushi for lunch, but that’s probably not your thing.”

“Believe it or not, Miss French, I have never actually done either of those things before, so I wouldn’t know if it was my thing or not.” He paused, and there was the smallest hint of a shy smile on his face. “If you don’t want an old curmudgeon cramping your style, then I completely understand, but I’ll happily tag along with you if I may.”

“Sure, of course.” Well, at least that solved the problem of what they were going to do whilst they waited for Neal. “You’ve seriously never had sushi?”

“Never.”

“Mr Gold, you are missing out. Let me just get my coat and we’ll head out as soon as the tea’s drunk. You’re in for a treat, I promise you.”

“Lead on, MacFrench.”

If Mulan was alarmed when Belle brought Mr Gold into the comic store then she didn’t show it. Unlike some (mostly young, white, and male) comic store proprietors that Belle had met in her time of frequenting them, Mulan didn’t care who read comics; the more the merrier in her opinion. She would always try to convert any newcomer who walked through her doors, from any walk of life.

“Do you come here a lot?” Mr Gold asked Belle as she browsed the racks. She wanted to find something that he would enjoy and that he could bond with Neal over. Belle knew that their relationship had been very strained during Neal’s high school years and they were both working hard to recover it. Which was probably why she shouldn’t be throwing a spanner in the works by being attracted to Mr Gold.

“Yes, it’s like a second home. Well, a third after the library. Neal and I met through this place, actually, I don’t know if he’s ever told you. There was a tiny little comics convention up on campus and Mulan had a stall there. Neal and I were both looking and tada, the perfect partnership was born.” She paused. “We’re trying to make our own comic, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’m writing and Neal’s drawing.” It made sense, after all. She was studying English and library science and he was studying art.

“He’s never mentioned it to me.”

“You should ask him about it. The concept sketches he’s done for it are amazing.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing them.” Mr Gold still sounded rather mind-blown by the concept. “What’s it about?”

“It’s an Alice in Wonderland story, with a twist. All of the characters are human, but it’s still set in a fantasy psychotopia. It’s kind of hard to explain, but it’ll be great if we ever get it finished.”

“I’m sure that it will, with you two at the helm.” It wasn’t just a polite platitude Belle could tell that he really meant it, and something in her heart turned a somersault at his words.

She turned back to the racks of comics before she could do something that she regretted, hoping that Mr Gold wouldn’t notice her blush. She grabbed the latest Harley Quinn for herself and a new Thor for Neal, holding it out to Mr Gold.

“That’s one of the ones Neal’s reading at the moment,” she said. “After the morning that he’s had, I’m sure that he’d be glad to see it.”

Mr Gold nodded, picking up on the unspoken suggestion as he took the comic from her. “Thank you, Miss French.”

“It’s Belle, really.”

Mr Gold shook his head. “Only if you call me Andrew.”

Belle was about to protest that she couldn’t do that, that he was her friend’s dad and she needed to address him with the appropriate level of respect, but something stopped her. They were both adults after all, and on an equal footing. And he had offered her his first name, so presumably he was fine with her using it.

“Ok… Andrew.”

It didn’t feel as weird as she thought it might, and she was rewarded with his shy little smile again.

“Thank you, Belle.”

She watched him go over to the cash desk, where Mulan immediately started regaling him with the best reading order for the series if he wanted to get into it himself, and Belle had to take a moment to take stock of what had just happened.

She was on first name terms with Neal’s dad now. They’d definitely turned a corner in their relationship, and if she wasn’t very much mistaken, then he’d definitely wanted to turn that corner with her.

What on earth would Neal think?

Forget Neal, well, for the next couple of hours at least. She could deal with him when the time came, and if he was her best friend then he might be weirded out for a couple of weeks but would hopefully come around to the idea, and honestly, nothing might come of it after all.

Belle really hoped that it would, though.

Her stomach gave an aptly timed growl, reminding her of the other object of their trip out today, and she hurried to pay for her own title, steering the now somewhat overwhelmed Andrew away from Mulan and out into the street.

“Sushi?” she asked hopefully. Andrew nodded.

“It’s certainly a day of new experiences, that’s for sure.”

“Mulan’s harmless really. She just wants to spread her passion around.”

Belle and Neal’s favourite sushi restaurant was only round the corner from the comic store, a little hole in the wall place that was all but hidden away unless you knew where to look for it. Belle was happy to take charge, ordering all of her favourites and the usual things that she would start beginners with, and the talk turned back to the nebulous Alice idea whilst they waited for their food to arrive, with hilarity ensuing as Belle tried to teach Andrew how to hold chopsticks properly.

It was only when she was holding her fingers over his on the slim wood to adjust his grip that she came to a frightening realisation.

They were basically on a date.

She paused for a moment, letting her head get around it, weighing up the pros and cons. On the one hand, Neal was probably going to kill her, but on the other hand, she really couldn’t bring herself to care. She was having a good time, and even if this was the last time she saw Andrew, she wouldn’t regret it. She didn’t even regret it when Neal called, breaking up the moment.

“Hi Belle, it’s all over now, thank God. Where are you?”

“Hi Neal. We’re in Kokoro. How did it go?”

“It was fine, I don’t get the result till Monday… Wait, did you say that you were in Kokoro?”

“Yes.”

“With my dad?”

“Yes.”

“My dad is eating sushi?”

“Well, he’s attempting to, his chopstick skills need honing.”

“I…” There was a stunned silence at the other end of the phone for a long time. “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to see this to believe it.”

Belle just laughed as Neal hung up. Knowing that their little moment would be over soon, she raised her cup of tea to Andrew’s in a toast.

“To discovering new things.”

“Yes.” He paused. “Thank you, Belle. I’ve had an unusual, but very pleasant, morning, and I can’t fault the company.”

Belle smiled. “Thank you. The same goes for me.”

It was an open invitation for the both of them, the knowledge that they had enjoyed spending time together without Neal, and they would take the opportunity to do it again some time.

She had to grin as she saw Neal staring at them from outside the restaurant, and she waved. Only time would tell, but she was very confident that something could happen from this.

#rumbelle fic #A Monthly Rumbelling #rumbelle #Belle French #Mr Gold #first date (ish)#meet cute #college #Fic: Of Comic Books and Sushi

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satan-chillin · 5 years ago

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Parent-Teacher Meeting (PTM)

Summary: You’re the homeroom teacher of nine students, four of which happened to share the same family name of Winchester. You dubbed them as the Winchester Four, two pairs of siblings and paternal cousins. You were pretty interested to find out the kind of parents they have.

Pairings: Established Destiel & SamWena/SamWitch

Characters: Reader (female), Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Rowena MacLeod (mentioned)

Note: Non-pairing reader, children drawings inside ;)

Also available in Ao3

You straightened your skirt for what seemed like the tenth time within five minutes.

Not that you could be blamed for your nerves. It was the PTM, of course, and your first since becoming a kindergarten teacher. With the children, you were exactly in your element with their energeticness and rambunctiousness. The parents, however, were the uncharted territories.

Your first parent for the day was a nice young woman who happened to be a single parent of two boys, Connor and Marcus. You thanked her for her time and gave your appreciation after knowing she was also juggling three part-time jobs. Her kids were often the ones to be picked up a little past the dismissal, and after finding out her situation, you offered to keep watch for them until she could pick them up. She was delighted and was grateful while you didn’t mind the suggestion one bit since you tend to extend your stay after classes. Besides, it was also a chance for you to focus on improving her sons’ reading comprehension since it was your main concern.

You met both the parents of Alita, the quiet girl you have in class. You often found her sitting and coloring books in one corner and would encourage her to join the others during playtime. You would smile whenever she decided to join the rest on occasion and also understood that she was someone who frequently wanted time for herself. As a compromise, you often have her sit beside you while she was doing her coloring and the others playing. Her parents were alright, you supposed. A little snobbish, maybe, and clearly wanted Alita to be a more physically active child, but you did say you were doing your best and assured them Alita was outstanding the way she was.

Your next parents were the lovely father and mother of the twin girls Lara and Mara. They were the oldest in your class and nigh inseparable which was a given, you thought. With their age, they were the maturest thinkers of the bunch and would help out with keeping the others in line. They were treated as the eldest sisters of most of the kids, and they both get along well with everyone. You told their parents that their daughters showed promising leadership qualities at their young age and pointed out their strongest points and the ones that needed improvements: Lara still struggled with the arithmetic while Mara was having problems with symbolic concepts. Both, however, were impressive with their grasp of the English language for their age.

You only have nine students in your class and after counting, you realized you already met the parents of five of them so far. The parents of the other four were yet to arrive and when you reviewed your list, you confirmed the students left.

The Winchester Four.

It was unexpected, but you recognized the eagerness in wanting to meet their parents. They were two pairs of siblings and both were paternal cousins, and, frankly, the oddest of the bunch.

