#ic ask. alana stark.

[godblooded]

drops in to press a kiss to stark's cheek, for no particular reason other than she can. so she does, and her smile is equal parts affectionate, and equal parts mischievousness when she's done. ❛ you're looking very handsome today, mr. stark. ❜

the way boy genius's face lights up! is unmistakable the moment @asteritmeritm's lips touch his cheek. smitten and flushed a ruddy pink, truthfully, but the tin can man can't repress a grin in return. shyness can only go so far when it comes to him-- impish glee wins out over a childhood stutter.

" you-- uh-- you think? i mean. i slept in this eyeshadow. "

[bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky]

Off Limits | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Hi, friends! @alana-32 sent me this suggestion:

"I wanted to ask if you could imagine writing a "oneshot" in which bucky meets a funny, open-minded young woman on a barbecue in Clints house. Fascinated by her big brown eyes, he immediately asks for a date. How would he react if she introduces herself as Tony's younger sister .... Do they both have a future, is he going on the date?😘🤗" so here we go!

Thanks @alana-32 for sending me this, I hope you like it! 🥰

Please send me any comments, requests, or suggestions yall may have!

tag list: @beefybuckrrito @shadytalementality @everything-burns-down @rainbow-unicorn-pony @mandersshow @emetophilily 💘

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

Warm, amber pools surrounded by a dark, chocolatey outline entranced Bucky and left him completely helpless. He'd been unable to think about anything besides your eyes since chatting with you in Clint's kitchen. This attempt at normalcy seemed strange to Bucky, what was the point of keeping his family a secret if Clint was just going to invite a bunch of people over for a barbecue? -but he'd decided to attend anyway at the not so gentle prodding of Sam and Steve.

"Um, hello? Sargeant Barnes... Are you okay?" you asked gently. It seemed like he was lost in his own mind even though he'd been just fine a little while ago when you'd spoken to him in the kitchen.

Your voice snapped Bucky back to reality, pulling his focus from the mental picture of your gorgeous eyes so that he could look at the real things. The sun fell across your face in the perfect way, making your caramel colored irises almost glow. Sam and Steve had been badgering Bucky relentlessly about putting himself out there, but he’d been hesitant. He hadn’t had any real desire to date- until he met you. He took a deep breath and mentally prepared to ask you out, something he hadn’t done in a very long time.

"Oh, hey! Yeah, I'm good. I'm great, actually" he said with a smile. "I realized I never got your name, though".

"Right, my bad," you said extending your hand.

Ice ran through Bucky's veins at your words. Your last name pierced his chest, making him unable to breathe. ‘Of fucking course', he thought.

"Stark…” he repeated. “So you- you're Tony's sister". His hopes were dashed.

"Yup! That's me, I'm Tony's sister. Nice to officially meet you, James".

Bucky's heart sank. He knew that Tony had a younger sister, but he'd heard that you were working in France or Italy or something as a museum curator- he had not been at all prepared to meet you at a casual barbecue. Guilt washed over him as he thought about what he did to your parents. To your family. To you.

"You can um, you can call me Bucky. If you want.” Sweat beaded on his brow, his mouth ran dry. “And um... I’m sor- I'm really sorry. About your parents, I mean. What I did… I can't-"

You raised a hand to quiet his anxious, guilty rambling.

"Bucky, you don't have to apologize. I forgave you- I forgave you a long time ago, actually. I know Tony's reaction wasn't... great.” He’d told you the whole story, every gory detail. You chastised him for the way he reacted, the way he destroyed Bucky’s arm. “But, I've had time to deal with everything. And don't tell Tony, but I actually talked to Steve about it. He kind of gave me insight about everything that happened to you... I know it wasn't your fault".

Bucky let out a relieved exhale. He'd been working on his amends, but hadn't been mentally prepared to add yet another name to his list today.

"That's um- that's really great of you, thank you" he said quietly, a sad smile flickering across his face.

"Sure. I'm so sorry about Tony, he's... he's something, isn't he?"

Bucky laughed and nodded emphatically, finally feeling his tense muscles relax ever so slightly

It was short lived, however. Tony approached with some bullshit excuse, something about Laura asking for your help in the kitchen.

"That's my sister, Barnes. She's off limits, especially to you.” A deep, dark rage seethed behind his eyes. “Don't get any ideas, or I'll finish what I started in Siberia- that's a promise.” He delivered one last glare that nearly sliced Bucky in half before returning to the rest of the group.

Bucky found a seat in a quiet corner of Clint's family farm, silently observing everyone else enjoy the party while all he wanted to do was leave. He knew he should've taken his own car, but Sam and Steve had convinced him to ride with them- specifically so that he couldn't duck out early.

He wondered why he even agreed to come to this get together, why he bothered with trying to connect with you. He’d always be the killer, the monster. Tony was right. He didn’t deserve you, not after what he did.

You thought otherwise.

"Psssst, hey, Barnes." Your sharp whisper snapped him out of his spiral.

He searched around for you until he found your figure standing in the doorway of an old shed. With a quick nod of your head, you motioned for him to join you inside. It was almost embarrassing now readily he followed you like a lost puppy. With an overly casual stroll, Bucky made his way to the shed. He didn’t want to draw suspicion from the other partygoers, especially your brother.

"I thought we could hang out in here, ya know, just the two of us" you handed him a beer. “And maybe hide from Tony”.

"Good idea, because he threatened to kill me earlier..." Bucky grimaced.

An aggravated sigh rumbled out of your chest as you plopped down in an old lawn chair. "He's always doing this kind of thing," you complained. "He's way too overprotective of me, it's fucking annoying".

"Well, I do agree that he's fucking annoying," Bucky laughed, "But I mean, I did, um, kill your parents... “ A wave of nausea crashed over him at the thought. “I feel like I can't blame him if he doesn't want us hanging out."

Bucky sat down across from you on a cooler and stared deeply into the eyes that had cast a spell over him just a few hours earlier.

"He just always thinks he knows better" you huffed, "he still sees me as his baby sister..."

"I had a baby sister..." Bucky murmured quietly, getting lost in his memories of Rebecca- rarely did he let himself think about her. He gave you another sad smile, and you couldn't comprehend how Tony had been so hard on Bucky. He was clearly a good person who'd been through more than anyone could ever imagine.

"Don't worry about what Tony says. I'm gonna be the one threatening him later," you shot him a wink. “And I always win.”

Bucky swallowed hard. He still wanted to ask you out. You were so kind and funny and obviously easy on the eyes, but he knew it would cause a rift between you and Tony.

"Well, it's just that-"

"Just ask me, Barnes."

His heart stopped, "What?"

"We both know that you were just about to ask me out before I told you my name, so just ask me".

Silence filled the small shed for a moment as Bucky gathered the nerve to actually say the words.

"Okay, um, I'd love to take you to dinner. Would you like to go out with me...” he quickly added, “and not tell your brother?"

You giggled and felt your cheeks get hot at his invitation, even though you'd known it was coming.

"I'd be honored, Sargeant Barnes, and there's no fucking way I'm telling my brother."

[remys-lucky-franc]

I’m Bringing Sexy Back (To Regency England) - Immortal Heart Society

So this happened because I referred to new series IHS’s baddie Lord Montague as ‘Lord Timberlake’ due to the coiffuring similarities and it made @aquagirl1978 LOL and she made me this:

See how alike they look though?! I’m not crazy.

Literally no one in the world wants this fic, and it’s just stupid, but I had a giggle writing it, so 😆 Also, I genuinely know nothing about JT, if any of you are superfans and I’m way off, it’s just a bit of fun, no ill intent or offence meant 💕

Also it’s just in time for all the good old memes... (At the end if anyone needs a ref point)

Word Count ~3500 (yeah, I’ve gone off)

[MORE] [[MORE]]

In the grandiose but soulless marble bathroom of the Boston penthouse, Justin squeezed his eyes tight-shut, splashing his face with frigid water. He inhaled sharply as the moisture hit his skin, opening his eyes and staring intently at the reflection mirrored back at him. It had been quite a night so far. He’d been courted by ‘The Society’ for a couple of months now and on receiving their latest invite, he had finally acquiesced. Over the course of the evening he’d exchanged pleasantries and mingled with a fusion of intriguing individuals - all very different, very separate people, but all who clearly had gotten the memo: convince him to join. Justin suspected before he arrived, from the exclusive address on the invite alone, the sort of members The Society would have on its roster and he wasn’t surprised - even if most of them were no more than masked silhouettes. Initially when he had exited the elevator and caught sight of all those shaded faces, Justin’s heart stuttered: had he inadvertently accepted an invite to some sort of sexy party? How would he explain this one? ‘Hey Honey - funny story...’ But it didn’t take long to deduce that the disguises were all part of the prestige and served as identity protection rather than a conduit to anyone having any real sort of fun.

The mixer itself had been entertaining enough, but the hushed secrets shared in the drawing room were what had piqued his interested and saw him hiding in the restroom searching his own soul for answers. He’d been trading anecdotes with a handful of members before he was interrupter by a well dressed blonde and ushered through a side door, where he was greeted with a firm handshake by one of the top men within the society (apparently), Richard - Something. Initially Justin had smiled but internally rolled his eyes as he considered how these shady types only ever give out their first names - and how that felt particularly unfair when everyone here knew fine well what his surname was... Richard was perfectly charming and charismatic - in the same faux-caring, calculating way politicians are as they try to snare floating voters. His smile was bright and his words were warm, but his eyes were a stark contrast. The Society’s hoi-polloi were obviously deemed to have played their part in warming him up and now Richard was here to give him the hard-sell: and sell he did.

