#is pulpy some sort of cursed drink?

[specialshinytrinkets]

who wants a

Frozen Street Pulpy?

[mrs-hyperfixed-writes]

Are You Single? - Part 1

Was originally gonna release it all at once but it was taking way too long and what I had so far was already kinda long. This sort of sets the scene.

Written for: @becomeunsolved

After getting lost in the woods and ending up in a mysterious isolated village, you get captured by Heisenberg and develop a crush, stopping at nothing to get to him.

You imagined that going through the village had been the closest to hell on earth you would ever get. It had been an honest mistake ending up here. Just a simple case of following the wrong fork in the trail. And then night had fallen, the light filtering through the canopy of leaves becoming scarcer and scarcer as the sun slowly dipped below the horizon, abandoning you in a dark forest devoid of noise, the only company being the sound of the snow crunching underneath your hiking boots and the weight of your backpack. You had kept a level head, trying to backtrack but being unable to find the original path you had been set on, and at this point you were sure that you had accidentally brought yourself deeper into the forest. You had decided that the next time you wanted to get away from your shitty job, your shitty flat, and the shitty people you surrounded yourself with you were going to go to Disneyland or something, not go on a soul searching hiking trip in Romania in the middle of winter.

Things began to make noises in the woods, but you refused to stop. Refused to acknowledge them. You wouldn��t be able to see through the dense darkness between the trees with your measly flashlight anyway. And if you stopped, then whatever was prowling the forest might know you were aware of it and take the opportunity to jump at you. So you kept going, hoping that whatever was breaking twigs and making those quiet panting noises didn’t decide that you looked too delicious to ignore any longer. You weren’t afraid of them, not really. It was something else that spurred you on.

Then you had found the village, the enormous castle that overlooked it taking your breath away. For a moment, relief had flooded your system.

It didn’t last long.

***

You fell to your knees in front of the gate to Castle Dimitrescu, exhaustion cutting through to your very bones. In your left hand you held a woodcutter’s axe in a deathgrip. It had been the only thing you had to defend yourself with up until that old man had given you a handgun before he had been dragged away. His blood had spilled from the hole he had created, landing in your hair and drying into a crust. Luckily for you, you had found an old shotgun discarded on a kitchen table in your attempts to escape the horde that had threatened to overwhelm you. It sat in your backpack, the end of it sticking out. You thanked god for deep pockets on hiking trousers. Convenient ammo pouches.

Your jacket was long gone, the monsters that had prowled the village ripping it to shreds in their efforts to get to you. The rest of your clothes were saturated with black blood, your hoodie had become uncomfortably heavy with it, forcing you to take it off and shove it at the bottom of your backpack - which itself was sporting a broken strap. You cleared your throat, spitting a wad of your own blood onto the floor.

A monster had dragged you down below the house, had thrown you out through the wall. You had dropped your axe but had managed to maintain a grip on your gun, and when it had charged at you, you had unloaded four badly aimed shots into its chest and scrambled for your weapon. And when it had charged again you had swung, pouring all your frustration and rage into that swing. You had been through hell already, and for what? Was this punishment for getting lost? Was this punishment for trying to get some peace away from your shitty life? Was this a punishment for those desires that you had buried, that need to be violent and terrifying that you had repressed? You’d spent your entire life shoving that shit down and trying to be a good person. You valued human life, but sometimes you couldn’t help but think some people would look better if they were missing some teeth. Maybe an eye for good measure.

You had turned its head into a pulpy mess even when it had been long dead. Then you had told it to get fucked. And when another one had emerged from the hole you had left in the house, you had bared your teeth at it in a sort of feral smile and waited for it to come. It had circled around you, feeling you out. It looked like it was unused to the resistance. It was unused to a lack of fear.

You had prepared to swing your axe, and addressed it directly, “Dance with me then.”

It had lunged.

And then there had been Luiza’s house. That hadn’t gone very well, the screams of all the people inside still bouncing around your head as Elena’s father had changed. You had understood at that moment that the monsters roaming around had once been people. It had made your skin crawl, and had forced you to fight with even more ferocity when the knowledge that if they got too close to you then they could turn you into one of those horrible beasts with just a scratch. Your jacket had acted as an extra layer of protection, but now it was gone.