Now, it wasn’t that they were weird, per se, though they did display peculiar qualities that could have been picked up from home. Nothing alarming, mind, and if anything, it made you curious as to what kind of people were raising the children—you were already leaning on the hipster-ish type of parents and given that it was already the 21st century, you weren’t certain if that should be impressive.

You have different backstories in your head like maybe they were kids of uber smart parents because heck, they have rudimentary knowledge in Latin, for god’s sake, while you struggled hard with that dead language during your college years; or maybe they were the nomad kind who would uproot the whole family to move on to the next location, which could explain the expansive knowledge on the geography the kids seemed to naturally have; or maybe they were absentee parents who just let their kids do their thing, making them—

You blinked behind the window, your musing interrupted when you spotted a black ‘67 Impala in front of the school. You might have whistled there under your breath at what appeared to be a well-kept vehicle, though what made your eyebrow rise was the three men who exited it.

Were they… Were they law enforcement?

You followed the three men with your eyes, thinking they were to walk to the building next to the school when they entered the school grounds instead. You quickly arranged your table and repositioned the chairs by the desk, and by the time you were done, there was a knock on the classroom door.

Oh, god, they were taller up close.

“Hi, how can I help you, officers?” you asked, trying not to sound nervous which you (and you thought most people as well) usually were around authorities.

The blond man smiled charmingly. “Sorry about the confusion, ma’am. We’re not here for work, we’re actually here for the PTM.”

“Oh. Oh! The PTM. Right,” you muttered, fumbling. “So, uh, for which students?”

“Winchesters,” the three of them simultaneously said.

All of them together. Wow. “Ookay. Have a seat here, sirs.”

There were only two chairs in front, and when you moved in to push another one, the man with the trenchcoat offered to do it instead and sat on it.

He was also the first one to ask, “Are Jimmy and John doing alright in school?”

Straight to the point, this guy, you thought wryly as you adjusted your glasses. “Uh, yeah. Yeah. They’re great, actually. So you’re the parent of James and John then, Mr… Sorry, I think there will be a confusion here if I call you three Mr. Winchesters.”

“Call me Cas,” said the man in the trenchcoat.

“Dean here,” said the blond one with a grin. “Cas and I are for the BJ brothers.”

“I’m Sam,” said the tallest of the three as if the other two weren’t towering enough on their own. “I’m here for my kids Marybeth and Anthony.”

“Well, I’m Y/N, their homeroom teacher,” you formally said once you wrapped your mind that, yes, these were the parents of the Winchester Four, and, yep, they were from law enforcement or something along that line of job. “The four kids are fast learners, by the way, and they’re friendly with the other children so we don’t really have an issue there, though there are some concerns that I personally want to bring up to you.”

You reached for a drawer and pulled out a bunch of papers with drawings during the art time. You placed them face down on the desk and had the sudden urge to laugh at their seemingly curious and nervous reaction at the papers.

“Oh, no, don’t tell me they started drawing something disturbing. Like the serial killers did when they were young,” Dean said worriedly, frowning and the grin gone from his face.

“Did they draw a dead body, Ms. Y/N?” Cas asked grimly.

You sighed. “Nobody drew a dead body, sirs.” You pushed the drawings away for a moment. “Actually, before that, I have to ask something first. Jimmy told me once that he and John live in a cave with their older brother and their two dads. I don’t want to make assumptions here, Mr. Dean and Cas, but is it a metaphor for your living arrangements?”

Dean looked rather affronted to have their home be called a cave. He opened his mouth to make a protest though Cas had beaten him to it.

“It is a cave in a child’s perspective,” Cas said. “It is not a cave. It is a bunker,” he said, addressing you.

“A large bunker with soft beds and a wide kitchen. If it’s going to be a cave, it better be the friggin’ Batcave!”

You have no idea why Dean was defensive about his bunker, but you attributed it to the typical territorialism of men, something which you would probably never understand with your flaming lesbian flag.

“I’m sorry about him,” Sam interrupted with a sigh. “But, yeah, I think what my nephews called the cave is the bunker where they live in. It’s been with the family for generations and we inherited it from our grandfather. My wife and I moved out of the place so it’s just my brother there, Cas, and Jack during his sem breaks.”

“I see,” you replied, unsure what to say to that further. You pushed the glasses up your nose once more. You cleared your throat. “I’m not asking to pry on where you decide to raise them. I guess I just want to resolve the mystery of this cave or something,” you admitted, assuring them with a slight smile. “There is also another question that I want to raise out of curiosity: where did they learn Latin?”

“I think they might have got it from Cas and, often, from my wife.” Sam appeared to be positively glowing at the question.

You knew it. Smart parents. “Oh. Cool. I mean, I guess it’s nice to encourage them at a young age. Might be handy in the future.” There were other non-dead languages the kids could learn, but to each their own, you supposed.

You pulled the eight drawings across the table. “As you know, we spend most of our day in art class. It’s to encourage kids to bring out their creativity and I gotta say, Bobby John and Benny James are… creative. So are Marybeth and Anthony,” you began positively.

There were plenty of drawings from the kids. First month in, your students already filled up the shelves. To remedy the lack of storage, you either post some of them or send them with the student once graded so they could showcase them at home. They were usually the drawings of sceneries, home life, their favorite holidays, and of family. Some showed promise in the pen and paper artistry, and the drawings helped you in figuring out their present state at home.

The drawings from the Winchester Four, barring the typical imagination exclusive of children, as usual, left you baffled.

You laid out the first paper from Marybeth Winchester.

“I believe this is Mrs. Winchester, yes?” you asked, eyeing Sam. “What is she doing exactly?”

“Cooking,” Sam said simply as if that explained it.

Cas leaned close to study the drawing. “I think that is Rowena levitating the pans.” You stared at him. “She said she finds it tedious to cook and make the table without magic.”

“Magic tricks!” Sam suddenly exclaimed. “Yeah, she often, uh, shows the kids what she learns from Youtube. I helped her set up this one with invisible strings. The kids like it.”

Dean rolled his eyes faintly at that as if saying ‘Really?’.

“Right,” you deadpanned when you thought that was the best you could get. You believed that if you mentioned that Anthony and Marybeth told you that their Mom was a former queen—you thought there might be an instance before that they said she was a queen of Hell before she had them—you would get a completely unbelievable answer. “Magic. Cool.”

The next drawing was from Marybeth’s brother, Anthony, and you have to admit, this one made you double-take. “This is from Anthony, and—is that a gun?”

You pretended not to notice Sam paling a bit. Dean looked like he was stifling a laugh behind a cough. For some reason, he found it pretty funny.

You heard Sam sigh defeatedly. “Okay, that one’s my fault,” he said regretfully that you almost felt bad that you were interrogating him, but, hey, your student’s welfare first and foremost. If it has to do with Anthony witnessing his Dad at fieldwork, then it was something to be discussed. “I let him spend a night watching me play.”

“Sorry?”

“There’s this shooting game on PS4. I modeled my character after me—on-the-job me, I mean, with uniform and all. I kinda got addicted to it briefly and… you know.”

“And I thought I’m the irresponsible one,” Dean commented unhelpfully.

“So it’s not Anthony watching you at work? I mean, you guys work at the side of the law, right? I understand your job isn't easy, but you know how it can also impact the children,” you said, expressing your concern.

For sure, they knew how it would be before they entered the family life, and they seemed to have taken your reminder quite well judging by the solemn nods you received in return.

To lighten the mood a bit, you showed Sam a joint drawing by Marybeth and Anthony. This one you intended for him to take home. It seemed that something he would like pinned up on the refrigerator.

“Anthony and Marybeth shared in the class that their Papa is strong enough to lift them both at the same time,” you told Sam. “Marybeth insisted that they include their Mom since she said that Mrs. Winchester was actually behind the camera for this picture. Anthony eventually won the argument when he pointed out that they wouldn’t be any space for the message at the bottom,” you added fondly. “They said that they would just make their Mom a different drawing.”

Sam seemed to have melted at the image, reverently staring at the drawing when you handed it to him. Dean and Cas simply smiled at Sam’s tender expression.

“Actually, there’s also a drawing here made by the four of them together,” you said, searching through the papers. “Bobby John and Benny James told me it’s their older brother Jack, which Anthony and Marybeth claimed their favorite cousin.”

Dean huffed out a laugh. “Very minimal choices there.”

You blinked. You remembered this one when you graded it. “Mr. Jack has… quite the set of eyes when angry,” you commented.

You just hoped that Jack wasn’t actually high with those red, blood-shot eyes.

“They captured Jack’s impressive set of eyes here,” Cas said with a small smile. “Jack got his expressive eyes from Kelly, his mother.”