And at first, it sounded relatively normal. At first. Until Richard started with tall tales of how society members held all of the power in the world through power stones. Initially Justin got to his feet and scoffed - weren’t crystals just for spa days and hippies? This had to be a set up. He scanned the room looking for any clue of a hidden camera, Ashton Kutcher’s sneakers showing from behind a curtain perhaps - but nothing. It all sounded truly ridiculous, but as Richard stood, laying a firm hand on Justin’s shoulder, directing him towards a plush chair, pouring him two fingers of whisky, something held him; fascinated him. Stopped him from barging straight out of the room. Justin observed in silence as Richard thumbed through various documents, showing him photographs, pulling up search data online... Explaining. Convincing. Persuading. Justin didn’t trust the suave smarmy suit as far as he could throw him, but the more Richard divulged of the spiderweb of societal involvement in major global events and current affairs, the more sense it made... And in spite of himself, Justin started to succumb to this strange reality. Every word out of Clever Dick’s mouth was revelational, peeling away one layer after another, after another, until Justin’s mind was blown; his brain hurt the same way it did the first time he watched Inception. He couldn’t bend his mind around why Richard was telling him all this, or why a collective more powerful than The Walt Disney Company would want a musician to join their ranks? Richard shrugged coolly as he continued to play for Justin’s buy in, simply smiling and saying that, as a big pop star, it would be quid pro quo - a very mutually beneficial arrangement. The society had access to the best labels, the best A&R departments, they could get Justin as much airplay, fame and publicity as he wanted.

Justin couldn’t deny it sounded appealing - but what did they want in return? So far it was all ‘quid’ and no ‘quo’. He had to ask. Even the easy, practiced grin on Richard’s face couldn’t offset the glint of ice in his dark eyes and menace in his voice that chilled Justin’s blood.

“Justin, come! Everyone knows that music is what shapes the youth of today! The influence wielded by artists, the loyalty inspired by them, their marketability, it’s simply insurmountable! Think about it, dear boy? If The Society control the music, they control the populace.”

Justin cleared his throat as he sized himself up, readjusting his skinny black tie and squaring his shoulders. Richard must be insane. The Society’s logic was fatally flawed: they couldn’t seriously think that it was possible control the entire world’s population through having a singer in their ranks? It was infeasible. Impossible. But what they were offering him in exchange? Now, that was a very attractive proposition indeed. If he agreed to join, and got all of that out of it, it would be worth it? The Society would surely realise at some point that they couldn’t rule the world through the power of song? Yes, the power of a one-line harmony had already been proven by McDonald’s to sell a shit-tonne of burgers - and while it was a pretty convincing argument, selling fast-food to hungry people was one thing - but full-scale global domination?? That was something else entirely. But if he could ride along on their coat-tails and reap all the benefits until they realised just how crazy that idea had been in the first place...

—- two years later —-

Cash carded his hand through his dark hair, exasperated as he listened to Alana’s latest report, “You all understand that Timberlake is completely out of control, yes?”

Emilio grunted flatly as his head fell into his crossed arms on the table like a five year old ready to play heads-down-thumbs-up, “Yeeeeees.”

Cash bristled further as he looked to Rafe and Kiran for their input, both simply nodding back at him as though to say, ‘yes, we know.’

Alana looked down at her phone, worrying her full bottom lip between her teeth, “It’s worse than you think though, Cash.”

He was instantly on his feet staring at her, Rafe and Kiran leaned forward and Emilio raised one weary brow from his slumped pose, concern evident on all their faces.

Kiran was first to speak, “Alana how can it be worse? Richard’s vanished off the face of the earth. Justin’s last billboard count had him go multi-platinum - again, and his lyrics are becoming...”

Rafe offered flatly, “Odd.” He stood, cracked his neck from side to side and headed towards the small stove, absentmindedly filling a saucepan with water and a packet of instant noodles.

Cash shook his head at Rafe then turned back to glower at the rest of the Inner Circle, “Thank you all for the recap. It’s bleak, we know. Alana?”

Green eyes fixed the room as Alana cleared her throat and mouthed, “One hundred and ninety-four.”

Dumbfounded silence filled the room; jaws hung slack. Until Kiran broke the spell, a spluttering cough turning into an uncomfortable laugh, “One hundred and ninety-four what? Because I know you definitely can’t mean stones. We know the exactly location of over fifty percent of them? They’re safe?”

Rafe, back at the table with his ramen by now, paled as Alana shook her head at a loss for words, red curls bouncing around her shoulders, “How is that possible?”

Alana threw her hands in the air, confessing “I honestly don’t know. But he has ones that we knew the location of, and more besides.”

Cash paced the room, clearly agitated as he cursed and barked,

“That’s every stone in existence, except ours and one other.”

Alana puffed out her cheeks before huffing out the breath sharply, “Correct. He has the lot, excepts ours - and the Garnet.”

Emilio’s hand slid under his shirt, a double-check to be sure his Alexandrite remained firmly on the chain hidden beneath the dark fabric, fiddling with it like a child with a comfort blanket as he spoke, “I- I just don’t understand. How? How did he get so many without us knowing?”

Rafe shrugged as he shovelled a spoonful of noodles into his mouth and chewed thoroughly before answering, “Richard’s protege. His pet project. Nothing surprises me when he’s involved. Everything he touches gets tarnished.”

Alana sighed sadly, “Justin seemed like such a sweet guy when he first joined. I really liked him. I thought he could have been part of our Inner Circle someday.”

Rafe shot her a rueful smile before looking down into the noodles, “Same. He changed. Fast.” Coiling his fork in a thick helping, he swung them into his mouth without ceremony.

Cash pinched the bridge of his nose, stopping pacing for long enough to stare and snap at Rafe,

“What is it with you and those blasted ramen noodles??”

Rafe shook his head silently as though to say, ‘I don’t know’: he wasn’t entirely sure why, but every time someone mentioned Timberlake, he couldn’t stop himself from carb-loading. All he wanted a big bowl of ramen in his belly and he couldn’t think about anything else until he was full of noodley-goodness. He’d eaten more instant ramen in the past couple of years than he did during college, and that was saying something.

Kiran cut through the atmosphere between the two men, venturing, “So how are we going to shut him down?”

—-

Richard had been missing for months, and although all trails had gone cold and no one was one hundred percent clear on what had happened to him, there was very strong suspicion within the group of five that Justin had something to do with it. How else had he managed to acquire almost every power stone in existence? He must have dispensed of Richard and taken them for himself - there really didn’t seem, to be any other explanation. The Inner Circle had been aware that Richard was hoarding stones, but his haul had escalated significantly and quickly with Justin by his side - at the Circle’s last count maybe six to eight months ago, Richard only had sixty-five stones in his custody. The dirty duo had been busy.

Emilio shuddered solemnly as he thought about what must have happened to the rightful owners of those stones. He was at the tower with the Inner Circle, minus Cash. Cash would arrive soon, bringing Justin to the table with him. Creating a rouse of support, and then double-crossing him to recover the power stones had been deemed the only feasible plan. Emilio watched the rest of the group: Rafe stirring at a saucepan at the small kitchen set up, Kiran flipping aimlessly though a fashion magazine and Alana tapping at her cellphone. They were all feeling nervous about this, the stakes had never been so high. He scrubbed his brow as he ran through the various scenarios of what could possibly happen with Cash and Justin arrived.

He didn’t have long to wait as the door opened and laughter reverberated around the room. Cash was manoeuvring Timberlake expertly, and Justin seemed to be lapping up everything he said. A round of smiles and handshakes later everyone sat around the table, eyes expectantly on Cash.

“Justin, firstly, thank you for joining the group here today. As you know, with Richard... Let’s say, elsewhere. I’ve been standing in as the ‘interim leader’. And I’ll be frank, Justin, I always thought it would be for me, but it’s not. And it takes a lot for me to admit that. I can do the decision-making, the negotiations, but what I cannot abide is dealing with attitudes and egos all day long.”

Rafe chortled, “He thinks he should be the only one allowed an attitude and an ego!”

Justin grinned and visibly relaxed within the larger group.

Clearing his throat irately, Cash gestured towards Rafe, “Exactly what I’m talking about. Justin, my calling doesn’t lie in leading The Society. I am more interested in having a less ’public facing position’ shall we say, where I can really put my true talents to use. And that’s why I invited you to sit with us today, Justin.’

Timberlake nodded enthusiastically, “ I see.”

Cash stood, wearing a trail in the carpet as he walked back and forth,

“What are your goals, Justin? We understand you must be distraught about Richard’s disappearance, you two seemed close. Do you have aspirations for The Society’s Leadership? We’ve been observing you for some time, and feel that we could all benefit each other within this little group, everyone here wants to progress and wants ‘more’. And we feel like you may have some ideas that could help us all to achieve just that.”