You took a deep breath from your position on your knees, hand tightening around the axe. Part of you was horrified with yourself. Horrified that you had given into that need for violence that you had shoved down for most of your life, that you could laugh and smile and indulge in the cruelty of cackling and cursing at the carnage you could wreak on something, even if the victim was a flesh eating werewolf. The rest of you just wanted to survive, knowing that that feral glee that you were trying to keep shoved deep down was probably keeping you alive.

You had no idea what was waiting for you in this castle, but everyone in the village was dead, you had witnessed the last surviving members go up in flames. You couldn’t go back into the forest either, not with all the monsters prowling about. And even if there weren’t any, you might just die of exposure anyway.

So you took a deep breath, reaching for the lever that would bring the gate up.

A steel rod shot in front of your face, embedding itself in the wall to your right. You curled your hand into a tight fist as you stared at that rod. Apparently there really was no rest for the wicked.

“Well, well, well. I didn’t think anyone was left.” A man’s voice.

“Oh for- just give me a break already,” you muttered under your breath.

You turned to look at him, part of you worried that he would be some sort of horrible monster, ready to claw at your skin and chew on your bones as he spoke to you in that accent that you couldn’t quite place. But as you set your eyes on him, your breath caught in your throat.

“Oh. Fuck me,” you whispered under your breath,not caring if he heard or not.

Apparently Red Dead Redemption had completely fucked you up, since now your type was middle aged cowboys that looked like they smelled of cigars and oil. Bits of scrap metal floated all around him. Six hours ago if someone had told you that a man dressed as a cowboy holding a giant hammer had a form of telekinesis that could apparently only affect metal you would have laughed at them and asked them if you could have some of whatever they were drinking. But you had seen plenty of strange things already, and the rod embedded in the wall behind you was giving you a warning that whatever the nature of his powers were, they were nothing to scoff at. They were dangerous. He was dangerous. The thought made something coil in your gut. But not in fear.

You wanted to smack yourself. Now was not the time for an infatuation.

But looking at him, you just couldn’t seem to help yourself. He was tall, and carried himself with a confidence that must have taken a lifetime to master. He carried a giant metal hammer on his shoulder that you knew weighed at least a ton. And the way he carried it so effortlessly made the coiled heat in your stomach spread out across your body.

Why couldn’t you have just been attracted to normal men? Why couldn’t you have been attracted to traits that wouldn’t have put you in an early grave?

You took your backpack off and shoved it blade down next to your shotgun, zipping the bag shut as far as it would go. If it came to a fight, there was no way a weapon with a metal blade would help you. You almost laughed aloud. If it came to a fight between the two of you, only god himself intervening would help you.

“Who the fuck are you?” You weren’t subtle in the way your eyes roved up and down his body.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Oh. You’re not local? Even better.”

He grinned, and flicked his hand.

The rod that he had thrown came out of the wall and wrapped itself around your neck. Your hands instinctively came up, trying to pry it off. He laughed at your attempts, and another flick of his hand had you being dragged down to the floor neck first before he sent the rest of the scrap metal that had been floating idly to cocoon you.

“Mother Miranda’s gonna love you.”

He laughed, and you cursed at yourself for finding that laugh so attractive as he towered over you. As that last sheet covered your face, you let yourself go, slipping into a deep sleep.

***

Your back hurt. Your wrists hurt. Your head hurt. Everything hurt. But the silver lining on the situation was that you weren’t trapped in a metal cocoon any longer. Instead you were lying on a stone floor, wrists handcuffed together. A discreet tug while you pretended to still be asleep revealed that they were attached to a short chain that was connected to a loop on the floor. Regardless of how strong you were, in your current condition there was no way you could even make an attempt to get yourself free. Even if there weren’t people in the room.

You could hear their voices in the background, and it was a struggle to sort your thoughts so that you could tune into their voices. It had to be about you, and you needed to know what they planned to do with you.

There was no fear, it would only make you panic. Instead there was just determination, a need to survive even if there wasn’t much in your life worth it. Spite maybe? You weren’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of dying alone in a village full of corpses.

“The mortal is of no real use to anyone else. And my daughters do so love. . . entertaining foreigners.”

Red flag. Hearing that in any other scenario would have been a pleasant thing, but given the context of the situation and everything you had been through so far, you were sure that whatever the woman meant by that could not be a good thing. And if those daughters were still alive when the rest of the village had been subjected to either vicious deaths or being slowly and painfully turned into a creature that you were very sure could be considered werewolves.