You didn’t mean to, but that Harry Potter meme about Snape telling Harry he had his mother’s eyes when the movie hardly bothered with the contact lenses entered your mind, unbidden. You suppressed a grin that nobody noticed.

“Jack’s a good kid,” Sam said. “He doesn’t get angry with the kids no matter how stubborn they are. He spoils them whenever he can.” He pointed at the ‘Angry Jack’. “That’s actually Jack being protective of them.”

Well, nice to know the kids were looking up to a young adult as a good role model.

“You can keep it. Mr. Jack might want to take it as a gift,” you told them. Cas folded the paper and kept it.

Only four more drawings were left, and for the next one, you picked the one that made you curious about the way it was drawn.

“This was from Bobby John,” you told them, showing the drawing the boy told you what happened on his last birthday.

“Bobby John told me this was you,” you said to Cas. “Um, what happened here? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Cas’s eyes softened imperceptibly at the memory. “This was when we visited Japan to banish an old curse and put the vengeful spirit at peace.”

You blinked once… twice… thrice.

... Did you hear that right?

“He’s talking about that Japanese horror movie that we watched in Tokyo,” Dean explained hastily, much to Sam’s amusement and Cas’s confusion. “It’s uh—It’s about that cursed well where some girl was dumped in and she became a ghost wanting revenge.”

“Oh,” you said dumbly. “And she could walk through the walls?”

“It’s a television,” Cas answered. For a moment, Dean looked nervous when he spoke. “Her death was caught on tape. The tape was a cursed object that anyone who watched it would die after the seventh day.”

“Wow.” You were a horror movie nut yourself, more so of Asian horror films. You haven’t heard of this movie until now. “Was this released last year?”

“Last year,” Sam confirmed. “It was an entry for the annual Japanese Horror Festival so it was exclusively shown that day.”

“That’s too bad. I would have watched it,” you muttered. You hoped they would release it on DVD with enough funding. “Okay. So if this longhaired girl here was the ghost in that movie, what was Mr. Cas doing here then?”

“Vanquishing the vengeful ghost,” Cas said grimly. Dean nudged him subtly. “Bobby John and Benny James were scared after watching the film, which was a mistake in our part. I had to assure them that Sadako wouldn’t get them, not when I’m alive.”

Your impression of Cas so far was that he was a man who took things too seriously and literally. You guessed they were just part of his character as the loving Papa. You found it adorable.

“Ah, kids,” you chuckled affectionately, moving on to the next drawing from Benny James.

“I think I get it now why Benny James called you an angel in this one,” you said. “Complete with a set of wings and all.”

“That’s a pretty accurate image of my angel wings,” Cas said cryptically, clearly liking the drawing.

Dean squinted. “Is that me being carried by Cas?”

“Your son said so, yes.”

“I mean, he ain’t wrong,” Dean allowed. “Cas is our ride often,” he murmured.

You didn’t catch it, but his brother Sam did, prompting a “Yeah, I bet he’s always your ride” under his breath.

Dean kicked him at the back of his leg and claimed that Sam’s wife was infecting his innocence bit by bit.

You cleared your throat when you thought a childish brawl would break out between them. Cas merely glanced at you apologetically at their behavior. “They’re not always like that,” Cas told you.

You waved off the apology with a wry smile. You suddenly missed your younger brother back at your home.

“Oh, yeah.” You picked out the other drawing by Bobby John. “There’s another from Bobby John. I think this might be about a movie too.” You tilted your head. “It’s… interesting,” you said, for the lack of a better word.

You heard Sam’s snort before catching the way Dean’s face fell.

“I think this is Rowena burning Dean that one time he called her fa—”

“Okay, don’t listen to Cas,” Dean interrupted, covering Cas’s mouth with his palm. “That’s—That’s from a show. Okay, so that’s me and Rowena. I was watching the show with the kids, I irritated her for whatever reason, and she threatened to burn me the same way that guy in the show was burned,” he explained. He gave an uncertain chuckle at your reaction. “You know, typical in-laws stuff.”

Yeesh. You were sure darn lucky you didn’t have any in-laws. Not yet, anyway.

“Pretty sure you were watching Tom and Jerry that time, Dean,” Sam cut in.

“And Tom got burned there,” Dean protested. “He was still alive, of course. Unlike me if Rowena went through with her threat,” he retorted, petulantly crossing his arms. At Sam’s bitch face, Dean sighed. “Look, man, I’m not demonizing Rowena. Just saying she has quite a temper. For me. Never the kids. I’m saying you could have done worse, Sam, and either way, I’d take her as my sister-in-law anytime.”

Sam looked like he wasn’t expecting the honest statement. He was warned by his brother not to tell her, and while Sam didn’t look like he was going to keep it a secret from his wife with that knowing grin, he nodded nonetheless.

There was a single drawing left, and when you saw what it was, you knew that like his brother, Dean would love the one intended for him.

“Bobby John and Benny James both drew it,” you said, smiling at how Dean went silent in awe. “They told me that their Number One Papa is Cas and you're the Number One Dad.”

“Can I keep this?”

After the previous depictions of Dean being carried on air and being burned, you thought he deserved the drawing. “Feel free to.”

Dean was beaming with pride. “Cas, we should frame this.”

Sam shook his head amusedly. You weren’t fooled; you knew he would also do the same with his.

***

The rest of the meeting was quick. The kids’ grades were impressive for their age, and it helped that they have good foundations from home as well. The three of them—yes, even Dean— commended Mrs. Winchester’s patience reserved for teaching them how to read and write and getting them to be interested in books the same way Sam also was.

“Hopefully, she’ll come with us next PTM,” Sam said. “I’m sure she’d like to know you.”

Mrs. Winchester seemed like a force to reckon with, but, frankly, you were also excited to meet her in person.

“Thank you, Ms. Y/N,” Cas said. You shook his hand. “You’ve given us helpful insights on how they’re doing at school. You’re a good teacher to them.”

“Yep. Nice to know they’ll be fine in school.” Dean mock-saluted you. “Until next PTM, ma’am.”

You weren’t expecting your first PTM to go smoothly as this, and you certainly didn’t expect that the parents that initially made you anxious (and interested) the most would be the most entertaining.

“Until next time then,” you said with a smile.

You gave a slight wave after you saw them out of the classroom when they stopped on their way and seemingly remembered something.

“You know what, before we go, we might as well give you this.” Dean reached for his jacket pocket and handed you a business card.

It didn’t look like a precinct calling card, and at your apparent confusion, it was Sam who answered you.

“It’s our other job,” he said. “A family business.”

“Hit us up, ma’am, if ever you need help.”

“With what exactly?” you asked.

“If you noticed anything strange,” Cas said.

“Like cold spots,” Sam added

“Or weird smells,” Dean said. “Anything that you noticed… unnatural.”

“Oh.” Was that the position ‘Hunter’ was for? And what did ‘MoL’ mean? “Thanks?”

You remained holding the card even as they drove off in their Impala. Curiously, you pulled out your phone and searched the net for the names Sam and Dean Winchester.

Interestingly, the first search result that showed up in Google was a decade-old website named Ghostfacers. Once introduced to the content of the site, however, your reaction was a simple:

“Holy shit.”

#Destiel #Destiel fanfic #dean winchester #castiel #dean x castiel #samwena #samwena fanfic #samwitch #samwitch fanfic #Sam Winchester #rowena mcleod #sam x rowena #reader insert #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #spn #future fic

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tisthenightofthewitch · 5 years ago

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Tobias Forge: New Ghost Songs Designed to Fill Out Live Show

The evolution of Ghost seems almost mythical. How much of what the band has become did you actually envision when it started?

Damn. I's unfathomable looking back years to the embryonic state of Ghost as an idea.

I definitely felt like there was a career there or that there was a forum and that there'd be a crowd that would be a designated audience. I could really feel that already from 2008 when the first demo songs were being played to just a few people. Just the mere reaction of those people hearing it that early, you could tell that there was a vibe that was not really comparable to the current bands that I was in. So, I always had a good feeling about it, but fast forward 10 years and looking at a lot of the success, that was not taken into account at the time.

Headlining an arena tour is an opportunity to take the theatricality of Ghost to an even more elaborate level. How do you present a big show without overshadowing the music?

I don't think that there is such a thing really. It would be kind of miraculous if you've gotten to a level where you're allowed to do a big, spectacular show if you didn't have the songs already that you've built your career upon. I'm not trying to toot my own horn here, but I'm just saying that I think that, despite Ghost obviously being a very schticky band, I would never claim that we got to the point where we got to with music only.

Of course, the imagery played a giant part. But I know no bands at all that had a fantastic image but really sucky music that got anywhere. Maybe they, cult wise, got somewhere, but they never really materialized or amounted to grander things that don't have music that moves people. One thing that bands notice if they're ever given the chance of playing really big places is how much effort you need to put in.