Justin leaned back in his chair observing the group sat around the table. Of course he knew what his goals were. He’d never really considered leadership of The Society until recently - his mind had been consumed with his plan for ultimate pop domination over the past two years. And he’d progressed so far that it was within his grasp - and that was when he and Richard had begun to clash. Badly. Richard’s vision was so- So limited. He couldn’t see Justin’s potential past being a Society tool used to control the public. Justin knew his worth, he was more than a tool for Richard to implement as he saw fit. He felt the anger bubble inside him as he recalled the final fight with Richard. They could have controlled the entire world together: why couldn’t Richard have seen that? Why couldn’t he have got on board with Justin’s plans? As he sized up the twelve eyes watching him, he thought about the dozens of power stones locked securely in the safe in his apartment: these people could see his strength. His power. His star ascending. He leaned forward, his decision made,

“I have acquired many power stones and my plan is, to use our time-travelling abilities to go back in time and wipe other pop stars from existence, so that I am the single biggest pop star in the world today. Then with my influence, The Society will control everything. We, friends, will control the world.”

Alana and Kiran eyeballed each other as the men nodded at Justin.

Kiran interjected,

“There’s no doubt that The Society would benefit from that sort of influence, but what about all of the damage that would be done to culture and humanity without artists?”

Justin looked confused as he stared at her, “But they’d still have me?”

Kiran chewed the statement over before asking, “And who are you going after? Are we talking about Elvis? The Beatles? Frank Sinatra?”

Justin waved a hand as though he’d practiced this very conversation in the mirror a hundred times, “No, no. Only today’s artists. I can’t disrupt anyone who directly or indirectly influenced my career. Butterfly Effect and all.”

The Inner Circle nodded sagely as Justin continued, “And when my plan is complete, who, I ask you, will be the biggest pop star in the world??”

Alana glanced up grimacing, “I don’t know Justin, I mean Lady Gaga is pretty huge? Iconic, even.”

Emilio shook his head, “Right now, Ariana Grande’s the biggest artist in the world, I read it somewhere.”

Justin fixed them both with an affronted stare, “But think about it, if none of them ever existed... Then who would be the biggest pop star in the world?”

Alana and Emilio exchanged a world-weary glance as Justin cackled, “Guess what? It’s gonna be me.”

Rafe scrunched his nose, confused, speaking through a mouthful of ramen, “May? What? Are the Emmy’s not always in September?”

Cash shotshim a withering glance before grinning at Justin, “You’ve thought a lot about his haven’t you?”

Justin, visibly flattered, shrugged off Cash’s praise, “Just a little.”

Cash leaned towards Justin conspiratorially, “So tell us, what more do you need to make your dreams a reality, and how could we, as a group, facilitate that?”

—-

Over the next few weeks the Inner Circle had planned for two consecutive missions. One intricate scheme with Justin, that involved him travelling back over two hundred years to Regency England to secure the Garnet power stone from a Lady Foxworthy. And their own private secondary mission that involved luring Justin back to Regency England where there was no power stone to be found.

When the day to venture back in time arrived, Justin paraded around the tower preening in the mirror at his era-appropriate garb. Kiran had stitched it to perfection, a beautifully embroidered waistcoat over his cravat, fitted cream pants and a midnight blue, velvet long-tailed coat that really made his eyes pop. Rafe let out a low whistle, winking at Justin’s reflection in the mirror, “Looking sharp! Nice work Kiran.” This look was a definitely a step up from double denim!

Kiran moved around Justin turning him, dusting down his shoulders, “Oh hold up, you have a thread. Let me just get that for you. Can’t have you looking less than perfect!” She reached for her scissors and touched the back of his jacket whilst swiftly clipping a tuft of hair from the back of his head.

The corners of Cash’s mouth quirked upwards at her almost imperceptibly as he spoke, “Very elegant, good Sir. You look quite the part.”

Justin gave Cash a delighted twirl to show off his new threads before performing a low, sweeping bow - completely unaware of his missing locks - speaking in a haughty-sounding English accent, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Tarkhan, I am Lord Timberlake.”

Alana had to swig at a cup of water to stop herself from bursting into peals of laughter, it was like the only English person he’d ever heard speak before was Queen Elizabeth herself! Cash raised an eyebrow in her direction before addressing Justin, “You’re definitely comfortable travelling back alone, because it would only take Alana here a few minutes to change into something suitable and accompany you?”

Justin waved a hand dismissing the suggestion, quite honestly he didn’t want anyone cramping his style. It wasn’t Justin’s first time in Regency England - when he and Richard had travelled there previously he’d had a ball. He had exactly eight hours to get there, get the Garnet, have some fun in a previous era and get back - and then. Then a whole new era would begin. His era... Leader of the most powerful Society in the world and the biggest pop star in history. Justin grinned as he stepped forward, placing his hands around the ornate pocket watch and beginning the arcane chant to begin his voyage through time. The rest of the Inner Circle joined the chant, turning back the clocks within the tower as Justin’s world started to blur at the edges, drifting backwards through two hundred years of history.

After Justin was gone, a series of stealthy grins were exchanged around the group. Emilio breathed a sigh of relief, “We did it.”

Kiran tossed the little velvet bag with Justin’s hair inside to Cash - their insurance policy, should he need to be dealt with ‘more permanently’ at a later date. Today’s plan didn’t involve the singer being turned into a surprised-looking statue, just giving him an extended stay in Regency England instead... The garnet wasn’t there - in fact, there were no stones left there. It was common knowledge within the Inner Circle where the garnet was: firmly on the finger of Richard’s blissfully unaware and estranged daughter - passed down by his long-missing wife. A point that Timberlake was sadly remiss of: they all had banked on Richard never disclosing a topic so sore as his failure as a father out of pure pride and vanity - and they’d been correct...

Now there was nothing more to do than wind all the clocks back to the correct time, then sit and wait until Justin would try to get back.

—-

Seven and three-quarter hours later, the group within the tower saw a blurry portal loom in the corner of the room. Suddenly alert, they listened intently as Justin’s voice crackled through,

“Rafe, Cash, guys! Are you there? Help me! I can’t... I can’t get back! Alana?? The ritual, it’s not working, I’m not fading back through??”

Cash drawled as he examined his fingernails, looking thoroughly bored,

“Ah, so our little ritual worked then. Good to know.”

The passage through time became narrower and narrow as a sickening realisation suckerpunched Justin, panic rising like bile in his throat, “You... You did this on purpose!! You screwed me over!! You bastards!!!!”

As the portal flickered and shrunk to no more than a pinhole, echoes of the roars of their names reverberated around the room, until the gap sealed itself trapping Lord Timberlake in Regency England for ever more. Silence settled over the tower for a few moments, until Rafe glanced up at the rest of the group thorough his sweeping fringe, a smirk slowly stretching from ear to ear as he shrugs,

“Cry me a river...”

[larryssunflower]

TRR AU- The Non-Royal Romance, part five

 read past parts to catch up!

part one   part two    part three    part four

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 Alana’s pov. 

Following the events of the beach party and boat race, we officially start the royal tour of Cordonia. Of course, the first stop is Lythikos, the harsh snow kingdom in the mountains. We arrive at the snowy landscape after a short drive. Maxwell and I are riding together, talking and laughing the whole time. “Are you ready to ski?” Maxwell asks, excitement evident in his voice. I grin, looking briefly out the window at the large mountains around us, a feeling of nostalgia washing over me. “I don't know, are you ready to get your ass kicked?” I ask cheekily, making him roll his eyes. “Keep talking princess, but we both know you're just going to embarrass yourself,” He says, making me scoff, punching his shoulder. He just laughs and we continue to joke around until we pull up at the lavish wooden manor. 

We thank and tip the Lythikos servants who take all our bags, allowing us to instantly go out skating on the large frozen over lake. It's just me and max on the ice for a bit. I take long strides on the ice, twirling around. I finally feel like I can breathe like I'm not being suffocated. Then I look up, watching as black cars pull up, suitors spilling out, headed straight to the ice rink. Great.  I glance over and see Drake standing by the lake, watching the suitors as they try their best at skating. He brings his hand up to his earpiece, pressing it and talking into it. I wonder who he is always talking to. 

I feel a hand on my elbow and I turn to see Liam smiling at me. “Would you like to skate with me, Your Majesty?” He asks, extending his hand graciously. “Of course Liam,” I say kindly, taking his hand. We skate slowly on the ice. “It's so beautiful here,” He comments, and I nod. “I feel like we never have any alone time,” Liam says softly in my ear, and my cheeks flush. “Well, I’m sure we’ll figure something out,” I laugh lightly, biting my lip. As usual, my eyes have a mind of their own, and they flash over to where Drake is standing, watching us. “I hope I’m not being to forward,” Liams says, furrowing his brows and slowing down. I shake my head as if doing that would rid the thoughts of DRake and look at Liam. “Of course not,” I grin and we continue to have a nice conversation as we make our way around the lake.

We are abruptly interrupted by a handsome suitor with red hair that is stark contrast with the pale surroundings. “Do you mind if I have a moment with the princess?” He asks Liam in a cool voice, who just nods, before kissing my cheek then taking his leave. “Princess Alana, we haven't really had a chance to talk before, I’m Oliver Nevrakis, the Duke of this chateau,” He says as he extends his elbow to me. I smile, looping my hand into it. “Oh, it's very nice to finally get alone time with you, Oliver. Your estate is beautiful, thank you so much for having us,” I say, and he smiles. “Thank you. I just hope I’m better company than that boring Valtorian,” He says, a bit of disgust laced in his voice. I’m taken aback for a moment. “Oh, I don't know if I can compare you two. From what I have seen, you both seem to be lovely men,” I say, making him smirk. “I won’t tell him I’m your favorite don't worry,” He winks, before skating away, leaving me dumbfounded.