“Furthermore, I can assure you if you entrust the mortal to House Dimitrescu, my daughters and I shall deliver to you the finest cups of their slaughtered blood.”

Yup, entertaining those daughters was definitely not a good thing.

You pried your eyes open, almost wishing you hadn’t when you saw the creepiest doll in the world standing in front of you. She was about three feet tall and wearing a wedding dress that was admittedly well-crafted. You almost twisted to kick it out of reflex, especially as it started moving like it was alive. A hunchback came in from the side to crowd your personal space, and you gagged against the strong smell of fish. You had smelled actual dead fish that were not as fishy. What did this man do all day?

The doll roughly pushed him out of the way, complaining in a high pitched voice, “Out of the way ugly! I wanna see- oh!”

“You mean-” The man who had captured you started, being interrupted by the doll’s excited dancing and announcement that you had woken as well as the hunchback’s general groaning.

To your left you spied your backpack, just out of reach. “Y-you mean,” he tried again. “Both of you shut the fuck up!”

Well that did it. The doll went to sit in the lap of what could only be her puppeteer, a woman in funeral garb, the only skin exposed being her pale hands. The hunchback shambled off to the side, standing behind the pew where the only human passing man in the entire village sat.

“You mean you’ll screw around with them in private, and where’s the fun in that?”

You looked around, taking note of the woman who had been speaking. Dimitrescu. You could practically feel your nosebleed coming on. She was the tallest woman you had ever seen, and the most beautiful too. Her skin was so pale, her lips a deep red. She looked like a vampire, but given what you had seen so far and her talk of delivering your blood to the other woman in cups was making you think that maybe she didn’t just look like one.

Her name was ringing bells in your head. Dimitrescu. Where had you heard that before?

“Give them to me,“ the man started again, “and I’ll put on a show everyone can enjoy.”

Why me? This was definitely punishment for something.

“So gauche-”

“Hey I know you!” you interjected, addressing the tall woman and interrupting her as the realisation hit you.

They all stopped, turning to face you properly for the first time. Dimitrescu looked you up and down, seemingly regarding you as something beneath her. You quickly came to the conclusion that maybe interrupting her was a mistake, but you didn’t care. There was still no fear, even in the face of a giantess.

“Dimitrescu. That’s the name on that super rare wine in the really pretty bottle. They don’t distribute it anymore.”

She continued to look down at you, which admittedly was easy for her to do given height. “And how would the likes of you have tasted the Sanguinis Virginis?”

“Some rich guy I met at a bar gave it to me in exchange for. . . It doesn’t matter. But. . . it stands for Maiden’s Blood right?” You froze, the dots practically connecting themselves. “Oh my god. I think I’m gonna be sick.”

You leaned over to the side, ready to vomit. You knew there was something wrong with that wine. Your mood was not helped by the shrieking laughter that the doll was emitting at your expense. The man, to his credit, had the decency to wrinkle his nose in disgust at the prospect of blood filled wine. You had drank someones blood. Who had she been? Had they tortured her? Had she died in agony? You didn’t know. You didn’t really want to know.

You looked back up towards the altar. The woman standing at it had looked as familiar as Dimitrescu’s name had sounded. You had seen her portrait in many of the homes. And thinking back, it had definitely been her that had killed that villager when Luiza’s house had burned down. Your heart tugged painfully at the thought of Elena, at how you had come so close to saving her before the floor had collapsed under her and she had told you to escape this village and run.

This woman was Mother Miranda, and somehow she was the cause of all of this. Still no fear, but hatred bubbled up in your heart.

“I’ve heard all of your arguments. Some of you were less persuasive than others, but. . .” She looked at the man, who had now put his hammer on the ground, leaning forward as he waited for her answer, “Heisenberg, the mortal’s fate is in your hands.”

He tipped his hat towards her, grinning.

Dimitrescu got to her feet.

“Mother Miranda I must protest! Heisenberg is but a child, and his devotion to you is questionable.” She started walking towards you. “Give the mortal to me, and I will ensure that they are ready.”

Heisenberg angrily got to his feet, stalking towards her. You had to hand it to him, even with his telekinesis, he must have been fearless to confront Dimitrescu when he was half her size.

He held out his hand as he approached her, summoning the hammer to him. You were beginning to think that something was wrong with you, given that the action had your gut coiling again.

“Shut your damn hole and don’t be a sore loser! Go find your food somewhere else.”