Those steps and those measures feel like all of it on paper is almost overkill. Once you get there onstage, and once you do it, you're like, 'Oh, it's just like a normal rock show. It's just what I've seen many times.' I'm not saying repetitive.

One simple example is when you're a small band, you start out with a backdrop of a certain size. It feels like a huge backdrop when you bring it to your first club show. Then all the sudden, a few months later, you might support a bigger band in a theater, and you bring your big backdrop and now that backdrop just takes up a quarter of their big backdrop.

So, you make another big one and it's a really big one that on paper and once you order it, it looks like it's going to be so huge. Then when you play your first outdoor show in a shed or in a festival, it doesn't even look that big now. So every step you take you realize that what seemed inconceivable and almost vulgar in terms of overstating something half a year ago or three years ago, is now industry standards.

When you headline in an arena it has to be this big. It has to have these amount of fire canisters and this, that and the other. If you do it all really well, it's gonna look like an arena band. But my ambitions are bigger than that. There's a lot of things on my to-do list that goes into the future.

Ghost are categorized as metal but there are many other musical nuances throughout the songs as well. What taught you the musical adaptability that's so prevalent to Ghost?

I think it comes from a musical interest — an obsession with music, that actually went a little bit beyond just metal. Throughout my life, I've obsessed about many different bands and many different genres and many different ages of rock. I'm saying rock because it's still, besides my fascination for like classical music or film scores and pop song, everything else has been sort of rock-oriented in some way, be it early '60s with all the Beatles and Kinks and all that stuff.

To prog rock, to punk rock to hard rock, everything has sort of been rock based when it comes to being embracive of bands and artists. Whereas I've always had a very big love for songs in general and of course a lot of that is rooted in listening to radio and pop. But just because I like Nik Kershaw songs, it doesn't mean I'm obsessing over him as an artist at all. The same way that I would over [laughs] The Smiths or The Doors.

But I think, definitely, if I was to credit the diversity of Ghost music it would definitely be my upbringing musically. The fact that I was exposed to so much different music very early on. Absolute obsession for the Rolling Stones, my absolute obsession over The Doors, as well as my absolute obsession over Metallica and Morbid Angel, just to name a few.

Overall Ghost seems tailor-made for a concept album. What would be the positive and negative aspects of that format for you?

I'm often in sort of an inner conflict with myself for the idea of concept albums. My albums are always loosely themed around something particular. Just to draw parallels with other bands, I would say that it is loosely themed in the same way that Metallica's [early albums] or Iron Maiden's album are thematic. They are just based on and idea opposed to The Who's Tommy or King Diamond's records that are a story from start to finish.

I would say that I'm a little bit more like, Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here. It's a little bit more like based off of feeling. Wish You Were Here was based on the idea of missing and longing for someone. Everybody thinks it's about Syd Barrett, but it wasn't specifically about him. It was not a record that had to do with him alone.

I am, so far, into the planning stages on the new album right now and am trying to find the balance of how to incorporate songs ideas that I have and tie them in so it's loose enough to feel like what I thought of but clear enough to feel like it's a theme.

I've had this issue or this subject in our agenda for the previous albums as well — to avoid turning it into something like a story? The problem with that is that you're committing, you have to commit, you have to go full-on, completely committed into orchestrating that story. And when you're writing a story all of a sudden, there are dramaturgical needs that a story requires.

I am very, very interested in cinematic theater, so I would have very high demands on that storytelling. I just feel that at least as of right now it feels like that's a little too ambitious for me. At the end of the day, I want to write a record that is filled with good songs that will fit very well into our other pile of songs that we have for an album's worth of material.

To answer your question, I think that is another issue that if you make a rock opera. All of a sudden you have to store them. Like, how does this record fit into the rest of our repertoire?

I know that Pink Floyd solved it by for many years they played the current record. That was sort of act one. So they would go out and they'd play Dark Side of the Moon, and then they would come out after a little intermission they would come out and play like a hip sort of thing. And that's great. I would've loved to see that. [laughs] But it takes commitment and you need to sort of fully embrace that. I am not there right now. I want make a record that is a little more according to what the four albums I've already done.

It's hard to imagine Ghost without the charismatic characters. How do those identities empower you as a performer?

Speaking just for myself, I know that coming out onstage as another character, looking different, acting different, definitely allows for you to act and behave in a way that you wouldn't normally do. This can be both traumatic and also therapeutical in away.

Even though it's been a long time since I practiced any sort of martial arts, I almost feel similar to myself back then, like after karate class. I did all kinds of things. I did Judo, jiu-jitsu, tae kwon do and karate. After you are sort of cleansed from any sort of violent urges that you had. And in a way, I feel that way. Especially now when we play on our regular nights. When we play that long, any inkling that you have of wanting to dance and rock out is sort of over when you come off stage, which is very nice.

One of the luxuries of being able to dress up for it and become a different character is that as soon as I am not that character anymore, no one expects me to behave the way that the character does onstage. No one expects me to be that way offstage. There's been a great handful of rock artists that have had a big problem differentiating themselves from their character onstage. And that leads to a lot of potential problems.

You are tentatively planning to start recording the next Ghost album early next year. What informs or inspires you when you're in creative mode?

Pretty much all the same things that have always inspired me. I just add more things, but luckily I have managed to maintain my little oasis of inspiration or the well that doesn't seem to dry up. For me, I can still go back to films and records and books, a myriad of things. That still keeps me fired up and in awe to the point where I want to do something similar.

We still have months to go of touring and right about now has been the case in previous album cycles. I start to get very antsy about going into the studio. My mind is definitely far up in the new record. But also, making a new record for me nowadays is so much more than producing 40 minutes of music.

It's also hard work thing and a visual presentation first and foremost. Despite my love of making records and wanting to put my vision and musical ideas on to vinyl and wanting to hear that, it's about tours. That's what we do.

Making a record is not only making a record, it's also planning the show. And a lot of things, a lot of gags, a lot of production values that I've had ideas for - for songs that I wanted to do on a live stage that we haven't gotten to do but now are closer to being able to produce — basically a lot of the gags that we haven't been able to do before goes into consideration when making a new record.

It's like what kind of song do we need in order to make the show a year and a half from now all those things that I wanna try to present. So making the record goes in tandem with the existing material as well, from the live point of view. It's important that the songs I'm adding to the repertoire - I don’t know, however many songs we play live, but if it's a good record, maybe you can play seven songs from that new record? Eight songs? I don’t know.

But you want those songs to have relevance. You don't want another "Absolution," you want another song that we don't have. You don't want an exact replica of "He Is." You want another song to sort of perfect the live show. So, yeah, there's a lot to - you have to spend a lot of time thinking about that in order to get that right.

FULL METAL JACKIE RADIO

#Tobias Interview #Tobias Forge #Cardinal Copia #The Band Ghost #Ghost Band

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angstmongertina · 5 years ago

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One More Sleep

Title taken from the song by Leona Lewis of the same name.

Hey, @line-artsy-draws, here’s your Secret Santa gift! Thanks for your patience in answering all of my questions! I hope it’s in character for Helena and that you like it! :)

Edit because I forgot to mention: I am not an alpha backer and therefore hand-waved everything between the end of the extended demo and when this takes place, several months after the Summit ends.

Of the many concepts that Princess Helena had learned about the kingdom of Jiyel in her lessons, its culture and society featured heavily, particularly in the ways that differed from her home. After all, neighboring kingdoms though they might have been, they shared no small number of disagreements, from everything as fundamental as their beliefs to who could make a better cup of tea.

One of the most notable was the difference in religion, or lack thereof. Their duty came from the veneration of their elders, from the emphasis that the Crown placed on education and talent. Focused as they were on knowledge and the logical, they believed in no God, lacked the holidays celebrating His glory.

Lacked Christmas.

Oh, it was true that the holiday’s service was always long and incredibly dull, with what seemed like the endless number of prayers and sermons, not to mention the eyes of the entire kingdom watching her for proper behavior, comparing her to Constance. She knew that, knew she was expected to be dutiful and pious and proper, but…

But the hymns and carols were gentle and beautiful, performed by the best singers in the kingdom. Her mother’s soft alto would join in, quietly harmonizing with Father’s rich baritone and Constance’s sweet soprano. Even after her sister left for the Summit and then her new life as the Crown Princess of Corval, she thought she could still hear Constance’s voice during the services, as if echoing from a memory.

And afterwards… Afterwards, they would gather for more personal celebrations. Mother would sit between them, weaving tales like she used to when they were young, elegant hands painting pictures as vividly as her art tutor’s brushes would. Presents filled her room, stacks of novels and jewelry and other little things that were not necessary, not appropriate, for dutiful young princesses but could, on this day of His son’s birth, be indulged. Even Father would put aside his work, taking a few hours from his busy life being a proper leader of Arland to be simply a father, kind and thoughtful and funny in ways that she was not accustomed to seeing, but treasured with every fiber of her being.