That was definitely something. My eyes find Drake, again, who is staring at Oliver with a steely glare. His eyes then flick to me, looking at me for a moment before looking away, scanning the frozen lake. The other day at the beach he was being so different, almost vulnerable. He’s barely even showing emotion around me now. Did I make a mistake asking him to put on my sunscreen? Was that too forward?

Maxwell’s voice breaks my thoughts. “Ready to ski now?” He asks, a mischievous grin on his face. “Yes! please let's go,” I say with relief, following as he leaves the lake, hoping to rid my mind of my thoughts of Drake.

---

About ten minutes later, we’re at the top of the ski track, the suitors coming up to follow us. It's like I can't escape them. Maxwell and I line up, then yell “go!” and take off together, speeding down the side of the mountain. The thought of speeding away from all those royal men thrills me and I shriek with happiness, adrenaline pumping within me. I speed up rapidly, swerving between and around the slower skiers. Almost a lifetime of lessons has treated me well. I’m way ahead of Maxwell but I glance back anyway, trying to see him. He slows down and shouts at me. “Alana! Look out!” He screams, and I look forward and yelp at the incoming branch laying haphazardly in the middle of the ski trail. Without time to swerve, I crouch and leap over it, landing and slowing down, turning my skis to the left.

The momentum makes me tumble through the powdery snow, cringing as I roll, knowing I’m going to get bruises because of this. I finally stop, and lay down looking up at the sky, breathing heavily. I’m definitely at the bottom of the slope, as I'm flat on my back.  I hear shouts as Maxwell speeds down to me. It’s not his voice that I hear right above me when I open my eyes. “Are you out of your mind?” Drake asks angrily, glaring down at me. “W-What?” I say quietly, and he huffs, offering his hand to me. I take it and with his help, stand up, sliding in place momentarily in my skis. “You could have died. Or got seriously injured! What were you thinking?” He asks, his eyebrows drawn together. I’m taken aback for a minute, quietly clicking out of my skis. “Well I was just racing with Maxwell and-“ “- just don’t do it again. Use your brains for once Princess! How am I supposed to protect you if you are so careless?” He asks, genuinely angry.

I can't even find the words to respond, I just stand there, embarrassment bubbling up within me. “Hell Yeah! I had no idea you were so badass!” Maxwell shouts as he skis up to us. “Don't encourage her,” Drake snaps, making maxwell’s grin fade quickly. He brings his lips tightly together, trying not to laugh, as he looks away quickly. Drake rolls his eyes at this, turning back to me. “You’re expected inside,” He says, his gaze stone cold. I finally manage to find my voice. “Alright. I’ll be right there,” I say, and he nods, turning and heading to the large manor. 

When Drake is far enough away, Maxwell breaks into laughter. I whirl around to him. 

“What is so funny?”

“Nothing!”

--Later that night--

Maxwell and I are sitting by the fireplace downstairs, drinking hot chocolate and talking. Drake is standing near us silently. We’re still a bit tense after earlier. I clearly made him furious. It must be annoying when the person you are supposed to protect is being reckless. My limbs ache from the fall, but it could be worse.

Maxwell and I are interrupted when someone saunters into the room. “Well, if it isn't the lovely princess and her squires,” Oliver says cooly, leaning against the doorframe. “Excuse me?” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Well, I mean no offense, your highness, it's just that your friends here don't even measure up to you. I honestly don't know why you bother hanging out with them.” He says as he picks at his nails, his icy blue eyes darting up, hungry for my answer. 

“Well, Maxwell is my good friend and frankly I don't care what you think of him, because he is the kindest person I believe I have ever met. And Mr. Walker is my loyal bodyguard who has saved me multiple times. So yes, I do ‘bother’ to hang out with them and take great offense when you say they are beneath me,” I say sternly. Oliver just smirks, his eyes moving to Drake. “Mr. Walker huh? I don’t think I have ever heard someone call you that,” He says, cocking his head to the side, regarding him with a strange familiarity.

I look over at Drake, who is staring back at Oliver, his jaw clenched in anger. “Do you know each other...?” I ask slowly, and Oliver's smirk grows. “Why don't you answer her Drakie? I’m sure she dying to know,” He says, clearly enjoying this. Drake doesn't say anything, still glaring at Oliver. “Okay, I'll go then,” Oliver says, clearing his throat. “Well, about seven months ago, I met his darling younger sister. Mmm, I can still remember how eager she used to be. So excited to be dating the great Oliver Nevrakis,” He says slowly, watching us for our reaction. I glance over at Drake, a sick feeling in my stomach. He has a sister? And she dated Oliver?

I didn't know it was possible, but somehow Drake looks angrier than before. “Oh and don't even get me started on her petite, tight body-” “-Shut the hell up. You have no right to speak about her that way,” Drake cuts him off, somehow not shouting, his voice frighteningly calm yet forceful. 

Oliver is clearly pleased that he got Drake to react, and his smirk seems to grow, unfazed by Drake’s outburst. I look over at Drake worriedly. He glances over at me, his eyes softening as they meet mine. “You know what?” He says, turning to Oliver. “I remember that I have somewhere I have to be,” He says, glancing at the three of us briefly, “If you will excuse me,” Drake says, turning and heading for the door. “Aw Drake I was just getting started!” Oliver calls out, but I stand up, anger bubbling up within me. “Stop acting like a child Oliver! If you ever treat Drake like that again, I will slap that smirk right off your pathetic face.” I burst out angrily, taking Oliver aback. Drake hesitates at the door, glancing at me, before going out. The storm suddenly rumbles above us, the sky turning dark blue.

“I’m going after him,” I say, grabbing my coat and scarf from the side of the couch. “Are you sure that's a good idea?” Maxwell asks, and I shrug. “No. But I need to see him. I’ll be back,” I say, quickly heading towards the door. “Head back soon! It looks like a blizzard is coming!” Maxwell calls to me, and I nod absentmindedly, opening the door and rushing out into the snow, following Drake’s figure.

-

He stops in a clearing, looking up at the evening sky. “Drake?” I call out. His shoulders slump and he turns to me. “Of course you followed me out,” He says, almost amused at my lack for judgment. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. Oliver was being pretty rough back there,” I say, and Drake nods, sighing. “Yeah, well that's expected. He and I, we don't really get along,” Drake mutters and I nod, looking down. 

“Why come out here?” I ask, and he turns to me. “Do you trust me?” He asks, and I nod. “How could I not trust my bodyguard?” I say, and he then shoves me. I stumble and fall back onto the snow in surprise. “What the f- oh,” I say softly as I look up at the beautiful sky, meteors flying across the clear sky. Drake flops down beside me. “Yeah you can't miss something like this,” He says, a smile on his face. I look at him for a moment. His warm tan face mixed with red cheeks contrast beautifully with the powdery snow surrounding him. He must sense me looking and he turns his head. His dark eyes bore into mine, and my stomach does about 24 backflips. I look away quickly, clearing my throat. “so- uh you have a sister?” I ask, my heart suddenly quickening, so loud he must hear it. “Yeah. Savannah.” He says, his voice soft. 

“Is it rude to ask what happened to her?” I ask, and he sighs. “No, it's alright. I actually used to work as minimal security here when the Nevrakis family hosted events. Savannah was always in love with the courtly life and would beg me to let her go to the parties. Then one time, I actually let her go,” He says with a shaky breath, shaking his head at himself. “She got a pretty dress and was super excited. I watched as she danced happily with some of the noblemen...Then she met Oliver. She instantly liked him and was gushing about him for weeks. They started dating, no matter how much I objected. I knew he wasn't a good guy and it killed me that she decided to fall for that snake. About four months ago, at one of the largest parties of the season, she went off to talk to him. I have no idea what about, but I remember seeing her rush out, sobbing. She left without telling anyone where she was going. She didn’t even tell me,” Drake says, his tone vulnerable. “We haven’t seen her since and many people think she fled the country,” He says quietly, and my heart breaks for him. 

We sit there for a moment, the only sound being the rustle if the trees and occasional cricket. Drake doesn't speak, and I assume that he doesn't want to talk anymore. Which is understandable. “I'm so sorry Drake, that must be really hard. I wish I could have been there. To be a friend to her,” I say, and he nods silently, and I notice his Adam’s apple bob up and down. 

We sit there in comfortable silence, watching the meteor shower above us. I try to ignore that our hands are about an inch apart, so close yet so far. Soon, clouds start to move in, and I sigh. “I think we should go back before we get caught in the blizzard,” I say regretfully. “Yeah I’m sure if the princess was found frozen with her bodyguard it would be quite the scandal,” He says as he gets up, making me snort. He offers his hand to me to help me back up. “Thanks for following me Princess,” He says and I smile. “Of course,” I say, and we start back to the manor. We clearly miscalculated the timing of the storm, and it comes in much quicker than we thought. The wind is strong, snow whirling around us.  I blindly reach for Drakes' hand as we trudge through the storm. Drake looks over at me in surprise. “For uh- safety!” I shout, and he nods. “For safety, yeah!” He shouts back, and as he faces forward I swear I see a smile on his face. 

---

The next day, right before the ball :

I scrunch up my face as I look at my reflection, adjusting my slinky silver gown, It's beautiful, but hangs a bit strange on my hips. but hey, what can you do? I just shrug, wrapping my white faux fur around my elbows. The knock at my door makes me jump, and I turn around. “Come in,” I say, and the dark wood door opens, and Drake walks in, freezing when his eyes land on me. I feel self-conscious as his eyes glance over my outfit, his cheeks red. His warm brown eyes that I adore so much finally find mine and I smile sheepishly. “Do I look alright?” I ask, adjusting my dress nervously. He shakes his head slightly, “You look per-” He stops himself suddenly, clearing his throat and looking back at me with that distanced expression that I hate so much. “They are ready for you downstairs Princess,” He says. I nod, smiling lightly, disappointment washing over me. “Of course. Thank you, Drake,” I say, walking past him, out the door. I hear him closing and locking my door, then following me from a distance. “For safety reasons, I would prefer it if you were nearer to me tonight. I don't know if I trust Oliver,” I say, bitterness in my voice as I reference last night. 