Those traditions, those moments of escape from being the proper second princess of Arland, were perhaps more foreign to Jiyel, were harder to explain, than all of the other traditions combined. The warmth and the cheer and the love… Those couldn’t be found in books, in studies of Arlish religion and traditions.

Of course, from childhood, she knew that she would be sent to the Summit, that she would leave the traditions and customs of her youth behind, that she would travel to whatever kingdom would provide the best match for Arland. But to know was different than to experience, and as fall slowly morphed into winter at her new home in Jiyel, she couldn’t help but find herself thinking of the past.

Lyon, as quick and observant as he was, caught on without any comment on her part, though if she were to be perfectly honest with herself, anyone who had been paying attention likely would have, given her preoccupation. And her beloved—even just the thought of that was enough to make her heart leap in her chest—was certainly more than attentive to her every possible desire, as though returning to the privacy of his estate also granted him the privacy to express himself.

He brought it up much the same way he did most things, plain and direct, his eyes full of the emotion that the rest of the world somehow missed, warm and thoughtful and caring, so very deeply caring. In it, she could sense his gentleness, his sincerity, his desire to do whatever she wished to feel comfortable.

But it was not something she could put into words, her sudden painful longing for company and warmth and love of the kind that her family’s Arlish Christmases brought, that nostalgia for years past. And so, she could only smile, a pleasant, polite quirk of the lips, and elude the question with promises of books on the subject before changing the topic to something more innocuous, safer for herself and her suddenly tenuous control over her emotions.

She did not notice the knowing look in his eyes, nor the way he disappeared to his study a short while later, every movement and expression full of determination.

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

The day that, at least in Arland, would be called Christmas dawned over her new home in soft silver and powdery white. As if remembering the years long past, she awoke early, before the sun had fully cleared the tree line. Beside her, Lyon slumbered on, no doubt exhausted from his retiring sometime after she had already fallen asleep. For a moment, she studied his face, peaceful and still, warm affection flooding her chest, before the Siren song of Christmas became too hard to resist and she slid carefully out from under the covers, making her way to the window.

Outside, the landscape was muted and calm, fat snowflakes filling the air, covering the trees and grass in beautiful white. The grounds were untouched, pristine, and she stared out into the grounds, nearly pressing her face against the thick glass.

If she squinted, she could almost picture two young girls from her distant memory, heavy shawls and thick scarves wrapped around immaculate hairstyles and expensive dresses, both to keep warm and to disguise, giggling and dancing among the falling flakes. How long had it been since her carefree days with Constance, since she had felt the cold breeze on her cheeks, seen the gasping laughs of stolen freedom from lessons and etiquette and formality?

She wondered what her neighbors and servants, and perhaps more importantly, her husband, would think if they saw her rushing outside into the frigid air right then and there with no regard for her position or propriety.

As if drawn by her thoughts, she shivered, the chill of the room finally seeping into her awareness and the realization that she wore only her nightgown. She shook her head, mentally scolding herself in a voice that sounded strangely similar to her old nurse’s, and turned…

Only to be greeted by a thick blanket wrapping around her shoulders and the fondly amused gaze of her beloved.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning!” She blinked, torn between concern and joy at his strangely normal hour, though joy won out and she beamed at him. “You’re up early.”

“Am I?” Something resembling mischief flashed across his face, so quickly that she might have imagined it. Instead, he squinted vaguely outside before scowling, though she couldn’t be sure if it was due to the early hour or the lack of his usual spectacles. “I suppose I am. Though perhaps not up too early, if you already are. Besides,” and there, there was that glint of mischief again, “that is the custom, is it not? For Christmas?”

She found herself blinking again, long enough that he raised an eyebrow at her.

“Yes?”

“But… But I thought you don’t celebrate Christmas in Jiyel.”

He shrugged, looking for all the world as though he was telling her that the sun rose in the east or that the sky was blue. Or, at least he would have if not for the slight tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Jiyel doesn’t. But you do.”

“Oh!” She drew a deep breath, tilting her head back to meet his bright gaze, and, unable to resist the urge, stretched up to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “So what now? There isn’t any church to visit for the Christmas service.”

At that, the slight quirk of his lips blossomed into a full smirk. “As of this morning, that may no longer be the case. In fact…” He glanced out the window again, as though checking the time. “If we hurry, we might have time to see it before the guests arrive.”

When his words filtered into her consciousness, she froze, halfway to the dressing room. “What?”

He actually laughed. “Guests. Your mother and brother should arrive later this morning, though your father was unable to leave Arland and sends his regrets. I believe Princess Constance’s departure was somewhat delayed, but she, with Prince Zarad accompanying her, should be here tonight. Prince Lisle and Princess Penelope should also arrive this evening, along with Princess Cordelia.”

After a moment of silence, he paused, worry flickering across his face, and the sight of him bending down to reach her eye-level was almost enough to make her giggle. “Helena? Are you all right?”

She smiled, brushing the wetness off of her cheeks as subtly as she could. “I’m fine. Wonderful, even. Though…” She paused, tapping her chin as though deep in thought. “I’d be better if we were outside.”

He chuckled. “Naturally.”

It wasn’t until they were warmly dressed and making their way across the snow-covered grounds, her arm looped firmly around his, that she brought it up again, her voice almost muffled by the scarf around her face.

“So… my family except for Father, Prince Zarad, Princess Penelope, Prince Lisle, and Princess Cordelia. Is that everyone coming?”

“I believe Princess Cordelia mentioned attempting to reach Lord Clarmont as well, though when last she wrote, she was not certain whether the weather would cooperate.”

“That is quite a crowd.” She hesitated as they passed over a rougher patch and felt his hold tighten in careful support. “How long did it take to plan?”

A faint frown, of concentration rather than displeasure, crossed his face. “Perhaps a few months? It took some time, with the construction and especially the letters.”

“But you dislike crowds.”

“But it makes you happy.” Her breath hitched as he stepped closer, a gloved hand reaching to cup her cheek. “Merry Christmas, Helena.”

With the gently falling snow around them, his soft smile was the most tender thing she had ever seen and she leaned in, stopping a hairsbreadth away. “Merry Christmas, Lyon.”

#7KPP #seven kingdoms the princess problem #Duke Lyon #Duke Lyon/Arland princess #7kpp secret santa 2019 #Tina writes stuff.#Tina plays 7KPP.

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vg11k · 7 years ago

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Forsaken by the skies - 1

Carried by the air currents, he flew over the imposing complex in silence. In a few moments he found himself above his objective whose colour contrasted with the surrounding stones. Crossing his hunting territory, he had noticed the sudden appearance of this new pond. As well as the easy prey that had already made their home there. Nothing could escape his piercing gaze, not even the menacing bipedal creature that was constantly lurking near it. And this one was precisely absent at this very moment. How can you refuse such a feast, offered by providence?

Incurning his voluminous wings, he felt the air inflate his plumage as he began his descent. Spinning, attentive to the smallest detail, he looked for the beast so often seen in this part of the forest. A lonely beast, unable to follow him in the air. But his instinct was not to mess with it. Caution and cowardice were concepts foreign to the raptor whose claws planted themselves in the bark. On the other hand, he knew how to be opportunistic when the opportunity presented itself. The tree where he had just landed plunged into the surprisingly cool pond in the shade of a structure devoured by climbing plants.

One last time, he swept the place with his big yellow eyes. The place was deserted. He was alone. Alone with his prey. These were wriggling under the top of the water. Bowing his head, he estimated the depth now that he had dared to approach it. And concludes that it was deeper than he would have expected, but above all, not enough to hide any hidden predator. Even if in the depths he thought he could discern... under the swirls caused by the big tadpoles... Eager to discover an unexpected dish, he approached his beak to the water...

A suspicious movement made him jump aside. The next moment a dazzling pain crossed his chest. The imposing bird of prey rolled sideways with a deafening scream and rushed down the few steps of the pool, beating its wings to straighten up. Leaping from the low shrubs wall overhanging his proteges, the reptile with the variegated scales straightened up by brandishing a second javelin. Although wounded, the bird easily measured twice the size of Keg'zalt for a most impressive wingspan. And had sharp dewclaws. A clumsy attempt to flap his wings again, he whipped the air with his paws and tried to slash the chameleon. But he outpaced his foe and charged, leaping above the sharp talons. The second javelin penetrated deeply into the shoulder of the intruder, a new impulse paralysing the wing in the wake. Both fell to the paved ground in a tangled mass of scales and feathers.

A few moments later the ruins were quiet again. Painfully, Keg'zalt straightened up. His thick fingers were still firmly tight on the handles of his weapons. He shook his head, then left his enemy's body there. Despite the deep wound on his hip, he dragged himself on three legs to the edge of the pool. Impassible, however, he let his relief show when his shoulders collapsed. His proteges were fine.

Turning his gaze to the imposing raptor, he studied it at length, putting aside the stabbing pain he felt. It had been three days since he noticed the giant bird of prey circus. After a first approach while he had the negligence to consult the other basins of the city, he was satisfied to fly over the places by gliding very high in the sky. But Keg'zalt's gaze never blinked, not even at the zenith. And his patience suffered no rival. He had waited a whole day in ambush, hung in the ivy and imitating the complex pattern of plant interlacing. The reptile had managed to deceive the bird's sharp senses. And had just got something to eat for the next few days.

The chameleon didn't knew it, but he was the dean of all jungle creatures. And he practiced the art of ambush since his early youth with a talent perfected over the centuries.

The burning star continued its race tirelessly, day after day. And despite the heat, Keg'zalt continued to watch the pool, attentive from dawn to dusk. And yet the new day found the reptile awake. Always attentive. He hadn't slipped away since the attack a week earlier.

For thousands of years, the pools had dried up, no longer producing new reptiles. And as the centuries passed, all those in the city had died. One by one. Until Keg'zalt ended up alone. Last survivor of a bygone world.

But hope was reborn. As the days passed, he saw the amphibians grow before his eyes, evolving under the surface of the water. The reckless ones were already coming to catch the dragonflies that were loitering at the edge of the wave. In a moon hardly they would be big enough and strong enough to emerge.

If the chameleon remained motionless for long hours, his mind was bubbling. What were the plans of the former missing ? Why revive their extinct species ? Did they really anticipate that he would be alone to welcome this new generation ? Would he be able to pass on his own knowledge to them ? He still had to remember how to communicate. He hadn't spoken a word in over half a millennium. Moreover... it was perhaps still early to project himself into the future. Keg'zalt was old. Very old. But he had very precise memories on the fate to reserve to the deformed litters. And if his hopes were only mirages, the chipped blade on his side would not fail him.

She exists ! he cried.

Stumbling with emotion, the few primates cross the colonnades that once bounded the gates of the city.

She exists ! She exists she exists she exists ! I told you idiots !

And to punctuate his statement, he went to kiss the bald head of one of his companions out of breath. Unlike the rest of the group, the most loquacious specimen was not dressed with a heavy pack and was already going to venture into the first alleys. Cursing, the others painfully followed in his footsteps, dripping with sweat as they left the suffocating jungle.

Follow the drawings engraved on the wall of a ruin... you talk about an idea...

A stupid idea, added his neighbor. Yet he was right... and you owe me three pieces.

Do I look like I have them on me?

As the sherpas followed their 'guide', they did not notice the nearby shadow slipping into the ferns.

It's simply incredible, continued the first primate. What kind of man would live in a place like this?

Hey genius, how about you stop drooling over what you see and get us where we're gonna get some gold?

Gold, yes yes gold... repeated the guide without really listening to him, dazzled by the barracks devoured by ivy. Even after so many years they resist the ravages of time, he thought aloud.

Exasperated, the following left their packages in the shade of a collapsed statue. With an evil eye, the first of the three thieves whispered as he pointed to the illuminated chin:

Nikolas, don't you think we should leave him there?

These two accomplices exchanged a surprised look, then also looked at the fourth of their group.

We lugged all the shit through the jungle for weeks while he was running in front. Devoured by mosquitoes, entangled in swamps, eating rotten dirt...

Eaten by leeches... added Nikolas sniffing.

Eaten by leeches, nodded the first.

And also Ouch!

Nikolas slammed his calf with a pest. But the damage was done and the sting was already burning his skin.

Damn countries of my two !

The four primates progressed in the deserted alleys of the city. Without noticing the silent shadow that ran along their advance.

Two coins we find gold before tonight ! raised one of the porters from an empty building.

You got it !

Soon you'll owe me two more pieces, he laughed. There's gold in this town. I can feel it. And...

He leapt forward while pushing a pathetic yelp. The others jumped as he vigorously rubbed his butt.

Damn mosquitoes ! he cried. How can such a small thing do so mu...

Stopping in the middle of his sentence, he bent over to pick up a small object from the ground. Studying it, he frowned.

What is it ? What is it ? Nikolas wondered as he approached.

Without a word, he showed him what he was holding. A little needle. A blood stream was drawn on his palm by the tip of the palm.

What the fuck ?

A sting, whispered the bald sherpa. A sting...

Losing all colors, he rushed on his pack and hastened to pull a machete. He drew his weapon in front of his companions, surprised by his reaction, as he scanned the heights of the surrounding roofs.

Let's go back, said the city-dweller in a jovial tone. I can't wait to discover some...

Quiet ! Quiet ! Nikolas ordered with authority. You...

A hiccup interrupted him. They all turned to him as a new twitching shook his shoulders. He leaned on the near wall to keep his balance, hiding his mouth from the back of his hand.

Nikolas ? You...

But he suddenly fell to his knees and dropped a scarlet sheaf. Taken with a violent coughing fit, he held himself for a moment in this posture as none dared approach him. Tetanized. Then his inspirations became a high-pitched whistle as he tried to breathe. But a new bounce agitated him, followed by an additional vomiting crisis. It finally collapsed, trembling for a few seconds before finally coming to rest in a last stifled whistle.

Paralyzed by the scene, which lasted only a few moments, the survivors exchanged looks of panic. The sherpa holding the sting bleached as if he had just been burned.

Let's get out of here ! cried his comrade.

However, the primate they had guided so far protested strongly :

It's out of the question ! We are so close and we...

He was caught in protest by a dull shock that threw him forward. Stunned, his two partners saw him fall down without a sound. A long wooden stick crossed his abdomen, the sharp point coming out under his torso more than ten centimetres. Without waiting anymore, the two survivors turned their heels and fled in the opposite direction.

But only about ten minutes later, one of the sherpas was at his turn taken with a coughing attack. As his bald companion urged him to continue, he collapsed and emptied his guts. He swear and left him to his fate and ran away. He didn't even knew who was attacking them. He didn't knew why. But he didn't care. He only wanted to leave this nightmare place and return to the relative safety of the virgin forest.

Breathless, he came to a fork and took the time to calm his breathing. Wiping his brow dripping with sweat, he looked down the three aisles. But no sign of their invisible assailant.

Damn city, he spat while backing up step by step.

A lapping in his back made him suddenly startle. He turned around and discovered an artificial pool in which lay an imposing stump. A refreshing breeze from the stagnant water picked him up from his face. Surprisingly, it was not greenish like the marshes all around, but a cloudy blue with some shadows.

A sudden whistle betrayed the stealth projectile. He dived forward to avoid the javelin that passed over him. Spitting out a sip of fresh water, he straightened up and shook his head. Ready to leap sideways, he looked through the alleys. But still no sign of... slowly his jaw lowered when a silhouette detached from the stones of a wall facing him. The colour of its scales turned to dark green, lighter on the abdomen. A biped reptile was hung from an arm at the edge of the roof. He dropped to the ground, staring at the primate with his bulging, eyelidless eyes.

Don't come any closer ! he cried, threatening the strange creature with his machete. Don't come any closer or I'll cut you into slices !

Deep in the water to his hips, he backed away step by step from the monster, unaware of his threats. Till his heel came up against something that reflected on contact with him.

What...

Raising his arms, he finally realized that he was not alone in the bath. A host of creatures hid beneath the surface of the water. He shot his weapon down with a great blow, trying to kick one of them with his feet, which he saw between two reflections of light. Despite his movements slowed by the water, he managed to hit his target, which spent a second on the surface. Another reptile. No bigger than a puppy.

Don't come any closer ! he cried again as he returned to the biped, arrived at the stones delimiting his pool. I'll cut you into slices !

With his back to the opposite wall, he pointed his weapon at the stationary chameleon. Attentive. The reptile had noticed the swirling at the primate's feet in panic. Not this one.

In a large splash, a dark shape suddenly emerges from the water. Surprised, the bald man could not strike this new threat which clung to his chest before weighing all its weight. He felt more than he saw the deep scratch that ran across his face from forehead to chin. Beating his arms, he slowly collapsed against the wall like an implacable clamp tightened on his throat. He shouted a strangled cry as he disappeared under water, carried away by the beast less heavy than him but showing prodigious strength.

Still, Keg'zalt observed the last air bubbles rising to the surface of the water, agitated by the last eddies tinged with red. He spent a long time meditating on what he had just witnessed.

In this, not only had a generation of lizardmen been reborn. A much more powerful brood brother was among them.

#warhammer #amwriting #fanfiction #fantasy #lizardmen

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deathbyunicornashes · 7 years ago

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how many eremin AUs have you actually scrapped?