Holding his hand was like an addict just getting a taste of their favorite drug again. Satisfies for the moment, but isn't enough to fully stop the craving. The need. After feeling his warm hands when he caught me on the boat, when he applied the lotion over my back, and last night when they were clutched to mine, I can't get enough. I want to feel all of him. To feel his lips on mine. To feel him hug me back, embrace me. but that will never happen. Drake follows my request, walking close by me. “thank you,” I murmur.  We reach the decadent doors of the ballroom, and stop in front of them, taking a deep breath, trying to calm myself. The herald announces my name, “And finally, The Princess Of Cordonia, Alana Rhys!” I put on my dazzling smile and the doors open. 

Tonight should be interesting. 

-----

Yay! Okay back on this series due to some demand! Thank you again to all of you who have supported me recently and complimented my writing! It's crazy, it feels so crazy writing this again, it has been over a year, and I have definitely changed a lot but my love for this story has not! I’m glad that there are people who enjoy my writing and this little series I decided to make. I have always loved writing and I'm so glad I can share with you guys! Thank you all for inspiring me to keep on writing. I'll try my best to have the next chapter out soon! Love you all <3

[margotverger]

bloom’s duality

[Sequel to Guillotine’s Glint! | Read on Ao3]

I can't lose this. I can't lose you.

Margot's words remain imprinted on the fleshy fabric of her brain; when she closes her eyes to sleep, fitfully, they are illuminated on the red screen of her eyelids. Bright, stark white; white as stars. Navigation through the grim and murky waters of their hiding. In her dreams, she sees her family, becalmed on a red sea, a black mass surging from the depth. It has no face, but she knows it is him. The kraken has awoken, and has come for his pay. All the while, Alana is marooned on an island of her own creation, frozen as she watches those foul appendages pull her family deep into its toothed maw. Entirely helpless.

She wakes up with a scream in her throat, and Margot hovering over above her, haloed by the overhead light. Her eyes are wide, terrified, wet with fear. Morgan is stirring, his dreamscape disturbed. “Bad dream?” Margot's hands are so soft, fingers brushing along the dip and curve of her cheekbone.

“Bad dream,” she echoes, voice weakened, raw, as if she really had been screaming. She seeks comfort in a kiss, chaste and brief. “I think I'll take watch now.”

Something has to be done about this.

*

She invests in a trainer, taming her paranoia about interacting with others. While it is incredibly unlikely Hannibal intends to enact his plans through a mere idol, one can never be too certain. To allow someone into her sanctuary is to create a leak in the boat. But it must be done. If she is doomed to be a sitting duck, she might as well be one that can fight back.

*

Aleksandra is her name. A bulky Russian woman, she towers above them, so much so that her blonde hair, cropped short, almost touches the ceiling. Despite the toughness that emanates from every curve of muscle, Morgan takes an instant liking to her. Alana sees it as a good omen.

(A good omen is still an omen, says some small part of her.)

*

Aleksandra stays with them. She instills a nutrition plan for she and Margot; things that will imbue them with strength, stamina, enough protein to carry them through the absolutely ruthless training plan she has in mind. At night, when Margot is sleeping, Alana trains in the living room. First, building tolerance, stamina; warm ups, muscle building, elasticity. Reflex training. Basic combat. Then, into styles: krav maga, kung fu, taekwondo, boxing; the list is endless, and Aleksandra skips nothing. She knits each style together seamlessly, so that Alana may find what best suits her. She trains until the sun rises and then some, and only rests when the night comes round to. Her exhaustion kills any dream, and she is glad for it.

*

She finds time for tenderness regardless. Devoting her life to protection can be as double-edged as devoting her life to paranoia. Instead, she employs Aleksandra's extra time to look after Morgan. They play games in the living room or what could be—tentatively—called the garden, while she has alone time with her wife. There, she allows herself to kiss every place that has gone unkissed for so long (too long), to worship Margot's soft skin, scarred belly, the curves of her thighs. She kisses and licks and paints patterns with her fingertips along the canvas of her wife, and allows herself to be lost in the world of her body, in the world of pleasure that has been alien to them for so long. Other times, they merely sit in silence, enjoying the sound of their slow heartbeats, appreciating each rise brought on by their breath. The reminder that they are here and alive, and for the moment, at peace.

When Margot's eyelids become heavy with sleep, Alana finds herself staring, reverant. I'd do anything for you, her heart sings a hymn. God, I'd do anything for you.

*

Margot and Aleksandra are in the bedroom, which doubles as a playroom for Morgan nowadays, when the door knocks. Alana freezes, her knife stagnating, only half-way through the cucumber. Nobody is supposed to knock on the door. Nobody is supposed to know where they are. A small voice, that same voice, is tearing her apart for her foolishness, but she retains a calm visage despite herself. She inhales through her teeth, recalling everything Aleksandra taught her, and goes to the door, bracing herself for the worst.

But she does not come face to face with the monster who has haunted her dreams. She comes face to face with its' psychiatrist.

She shuts the door in Bedelia du Maurier's face.

*

Minutes pass, maybe few, maybe many. All Alana knows is that the quiet rumble of life in the bedroom is the most beautiful thing she's ever heard, that her heart is beating louder and faster than it has even post-nightmare, and that Hannibal Lecter's psychiatrist is, somehow, on her doorstep. Part of her wants to believe it was merely some sort of illusion; an invention of stress. Some diluted madness taking form in the most bizarre shape imaginable. After all, why—and how? – is Bedelia du Maurier on her doorstep?

She takes a steadying breath. Only one way to find out. She opens the door, and finds that Bedelia is still standing there, her glacial expression betrayed by the rise of her eyebrow. She's miffed. “That was rude, Doctor Bloom,” she says, voice stiff and velveteen all at once. Her skin crawls at the very word. It must be deliberate. Instead of confronting that particular turn of phrase, she affixes a sharply polite smile to her face. Out of Bedelia's line of sight, Alana's knuckles are blanching against the doorframe. She half-expects it to splinter and snap beneath the pressure of her.

“My apologies, Doctor du Maurier. You took me quite off guard.”

“I imagine so.” Without moving, Bedelia's eyes explore what they can of Alana's home. “May I come in?”

Hidden beneath the pale pink of Alana's lips, her teeth are grinding. Then: “I don't see why not.”

*

“You have a quaint little home.”

“I was in the mood for something smaller.” Safer. Less shadowy corners for Hannibal to lurk in.

“I can imagine,” Bedelia purrs, eyes ceasing their roaming of the living room and settling on Alana's gaze. She has striking eyes. The colour of ice. Just as cold, too.

There is a silence.

“Do you have any wine?”

She chooses to ignore that. “Why are you here?” Alana asks, and her voice is quiet. Still, but with the threat of a tremble. A storm brewing in the column of her throat. “How did you find us?”

Bedelia opens her mouth to speak, but finds herself interrupted.

“Alana, are you done with those snacks—“ her words find themselves decapitated mid-sentence. “Alana,” she repeats, her voice carrying the threat of fear.

“Margot,” comes her quiet response, her gaze unmoving from Bedelia. She trusts her wife. She does not trust Bedelia du Maurier. “Make sure Morgan and Aleksandra stay in the room.”

Margot lingers, uncertain, but her doubt is ephemeral; she leaves, silent as a ghost.

“You seem to be wary of me,” Bedelia notes, “despite the fact we are both victims of the same man.”

A mirthless hm, one that jerks her lips in a way that could almost pass for a smirk. “You don't strike me as the victim type, Doctor du Maurier.”

“If I did, would you enjoy my company more?” the graceful tilt of her head; hair pools over her blouse like liquid gold. “As I recall, that appears to be your type.”

She narrows her eyes, contrasting the almost feline dip of Bedelia's nude-dusted lids. “How did you find us?”

“My apologies, I seem to have struck a nerve.” Alana can see, so very clearly, why Hannibal decided to bring her along with him on his Florence escapades. Whatever hope she had that the stories were true is distinguished; her doubts have flared into a great and angry beast. There is something in her eyes, something bright and cruel and cold, that suggests they have never once been blind to Hannibal's nature. “You're a bright woman, Doctor Bloom. I'm certain you can piece together a suitable answer.”

“Aleksandra? She's been off the grid since she got here.”

Her simpering smile patronizes her, and Alana's voicebox bobs in her throat. “Not off the grid enough.” Bedelia moves then, as slow as a cat on the prowl. Alana half-expects her pupils to narrow to slits, black knives ready to pierce and carve. She leans forward, and even the slide of her hair manages to look predatory and controlled. Her fingers lace together, French tips digging into the vanille crème of her own skin. “Do you want to know why I came here? Why I looked for you?” She waits for no answer. “I wanted to know if I could. Because if I can find you, so can they.”

Her breath stutters, her eyes blowing wider than they ought to – a shot of fear, adrenaline pumping through her blood, then followed by a relief. They, meaning not only Hannibal; they, meaning Will is alive. Despite the years, there remains something tender for Will Graham yet. She hopes he can say the same for her. “They survived.”