Ahahahah, oh gosh. WAY too many actually. Most of them not even making it passed the generalized concept at best. Majority of the AUs I’ve scrapped I thought to be too dark and gritty, so I just keep those to myself.

But since you’re the first to ask about them, I’ll give you my personal favorite scrapped AUs that I drew concept arts for just before I decided to scrap them.

Warning, I’ll leave them under the cut since I’ll be explaining about its details and might get dark.

Drowned Deity AU

This AU was inspired by the sudden urge to draw japanese traditional kimonos, mainly as an art practice.

The general concept was Eren going with his half-cousin Mikasa to a provincial area in Japan to visit her relatives. At some point, Eren ventured off the more natural forestry of the land and falling into a waterfall with a deep under current, forcing him down. He would’ve drowned had it not been for this mysterious blonde person grabbing him from the depths and forcing him out of the water and into land. Eren mistook him for a deity.

Armin is actually a restless spirit of a boy sacrificed to the gods through drowning as punishment after being exposed to being a man dressed as a woman by a jealous lady during the day of the wedding, his fiance letting him die to save his own skin.

I scrapped this AU because it got relatively more darker the more I established the story. Eren’s slow descent into obsession over the spirit, Mikasa and the family think he’s losing it, Armin’s general appearances in large enough bodies of water to fit a human in wherever Eren goes as if to hoaxing him to drowning himself so they can be together. It just didn’t feel right so I had it scrapped.

Hitogakuri AU

A song inspired AU by the same name, meaning Substitute. Though the concept diverges from there. It’s about Armin stuck in a purgatory like scene with no companionship except for the void and eyes watching him once in a while.

You can see by the art concept why I scrapped it. The AU has heavy implications of psychological disarray, self-harm, and abuse. More sketches of it depicting Armin in a dark decaying red tiled asylum room talking to himself, answering questions nobody can hear and majority of the time just staring at the screen, at YOU, for minutes and minutes on end without word nor prompt.

I had planned to include Eren into the scene before eventually scrapping this in the end. This kind of content may be well common and accepted in places like Japan since they dominate on the psychological horror, but as an AU the general public enjoys, not so much.

Paradox AU

An AU I dropped after reaching a dead halt when progressing with its concept. It plays around the idea of Eren and Armin destined to meet no matter what universe, but what would happen if one universe succeeds in preventing that, causing a universal backlash that cracks the laws of the universe, creating a paradox. It can come out as controversial to most, having it seem a bit to extreme on the ship implication to most, but the intent on it is more world round kind of deal of: “These two were destined to meet one way or another. No matter what, their paths will cross eventually. Having that process removed can provide great errors. Like in coding.”

With that kind of concept, it was harder to make a proper constructive plot to it. The closest I got is involving experimentation of the fundamental laws of reality where they take test subject with strong metaphysical relations to the connectivity of their existence being a constancy (in lay man’s terms, finding people who, upon meeting, changes their lives greatly) and capturing them before they even meet, preventing them from seeing each other and undergoing experimentation along the way.

With that concept, the general attitude and personality of Eren and Armin become warped due to it, their universe already collapsing at the seams. Eren having generally become dead inside to the point of reckless abandon with no will to fight and Armin’s views of humanity and the world are what you can scarcely call hopeful. This AU would basically alter who these two are and that’s probably another thing that would be un-enjoyable.

But the dynamic of this is, when they do finally meet, it was relatively too late to repair their universe’s bugged alterations and the only way for them to somewhat mend it back together is to find others who were forcibly separated from their destined meetings (e.i. Ymir and Christa). They would most likely be super clingy towards each other, taking the whole ‘desperately clinging to reality’ literally as close proximal contact is what’s preventing them from slipping into the void of space time that sporadically started appearing and disappearing to devour their universe bit by bit.

#scrapped aus

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hashtagartistlife · 8 years ago

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That’s the definition of a soulmate, isn’t it? One soul, two halves, split between two separate forms. Alike in every respect.

In a world where people are born with a coloured marking somewhere on their body, your soulmate is supposed to be the one who carries the exact same mark. Kurosaki Ichigo has never put much stock in these things — and the fact that his black sun mark and Rukia’s white crescent moon is as different as night and day has nothing to do with it. Ichiruki soulmates AU- maybe.

(Hey guys! This was my entry for IRBB! I have two chapters written - the next chapter will go up next week - and then the rest of the fic will join my roster of wip fics to be updated... when I have time.... hahahaha //cries//

My partner @jellyribbons did the CUTEST art for my fic, which YOU CAN FIND HERE. Thank you for being such a gem, juliet, even when I didn’t give you much to work with 8ㅁ8

And now, without further ado, please enjoy my irbb fic--

Collision Course

by hashtagartistlife

One

Gravitational Collapse

There’s a black mark on Ichigo’s palm.

He’s never spent too much time contemplating it. People attribute so many things to these tiny coloured markings that appear on their skin. They say it tells you the kind of person you are, the kind of person you’re going to be. They say the person you’re destined to be with — your soulmate — has the exact same mark somewhere on their body. Because that’s what the definition of a soulmate is, isn’t it— one soul, two halves, split between two separate forms. Alike in every respects. There are entire religions based around this concept, dating sites that cater exclusively to making sure you meet up with your other half. Psychics that claim they can read your entire future from that one mark alone.

Ichigo thinks, it’s just a goddamn birthmark.

He hates all this destiny crap surrounding these marks. When Tatsuki had asked him at the age of thirteen what his mark looked like, he’d scowled and told her to shove off. His hand had clenched, reflexive, around the shape getting ever-clearer against his tanned skin. She’d harrumphed, unperturbed, and informed him hers was the shape of a crimson eagle and that it clearly meant she was destined for greater things than him, if his mark was still the misshapen blob she remembers it being when he was nine. He’d responded that her mark looks more like a puddle of spew than the eagle she claimed it to be, and she’d thrown a well-aimed kick at his shoulder and the conversation had been dropped.

By the time he’s fifteen, the mark is well and truly etched onto his skin, no longer misshapen by any stretch of the imagination. Still, he refuses to pay too much attention to it, refuses to try to analyse the shape it’s settled into. It’s all bullshit, anyway. If he squints, he thinks you could almost mistake it for an ink-black sun — see? Bullshit. There was only one sun in his life, and she’d set six years ago and taken all the light in his family with her. His mother was the sun, the one holding them all together with her gravity; not him. And if his soulmate is anything like him, if they, too, are represented by a dark black sun mark somewhere on their body, then he wants nothing to do with them. He wants nothing to do with himself, most days.

So when Keigo asks, exuberant, innocent, what his mark is, Ichigo looks him straight in the eye and tells him he doesn’t believe in destiny.

And he doesn’t. Not even now, after she comes barreling into his life and gifts him a power he thought he’d never have; after she fits into the cracks and crevices in his life so seamlessly he forgets there were cracks there in the first place. She sleeps in his closet and steals his food and charms all his friends (and he has those, he notices all of a sudden; he has a lot more of those than he had last reckoned, when had they all got there—?), and Ichigo would like to say he’s irritated, only he isn’t. She’s so different to him, and he can’t seem to get a handle on her the way he has with other people in his life. But still, somehow— they’re the same when it comes to the things that matter. He won’t put that down to something as illusory as destiny, though, won’t do their bond that disservice; what he has with Rukia is real, built on tangible things like shared grief and mutual irritation.

He catches a glimpse of her mark once, just once— soon after his fight with Grand Fisher. It’s a windy day, and her uniform skirt rides high on her legs for a single instant. It’s not like he was looking, he swears, but he doesn’t have time to turn away before the flash of bare skin has him rooted to the spot, turning bright red. She notices, of course she does, and smooths her skirt down, aiming a sharp elbow into his ribs. He doubles over and pretends to have not seen the shape on her upper thigh, almost imperceptible against her paleness. A white crescent moon, a mark that couldn’t have been more different to his own than night and day.

It’s nothing he doesn’t already know, and he tells himself the small twinge of emotion that goes through him at this revelation isn’t disappointment at all.

“Of course shinigami are aware of the concept,” she says brusquely when the subject comes up, after a long day of Keigo trying to wheedle the location and shape of her mark out of Rukia. It’s considered— if not rude, then a little gauche to ask it of people, but that’s never stopped Keigo before. She perches on his desk and swings her legs to and fro; her dress is getting rucked up around her thighs and Ichigo bites back a caustic remark. It’s better than her sitting on his bed, at least. “We were all human once, too. We just don’t put that much stock in it, is all.”

This surprises him more than he cares to admit. “Why?” he asks, careful to keep his eyes trained on his homework lest he seem too interested.

She snorts. “We are soldiers, Ichigo. Love and partnership have no place in our lives. And besides, most of us have lived for hundreds of years, well beyond a single human lifespan, and have never managed to come across our so-called ‘other halves’. If they truly do exist and I was destined to spend the rest of my life together with them, you’d think the universe might have made it a little easier to meet them, no?”

He sits up slowly. “That doesn’t answer my question,” he says, and he doesn’t miss the way her shoulders tense up the tiniest bit. “I said, do you believe in all that soulmates crap associated with these marks?”

“Of course not, you fool,” she snaps, but something in her eyes are telling him yes, yes. Her fist bunches in the fabric of her dress, which has ridden up high enough that he thinks he’s almost going to see her mark again; but then she jumps off his desk in a fluid motion and her dress settles around her legs once more. She turns away from him and climbs into his closet. “Do you?”

She doesn’t know he’s seen her mark yet, but he knows she’s seen his; it was one of the drawbacks of having it in a more obvious place. As much as Ichigo doesn’t believe in the mythology surrounding these marks, a part of him is uncomfortable with the idea. It feels too much like wearing his heart on his sleeve to have it so visible, that people will see it and draw whatever conclusion they like about him through this insignificant blotch of pigment — not that his hair doesn’t already have the same effect. He thinks of this, of the fact that she knows their marks don’t match, and wonders whether she’ll think of it too when she hears his response. Wonders why it should matter at all.

“No,” he says, and his voice is firm. Behind the shut closet door, Rukia’s silent.

“... Good,” she replies after a while, and if Ichigo didn’t know any better, he’d say her voice was wavery, almost like she was crying. “Silly, human superstition, that’s all it is. Did you know you can fall in love with someone who doesn’t bear your mark?”

He didn’t, but staring at the closet door, fighting an odd urge to slam it open and demand if she was ok, Ichigo thinks he can understand how that might come to happen.

In hindsight, it’s obvious that not all the couples he sees around him are mark-matched. Human beings are frustratingly contrary creatures, and even if the marks had been a surefire way of finding your romantic soulmate, he’s sure some people (like him) would have said bollocks to that. Tatsuki’s parents, for one, have slightly mismatched marks; Mrs. Arisawa’s is a lime-green leaf, while Mr. Arisawa’s is a viridian blade of grass. Still, Mrs. Arisawa laughs, casting her husband a fond smile, at least their marks were both plants; her sister with a flower mark had married a man with a pouncing tiger over his shoulder. They fought a fair bit, but despite everything, they were still together.

“And so are we,” she declares, plying them all with tea and biscuits as they get on with the study session they’d opened for Rukia’s benefit. “Don’t mind the people who tell you mark-matched coupling is your ultimate goal in life. Romance isn’t the be-all and end-all, and besides, it’s perfectly possible to be wildly in love with someone who doesn’t wear your mark at all.”

“Mom, will you stop being gross? Nobody asked for your sweeping tale of romance with dad,” Tatsuki grumbles, but a good half of their group is listening raptly, hanging onto Mrs. Arisawa’s every word. Even Ishida, detached as he’s trying to appear, is clearly not concentrating as hard on his maths as he would have them believe. Inoue, Keigo and Chad have outright dropped their pens. Only Mizuiro and Rukia seem unperturbed, although maybe that’s the wrong word for Rukia, who is gripping her pencil so tight the tendons are standing out against her skin. Ichigo thinks it’s time to steer the conversation into safer waters.

“Man, how the hell are you supposed to solve this question? Did we learn this?” he complains loudly, throwing his pen down. Several heads turn in his direction, and Ishida mocks him a little for not grasping such a simple concept; it’s Inoue who bows her head over his worksheet and kindly points out the trick to the solution. He nods in gratitude and quickly fills the rest of the question out.

“I— it’s nothing, Kurosaki-kun!” Inoue trills, flashing him a hesitant smile, and he pauses, a little taken aback; he smiles back cautiously, and watches, completely nonplussed, as her cheeks become suffused with red so that the six-petaled flower mark on her cheek becomes very noticeable. The thought pops into his head, unbidden, that he’s sorry for her, to have her mark so prominently on display. But then again, it fits with the kind of person Inoue is; bright, loud, open in her affections for everybody. Flustered, she turns away from him, and once her head moves out of his line of sight he sees Rukia behind her, staring at him with a confused expression.

But you did that question just last night, he knows she’s thinking, and it’s true; he helped her with the very question he pretended not to know just then. He scowls, and hopes it’ll be enough to throw her off the scent.

It is, but not in the way he hoped it would; Rukia inclines her head the tiniest fraction, as though she’s thanking him for what he did, before turning back to her work. Ichigo’s scowl deepens. He did nothing that was deserving of her thanks. It’s not like he moved the conversation along for her; he doesn’t like seeing her so obviously distressed, is all. She needs to be the annoying bitch that she is 95% of the time so he can cuss her out in his mind in peace.

He turns back to his own work, trying to drown out Mrs. Arisawa’s words ringing in his ears.

It’s perfectly possible to be wildly in love with someone who doesn’t wear your mark at all.

He knew this already; a stupid fucking confirmation shouldn’t change anything—

and yet.

When they come for her, it’s when the moon in the sky resembles the moon on her thigh; a delicate sliver of a thing, barely visible against the inky darkness. Some cocky bastard with dark red hair that reminds Ichigo of old, bad blood and a cold one whose eyes give new meaning to the phrase if looks could kill show up to take Rukia to her execution, because, oh yeah, apparently lending her powers to a human being for any reason is a capital offence. Rukia, fucking Rukia, throw-herself-in-front-of-a-hollow-for-a-stranger Rukia, as-if-I-would-do-anything-to-make-you-worry-about-me Rukia, that Rukia, shuts down in their presence; goes cold and still and withdrawn like the glaciers he learned about in geography class. Something about that picture, her silent and sheet-white and scared against the backdrop of the pavement, strikes him as deeply, profoundly wrong; Rukia shouldn’t be wearing an expression like that. Ever.

He takes up the sword that she has given him and thinks, finally, finally, he’s going to be able to repay his debt to her, but before he can finish the red one off and get to the one with the cold, cold eyes, he falls.

At first he doesn’t quite understand what’s happened; his body spurts blood redder than the cocky bastard’s hair and then there’s the pain of it, belated, bringing him to his knees and further still. He collapses face-first onto the street, into a puddle of his own blood; Rukia screams aniki and the red one slams her into a telephone pole, by the neck. Ichigo struggles to rise, but his limbs won’t heed him, and he’s on the verge of losing consciousness when the cold one (aniki, he was her brother, he was Rukia’s brother) steps in front of him and addresses Rukia for the first time.

“I see, Rukia. This boy… resembles him a great deal.”

Ichigo’s hand shoots out to grab the hem of the cold one’s robes. “Who do I resemble? Don't talk about me like I’m already dead.”

The cold one stills, warns him to remove his hand if he wants to keep it, but Ichigo won't let go, can't let go; every second he manages to keep him rooted there is another second Rukia stays by his side. And he will not cede her, not to someone who looks at her so coldly; he can take his aniki and shove it. Brother or not, Rukia deserves better than someone who makes her look so uneasy in her own skin—

She kicks him.

She kicks him, and his hand falls to the ground; the impact of her foot, tiny as it is, stings like a bitch. She’s saying something, but Ichigo can’t make his brain parse the meaning from her words. His mind is filled with static, rising and rising like the tides; her eyes have gone cold just like her brother’s, and for the first time Ichigo thinks he can see the resemblance. But this is Rukia, Rukia; Rukia who shared his space and lived under his skin for the past three months. It can’t end like this.

She turns her back to him, and Ichigo feels panic close his throat; he yells at her to stop, to look at him properly, but she won’t, she won’t. And if the last memory he ever has of her are those warm eyes gone cold, he won’t be able to stand it. Look at me, please.

She does, and he almost wishes she hadn’t. The tears on her face, like a premonition of rain, and Ichigo remembers being nine and helpless; wet with someone else’s blood and alive because of someone else’s sacrifice. He wants to reach out for her, because surely this time, he’ll be able to protect; but six years hasn’t made an iota of difference and he can only watch as she saves him again with her words and her actions, stepping beyond the gate to somewhere he can’t follow.

The last thing he sees before the paper doors slide shut punches all the air out of his lungs; a directive from the heavens as if to say this is not your concern. For a fleeting moment, the wind lifts the scarf from the cold one’s collarbones; there, etched onto milk-white skin, is a familiar mark.

A crescent moon.

The first drops of rain hit the pavement, and Ichigo drops his head to the ground and screams.

#BLEACH #Ichiruki #kurosaki ichigo #kuchiki rukia #irbb #collision course #THANK U TO THE MODS FOR ORGANISING THIS...... Victoria mika and jess ily so much #writer life #bleach fic

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