“Unfortunately so.” It is Bedelia's turn to narrow her eyes, blonde lashes almost ghosting along the curve of her cheekbone. “I do hope that little response is fear, and nothing else. Like I said, you're a bright woman.”

Her confidence is blooming, piece by piece, as things fall into place: her own strength, her wife's, Will's survival. She says nothing, but her thoughts must show on her face, for Bedelia's glacial demeanour fractures for only a moment, eyebrows furrowing.

“Your faith, while … admirable,” she barely restrains a sneer, “is misplaced, Doctor Bloom. The Will Graham that rose out of that water is not the one you knew. He is something new and sharp. One has to wonder what lurks in the mind of the one who walks willingly by Hannibal Lecter's side.”

“Yes,” Alana stares deep into those near phosphorescent eyes, as pointed as a blade, “one does.”

Spider-web fractures crack along the porcelain of Bedelia du Maurier's facade, exposing veins of frustration. Her eyes are alight, almost. Jaw hard-set, she says, with a voice brittle as winter: “You understand nothing of the man who holds your fate in one hand and scissors in the other.”

“He doesn't hold my fate. I do.”

Is that admiration, there, glimmering alongside the slow-burning anger? Perhaps. “And here I had assumed your naivete had shattered along your pelvis.” Bedelia lets out a sigh that falls somewhere between suffering and irritated, gaze breaking from Alana's only to rise to the heavens before falling to where her legs sit, primly crossed. “I see that I will have to force you to see what he really is.” She unfolds herself, only to set about fiddling with, presumably, her stocking. Alana watches on, expression morphing into a deeper state of vexation with each passing second. Then, in a moment of stark shock, Bedelia separates her leg and sets it to the side. Her gaze is unflinching, but there is a vulnerability there. Raw as a mineral, jagged and sharp.

“This is what they are capable of. What Will Graham is capable of.”

“He did that to you?” Alana's voice catches in her throat, only escaping in the shape of a whisper.

“I presume the cooking of it was all Hannibal, but he certainly helped in eating it.”

A sharp stab of nausea: acid pools in her stomach as her skin cools.

“Did he tell you of his visits to me? How he took Hannibal's role as my singular patient?”

“No.” She swallows. “He didn't.”

Bedelia tilts her head, hair shifting with it. Something violent flashes in her eyes. It almost appears to be something like satisfaction. “An interesting thing, that, isn't it? I must admit, I don't blame him. Not after the things we discussed. Do you know what he said to me, on the eve of Hannibal's escape?”

Alana is quiet.

“He looked me in the eyes, Doctor Bloom, and said: meat's back on the menu.”

*

“I'm sorry.”

“What for?”

“For this. For everything. If it weren't for me...”

“If it weren't for you, I'd have been torn apart and eaten alive by pigs. Alana, you brought light into my world when there was only darkness. You redefined what family meant for me. You showed me what love is. Don't ever apologize for this. For us. For Morgan. I'd follow you around the world.”

Alana offers a weak smile, though the tears on her face aren't wholly from fear anymore. “You might have to.”

“So be it.”

*

The world has shifted. Their world has shifted.

Bedelia du Maurier's words lie side by side Margot's on the canvas of her lids. In her dreams, she is still marooned. Will Graham appears as if from air, all light and divinity. Will, she says, voice thrumming with relief, Will, thank God you're here. You have to help me. The water is lapping at the white sand, staining it red, then black; it grows thicker and thicker. Margot's screams grow loud and desperate as Will's gaze remains indecipherable, the entirety of his eyes blown out by light. Please, and she reaches out for him, her friend, her conspirator, and begs.

Oh, Alana, he hums in that voice, yet it doesn't sound like him. It sounds new and terrifying. He takes her hand, and his skin is burning. There are no Gods here. Not anymore.

He pushes her into the black sea.

[godblooded]

“ mm. no , i really wasn’t complaining. and if i ever , ever have a single bad thing to say about it , assume i am probably not myself but a skrull. “

she could never resist. it’s just not in her genetic makeup. pepper potts is fantastic in bed and alana stark , oh alana stark , she doesn’t have a fucking prayer. ( it really is a good thing her beliefs in god are pretty limited , hah ? ) she slithers back into bed comfortably , wearing nothing but a little pair of emporio armani briefs , black. silver - blue spines spider out from the center of her chest , places the arc’s installment has done damage , places toxifying so slowly. the arc is splintered in a prism , just slight.

“ oh no. i can’t go to work. if i do think of the indignity. — orrrrrr the intrigue of just getting straight up caught , honestly. controlled danger , what a turn - on. “

just talking. just talking.

“ i would appreciate it if you would kiss me absolutely stupid , as they say in movies that i literally have no interest watching. “

morning after prompts. // accepting — @theyeardecembered​ said: ❛  all  these  marks  -  i  look  like  a  crime  scene .  ❜ 

Pepper hummed while she remained in bed, body sprawled across it still, already missing the warmth of the body that was tangled to hers just a few minutes ago. Last night was… amazing. A side of Pepper that was unleashed in rare occasions came out and now, hearing Alana comment on the hickey’s, she felt very proud of herself. Sitting up and bringing the comforter up to cover her naked body, she tilts her head to the side as she watches the other take notice of every mark. Maybe, just maybe, she had gone a little overboard. But to be honest, she didn’t even remember leaving half of these marks. 

❝   I didn’t hear a complaint last night. In fact, you were liking it a lot.  ❞ 

[setuballibrarybooks]

The Ghost Laughs: A Tale Of Revenge

By

Catarina Semedo

What sweet pleasure this moment would be, thought Alana as she stepped silently through the corridors of the grand town house. What sweet pleasure to end this dance of death delayed. How long had it been? Why was she pretending she did not know precisely to the day how long it had been? That was what she wanted. To no longer have to count the days and order the months and years in her head. To cut through the red thread which tied her every waking moment to that burning village, that cruel laughter, that man’s cursed face.

Eight years, three months and eleven days. Lord Darkly sat astride his horse and laughed as the village of Alcains burned before him. The landlord was a beastly presence at the best of times, but in response to the rent strike he had turned away from the best of time to embody the very worst of times. All had presumed it was his rage that meant he had blockaded the village and threatened death of the entire population. But as Alana watched from behind the branches of the tree she was hiding in, he wasn’t raging as the flames reflected in his armour. He was laughing. This was a joke to him, an amusement, a game. The slaughtered bodies of the villagers, her family among them, were not defeated foes to him. They were ragdolls which he had taken delight in throwing to the ground, and running through with blades. Alana promised herself that she would laugh when she killed him. She promised herself that she would learn the deadliest arts and hunt him down to kill him with them. And she promised herself she would not laugh until that day. Her laughter was to be the crowning moment of her vengeance. None should hear that before his dying ears.

Alana would those around her that she was training for a mighty kill. From the moment she dropped from those tree branches, two days after the soldiers came to Alcains, she was grim-faced and unsmiling. She had lain awake the whole time in that tree, desperate not to sleep in case the soldiers came back and found her asleep. Once she was satisfied that they were not coming back, she dropped to the ground. All around were the bodies of the villagers, bodies she had watched for two days until her delirium had her convinced at moments they might move hither and thither, that they might spring back into life and help her down from the branches. But they didn’t, they lay silent and unmoving as nature moved in to reclaim them. When Alana hit the earth again, she knew she could not and should not even attempt to bury these fallen souls. There were too many and she was too weak and too vulnerable. But she had one last action before she left. She took an axe from the woodcutter’s block, and chopped down the tree she had hidden in. The memories she had accrued there were too hideous for her to allow it to stand.

Thus was born Alana the Unsmiling. She would not reveal her surname, tied as it was to that county where she had been born and where her family had died. In time, she would tell those she met that she couldn’t remember her name, though this was always a lie. But the title The Unsmiling suited her. She had been so young when she had climbed that tree, and she barely aged as the years went on, her face still and unmoving, not accumulating the lines around eyes and mouth which came with the natural cycle of smiling and laughing which normal people were subject to. Indeed, it was said that the only time her face changed from its mask-like state was when she trained and fought. Then the strain of her efforts would show through and leave her red-faced and exhausted.

This was her strange half-life. Fleeing over the county lines, she had enrolled in the military academy under a false name. She stepped forward with each battle, disciplined and determined, but never endangering herself. The cause of the army was not hers. She had no intention of dying on a distant field when there was a scalp still to be claimed. Thus she was never commended for bravery or ferocity. She passed by on the battlefield in almost complete anonymity. It was a puzzle for her commanders that she trained so hard and showed such ability when the stakes were low, but placed in real danger she would fade into the background, like a mirage of a soldier. It was in this way that she moved from unit to unit, always useful enough to see worth keeping around but never acting up to her skills when the time came. But it was not their concern to worry about one soldier in an army of thousands and so she passed through, like a ghost.

It was through this path that she eventually found her path to revenge. She was transferred to a unit which had great success in producing guards for dignitaries of the kingdom. These troops were flashy and ostentatious with their blades and their parading. Most knew that were they set in a real battle they would be destroyed in moments, their blood spattered across their immaculate polished armour. But military worth mattered not when the purpose was spectacle. They drilled perfectly and wielded impossible clean weaponry with a flourish. Every lord, baron and duke wanted such a decadent show. Look, they would say, I can afford these fops and their fripperies. I am untouchable.

It was all too easy. All Alana had to do was preen coldly like the rest of them. That she never smiled, not even off duty, made it easier. She was as cold as the icy rivers of the north, and her colleagues said there was ice water in her veins. None could get close to her. She gave nothing away.

And thus it was that night that she stalked the corridors in full dress armour, yet was ignored. Her colleagues assumed she was parading away from the usual areas for a reason, trusting her supreme competence. But also none asked her how she was, none greeted her with a cheerful hallo. None made eye contact with her which meant none saw the murder in her eyes.

As she entered the chamber of the sleeping baron, she felt the mechanics of her training and the timings which she had worked out. Five seconds to open the door. Fifteen seconds to silently cross the floor of the room. Five seconds to draw the blade. Two seconds to slide it into the baron’s throat. It was like clockwork and it worked. Every timing immaculate, every movement economical and necessary. Her practice over the years had paid off.

But.

But what of the last motion? What of the laughter which would peal out as the baron lay there helpless, unsure whether he would bleed to death before he drowned in the blood pouring into his lungs, or vice versa? Because those eight years, three months and eleven days had seen no humour, no joy, no presence of humanity, and it showed. As Alana opened her mouth to laugh, nothing came out. Muscles asked tendons what they were to do, and the answer was stark. We do not know. We do not remember. These reflexes burned with the village or were severed with the trunk of the tree. Gone. They are all gone. And so the baron died as a woman stood silently over him, her face smooth and unfeeling. No sound issued from her mouth.

When the guards found the baron and Alana they arrested her. There was no love for the baron, but they could feel no sympathy for her for she did not weep, she did not plead, she did not show any emotions. Not one of her colleagues knew a thing about her beyond her nickname, and they could think of no reason why she might have done this crime. Without brotherhood, she was not even an assassin to them. They could not understand her and saw her only as a weapon. 

As she was led away, she heard the peals of laughter coming from the mess room where the news of the murder had not yet broken. Through the door she briefly glimpsed women and men feasting. She saw ahead of her, the two guards up front look likewise through that door, and both, despite the situation in which they found themselves, smiled briefly at the antics of those they spent their time with. And with that, Alana knew that driving out her humanity on a single-minded quest for revenge had left her unreadable to these people. Any chance she might have had of rallying them to support her, to be sympathetic, maybe even to help her escape, was gone. If only they had heard her laugh, just once. But no. To them she was a ghost. She was, and always had been, already dead.

[godblooded]

the man of iron’s nothing but a man, sometimes. not particularly impressive — little creature, eyes like pearlescent silver and sea-blue moonlight. a crisp, certainly too tight button-down hugs his frame where just beneath a binder clutches the arc reactor within its chamber in his chest. dim, faint light radiates in quiet cycles from dead center.

“dr. ziegler—“

the little hero holds out a hand to @herrage , a broad grin set in his mouth, wolffish and harmless at once. the glint of scarlet metal burned into his right temple catches the light, harshly fused with flesh. if the good doctor’s body has been given to the duress of her cause, the man of iron has done the very same. and yet — he never seems to falter from a boyish joy.

“it’s such an honor— and uh— and such— such a priv— privilege! please forgive me, your aptitude is unparalleled and there is so much in the world today that would go both unanswered and undiscovered without your prowess!”

sheepishness writs itself large on stark’s face. apology furrows his brow.

“i— i’m something of a fan of your work.”

[godblooded]

@fortislumen (x)

stark ‘ s recovery is slow and steady. cryostasis leaves the man of iron floating in a bath of hopeful bacta fluid ( yes he ‘ s named it that ) will restore what ‘ s been demolished of him. loki saw the remains. kara did her best , as swift as can be , to cauterize the horrific violence inflicted all over Alana ‘ s body. but stark ‘ s made of skin grafts , now. a handsome frankenstein ‘ s creature who can’t possibly control a need to pull her so far into the limelight. but before she can replace the limbs and get to the good stuff , she has to retrain her body from those painful nerves to once more become familiar limbs and bones — they never quite even out , but —

but pepper tastes like home. because this stood universe has never felt like a home , but the lingering taste of none other than the rescue remains on the man of iron ‘ s tongue , cheeks reddening. pinpoints at the highest points of cheekbones are sharp and naturally rouged. they look like the cheeks of a child who’s pinched them all day in the cold. stark twitches into that sudden kiss. too much , all of it, to say what stark can only say when she touches her forehead to the redhead ‘ s and needs little more than an ask for acceptance. it ‘ s begging , puppyish. pay attention to me.

granted , she ‘ s around a seven on the pain scale , but what else is really new ?

[godblooded]

@fortislumen​ (x)

the man of iron is keenly aware of everything happening around him because the hud is designed that way. every single corner is a sound that can be understood -- hulk’s roar and steve’s shield whizzing away. these identifiable sounds allow his hud to give him notifications of where everyone is , and he keeps his eye on everyone. pepper’s heartbeat remains on the display at the upper lefthand corner -- it’s a monitor for her heart - rate within a specified radius , and functions as a warning on her vitals so long as stark is within some space of her.

it’s paranoia. the display flickers. the heart-rate makes a huge jump and those fearful blue eyes don’t react before his body does , and it sends him into a total fucking tailspin the second he can recognize the target is blinking in his vision. he tightens and he drops harder and harder , arms at his sides , the daring young man with no flying trapeze. 

and he feels her weight in his arms and then suddenly he doesn’t , but he drops  to a knee with her. he holds her in his arms and he breathes deep and he’s speaking to himself -- 

-- face plate whirrs back -- 

“ no no no no no no no no no no no no no no -- “

the man of iron can’t breathe. something crushes his throat and he can’t hear anything around him before his teeth clench tight. he won’t let this happen , he fucking won’t , he won’t -- and there’s something like a faint touch of purple that seeps into pepper’s suit as that blue light begins to fizzle out. it’s a glint of purple , dark and deep , and he doesn’t know what it is , but it’s gone as soon as it was there and his head feels hazy. but pepper’s heartbeat isn’t just in the hud anymore , but it’s in his head , beating and beating , slow. 

“ you cannot do this to me you can’t and you won’t and i won’t fucking let you do you understand me i won’t fucking let you i won’t -- “ 

he’ll abandon all this in the blink of an eye. he’s going to. he can see the carnage abating. he can hear steve and then see him signaling to stark to move , move , move -- 

there’s not enough certainty in the world to discuss the frenetic but sure way the man of iron bursts into the air and he’s still got pepper cradled in his arms. his throat is dry , and his eyes are a paler blue than they would be ordinarily. it’s nearly eerie , but that , too , dissipates like the odd purple ebb and flow of glimmer did. pepper’s heartbeat stays in his head. the man of iron listens to it closely. he doesn’t know for sure it’s in his head -- it has to be the hud -- he thought otherwise a second ago but -- 

“ peppy peppy peppy peppy pepperoni peppercorn red pepper fresh pepper fucking pepper talk to me baby come on and talk to me we’re gonna take care of you you bet we are we’re gonna take such good care of you peppy come on , what the fuck is it ? -- talk to me , pepperidge farm remembers. “ 

[godblooded]

@doctorbrycebanner (x)

you’re shit at this, if you’re being honest. shit at all of it. but in the midst of you suffering in your attempts to keep yourself together, it only worsens keeping her together, too. plus? you don’t have any fucking clue on how to interact with her anymore because... you love her. or whatever that means. and you want to kiss her. and perfectly fucking frankly, you’re too scared to--

well, your racing thoughts come to a screeching, screaming halt because bryce yells and you jump, but mostly, you do a fucking jig! 

grab the tea towels and immediately try to shirk hot liquid and shattered bits of delicate porcelain. it’s all over the floor and there are shards and blood intermingling with coffee. it creates a truly disgusting shade of rust. 

“bryce.” it’s quick, but not harsh, not violent, soft and assertive. your eyes bruise dark, but it’s just the insomnia; for once no one punched you in the face. your own hands are shaking. you’re shaking. and you try it again, gentle. 

“bryce. you’re okay, bryce.” 

[godblooded]

there is fear , real and true. it’s almost on fire. everything. her mind is on fire. her whole entire head is buzzing like the sound of tinnitus that she already has to begin with , and the volume to the world doesn’t exist. it’s turned so far down that pepper’s voice isn’t a voice anymore. it’s just a sound , maybe. it’s only noises going through her ears and then — in and out. in and out. she can’t find anything to hold onto that’s perhaps more than the beating heart around her that brings the atmosphere snapping in and out of focus.

she is absolutely and completely gone. she doesn’t remember the way back here. not even a little. she doesn’t remember anything until she remembers what breath is , and blinky’s lazy , dim beat is the only thing that makes it clear she’s even alive in this moment. her eyes are flitting everywhere and anywhere. if she had a voice , she would ask for a finger of whiskey or a rail of coke or those perc thirties that keep her going on super high pain days. she remembers screaming until her throat felt bloody and her screams tapered off into sobbing bellows and her face was as red as nat’s hair.

now pepper is telling her to speak , and she can’t do it. her throat is closed. her entire body has just shut itself off in a way much too close to anything , and she’s only here because she’s just brushing some kind of surface. that surface is pepper’s voice. it remains her focal point to hang onto. it stays a place she can see , like those words are in the air for her eyes. and those eyes of hers ? they’re winterblue , pupils dilated in fright , and when they finally find pepper’s her vision brings nothing informative into her brain. it doesn’t process the information even remotely. it remembers who she’s looking at after a moment. peppy , oh peppy.

without being able to help it , stark thinks about how badly she wants her mama. there is her binder that holds blinky in place , and beneath that her abdomen is all mottled flesh. scarring and bruises. dark , dark , dark spots that will blossom like violets in mere hours. her pale , pale skin makes it all the more obvious. she can’t react because she’s not inside the driver’s seat of her own brain. but she can feel those metaphorical hands desperately trying to grasp the wheel of the car. trying to put herself in a responsive place. she wants her mama again. she wants her to tell her what to do. she wants a way to react to this.

there is a single wheeze she lets out , a tear spilling over and trickling down a cheek , and she relaxes against pepper’s weight because her muscles no longer have the ability to keep her tense. she thinks she wheezes again , and her ribs ache , but she isn’t sure.

she just keeps her eyes on pepper’s , then , frantically looking her over like a human diagnostics check.

sentence prompts // accepting — @theyeardecembered​ sent: 8. to undress my muse. ( reverse ).

Two of the numerous things one could describe Pepper as were what she saw as a positive trait, while anyone who cared about her thought just the opposite. The redhead was fearless and she would do anything to protect those she loved. Absolutely anything. So the moment she risked her life to help Alana, she needed no second thought. She went in, not giving a single shit about losing her own life. That’s what she did every day, that’s why she never got into serious relationships. Because what she did as the Rescue was more important than anything to her, and if her life was taken in the process, so be it. Now she’s lost in another earth, in some sort of relationship with someone who does the same as her. Pepper knows she’s not going to hear the end of it the moment Alana is feeling good enough to talk. Pepper had already attempted on a goodbye when Natasha saved them, not before Pepper was out after hitting her head, what woke her up was Alana screaming her name. 

They’re both still very shaken up, but Alana hadn’t said a single word. She’s just standing in the middle of the workshop, eyes focusing on anything but on the redhead.  ❝    The bad guys over here are a lot worse than the ones I face where I come from.  ❞   Pepper said, voice down. She was already out of her suit, ready to take the under suit when she just hears nothing. Stepping in front of Alana, she offers the other a weak smile, placing a soft kiss to her cheek.   ❝    Lemme help you out of that, baby.  ❞   She smiles softly. The pet name she uses to tease the other is one used now to try and get a reaction out of her. Carefully, Pepper works on taking the piece of clothing off, eyes focused on Alana to make sure she wasn’t hurting. Her hands slowly work their way up Alana’s bare back, and Pepper places a soft kiss there.   ❝   Talk to me. Please.  ❞   

[godblooded]

( SMS: PEPPY ) I will be happy to go shopping with you if you’d like because I need a new suit tailored.

( SMS: PEPPY ) dinner? Happily. That’s not a compensation. It’s just enjoyable for me.

( SMS: PEPPY ) look at it as an excuse to take like a mini vacay.

( SMS: PEPPY ) uh except this time I don’t have my chest split open like a mortal kombat fatality and forced to make a bomb while being waterboarded.

sms prompts. // accepting — @theyeardecembered​ ​​sent: ( sms ) : not to sound like a trope but I need a plus one for a wedding. you in?

( SMS: STARK ) : I will need a dress.

( SMS: STARK ) : And you will need to take me out to dinner another day to compensate. Weddings make me nervous.

[godblooded]

“alana. i told alana. she said she would have it under control for you as long as i had you.”

it shakes her because... well, wouldn’t it shake you, someone you care about? it shakes her and the hellcat can feel it all the way in her stomach, knees, shoulders. still in.... a suit that’s not a suit. but a proper suit is a stark industries production and she’s been told ‘you don’t rush genius, baby’ with that look on her face like she was about to fill something with guns or weird science and guns.

stark loves weird science and guns, but right now trish’s brain is frying and she needs answers or... some kind of tangible comfort to hold onto. anything. just a tiny pawing grasp. all she knows is she saved nat, mowed down a room full of human meat (that’s all it was, she tells herself, until the proverbial train’s going to hit), and now she’s in the dark about ‘i’ll take care of it’ and what’s stark taking care of? trish is trying very try hard to duolingo Alana’s vernacular. she doesn’t speak genius and stark is so vague she realizes there’s no way to cheat, just to learn over a period of time with great patience.

this world is enigmatic and the hellcat is only just in the early stages of her career— year zero. terrified and not even grow into her powers yet. the time to make or break a hero. the time to be given that second chance and to push harder and harder to atone for everything she’s done, every monster she’s been— and to become that monster, too. to become that hero that isn’t afraid to say what’s right, not what’s good. that matters a lot to her. no Revolution was built on silence and no change was ever made by making things personal.

it’s ugly but what else can she do? how else can she be? how else can she reconcile her own everything... her own victimization with what she’s been through, who she’ll be? she doesn’t know how if she isn’t the hero unflinching, the vigilante unafraid. a light in the dark that says protect yourself instead of be afraid and complacent. for that, she won’t ask forgiveness. she isn’t afraid. she’s seen and been through more than most people in five lifetimes. she hasn’t even been a person for very long, if you ask her.

she knows more about cruelty than the average person. and a lot more about violence.

her throat constricts as she considers for a long moment whether or not to lie. she’s trying to be quick on her feet about it but she’s probably a hair too late when she says, “i’m not really sure. if i had to guess—“ and then she trails off, “—i have a sample in the jacket pocket i was wearing. —itwasn’tme. it was there. but without Stark’s analysis i’d say some kind of heavy sedative.... but we’re living this life so who the hell ever knows?”

she refills the glass of water quickly and hands holds it out again, the unnecessary bottle of poland spring sitting on the side table. —it’s a quirk. it needs to be poured in a glass. and iced!

“i — trust stark.”

even if she doesn’t even know if stark trusts or even likes her.

(stark does, but does anyone know stark likes them?)

theyeardecembered​:

The smile crushes trish’s heart the second she sees it. It can be as discomforting or as messy or as bloody or as pained or as small, but for trish that smile is the biggest comfort she’s felt in about a month, if not more. “it’s been twelve hours,” she sounds so much softer, but she’s breathing quickly, and talking quickly. Stop blubbering, pats. And she will. She will. She keeps her hand where it is. And she almost hops up on her feet, then thinks better of it. This knot in her stomach— her throat. She’s been on-edge and the tips of her toes for hours and hours. Awake, awake, awake. She’s got her own injuries she should’ve— and should— take care of, but they’re bruisings, a few contusions, nothing serious. Cosmetic. But super healing, yeah? 

“of course not. Never. You bet i’d never let that happen. I—” take a deep breath. She’s still wiping her face by this point, a childish gesture that makes her stomach turn when she performs it. The eyeblack on her face smears like a fucking raccoon and she’s never seemed so out-of-sorts. But that’s fine. That’s okay. She’s keeping it together the best way she can. She’s really doing that. She’s pushing forward and forward to keep her breathing and her emotions in check. It’s good work. She’s succeeding. 

(She needs to get behind a bathroom door, her own, and just cry cry cry, cry cry cry. It’ll let it go. It’ll allow the pressure to pop in her chest.)

“i’ve taken care of you the best i could. I wish i could’ve— put you in a shower, but whatever i could do to be sure you were okay, i did.” The syringe is still in the pocket of her track jacket. She reminds herself to force herself to tell nat about it, just so it can’t be… anywhere near her possession at the fuck all. Because that’s an admission and it means she won’t do what she wants. And what she wants is something she doesn’t want to think about.) “you’re safe. I didn’t leave any loose ends.” That’s so easy to say, and she means it, even if her voice is still choking, almost. Trish was just… just so afraid she wasn’t going to wake up. 

There’s a glass of water— and a straw! It bends (and is stainless steel. A trish quirk.) and she holds it out so nat can drink from it, “you don’t have to say anything. God. God. God. I’m just so glad you’re alive.” 

        Twelve hours. Not unexpected, but longer than she’d hoped. Certainly long enough for A.I.M. to clear house. Ever the spy, her mind was already working towards acquiring more information, reversing the roles of hunter and prey, her damaged body inconsequential.

        “Tell anyone?” she rasped out. It didn’t matter how wrecked her throat was, as long as she could get herself moving. If Trish had alerted Clint, or Stark, or Steve, any one of them could have headed to the building in time to retrieve intel. Then again, given the absence of violets on the nightstand, Clint hadn’t shown up… and the only reason he wouldn’t was if he didn’t know. Or worse.

        Shit, she needed to get updated. Any number of things could have happened during her absence… Natasha needed to check on the Avengers, on her web. The cats, she wasn’t too worried about, because there were at least two people who would have frequently fed them. Oh, she missed their fuzzy little faces.

        One crisis at a time, though. Trish was a mess. Weeping, wiping at her face, still dressed in her Hellcat outfit… absolutely out of sorts.

        Instinctively, Natasha wanted to berate her. We don’t have time for tears. Stop crying. This is nothing. Don’t be weak. If this had sent Trish reeling, what the fuck would she do when it was her turn to be tortured? She needed to toughen the fuck up.

        Even as these thoughts occurred to her, though, Natasha knew her heart was not in it. It was still, after all this time, her stupid fucking training, her goddamned upbringing, rearing its head more prominently after keeping her alive for the last month. Given how badly her everything hurt, it was easy to keep her mouth shut, push herself up a little bit enough to gratefully wrap her lips around the straw. It was an incomparable relief to have it refreshing her throat, and the glass was empty too soon.

        “Thank you”, she said, lying back down. “The drugs… they gave me… what were they?”