“Quiet now child-”

“Well if it were up to me-” you started.

“It isn’t!” Both of them shouted down at you in unison, though Dimitrescu put significantly more venom into it.

“Well please spare me the family drama when I get enough of that at home.”

Heisenberg actually laughed at that, some of the tension leaving him. Dimitrescu however, looked incensed.

“How dare you! Do you have any idea-”

“If you’re going to ask me if I know who you are, we already established that I did. I just don’t care. And I’m not afraid of a single one of you!”

Heisenberg let out a full belly laugh at that. At which part of the statement he found to be hilarious, you weren’t sure. At least someone had found you funny, and you never wanted that laugh of his to stop. You could listen to it all day.

“SILENCE!” Mother Miranda shouted over them, intervening before someone - probably you - got hurt. “My decision is final, there will be no argument. Remember from whence you came!”

“A megabitch apparently,” you muttered under your breath.

One look at Heisenberg told you that he definitely heard that too. And as he smiled at the statement, you knew in your bones that Dimitrescu was right. His loyalty to Mother Miranda wasn’t just questionable, he hated her. You could feel it. Why though, was anyone’s guess. Though to be fair, she didn’t exactly scream motherly love.

Briefly, you wondered why someone with his abilities didn’t just finish her off and get it over with. But her words, reminding them to remember where they came from. . . she must have been very powerful if she could scold a nine foot tall vampire queen and a cowboy with the powers of Magneto into submission.

Dimitrescu moved back, but Heisenberg moved forward to take up all your attention. Those horrible monsters swarmed in as he did so, clinging to the walls, the scaffolding and leaning over the balconies, snarling and howling as he did so.

“Lycans and Gentleman, we thank you for waiting.”

I fucking knew they were werewolves.

“And now let the games begin!” He leaned down towards you, coming in at eye level. “Lets see what you’re really made of.”

You just smiled at him, deciding to let that beast under your skin that was making heat coil in your gut out to play. “I don’t suppose you’re single.”

His grin dropped off his face, and something like genuine surprise flitted across it. But instead of answering he raised his hammer above his head.

“Oh shit-”

He swung it down, cracking the loop that was keeping you chained to the floor. Lycans were beginning to crowd in. And Heisenberg, he was beginning to countdown from ten. You looked to your left again, spotting the hole in the floor just beyond your bag. You darted towards it, picking up your bag as you did so and turning to the lords one last time. You brought your hands to your face and kissed your palm, blowing it towards Heisenberg. He stuttered in his countdown, just enough to be barely noticeable. You wondered if it was in confusion or if it was because maybe, just maybe, you had flustered him ever so slightly. You vowed that you would make it out alive and find out.

Then you stuck up your two middle fingers, and jumped down the hole.

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

Kira (10)

CHAPTER 10: A Flower in Green

Loki x fem!Reader (Kira)

Series: Will contain fluff, smut, bloodshed, violence, anxiety, tears and the cries of my wilted soul.

Chapter content: the good, the bad and the ugly. Yup. I did all of that.

Warnings: I might have added someone *whispers* reeeally hot!

Word count: I want to live in a quiet place, have a nice job, fulfill all my passions and have a yard full of animals that come over to eat what I cook.

MASTERLIST & Taglist in bio, my love

"It's okay. You can say Stark has too much money."

Loki does not turn at the voice but the familiarity makes him smile nonetheless.

He catches the bartender's eyes in front of him. "Amarula Cream for the lady. Make it the traditional way if you can, please."

Solaris forces out a chuckle. "Really? Just because I'm African, I'd like an Amarula?"

Loki smirks and turns towards the woman, leaning on the blue-lit bar surface. "So you don't like it, Solaris?"

Solaris presses her lips together to suppress one delicious grin forming up to her cheeks. She mirrors Loki and takes the cold glass filled with creamy liqueur waiting for her.

"Shut up and let me enjoy insulting you," she mentions softly, sipping her drink and smacking her lips.

Loki observes the crowd that has gathered in the open air in the back of the villa that is a temporary abode for Stark for the expo. Lights are set in lamps which adorn the trees lining up the lawn, lighting up the area with the softest hue. The bar sits by the corner away from the stairs coming down from the villa. Despite the supposed season, the air seems colder than usual but the company is warm.

"What," he finally states, sweeter than expected, feeling Solaris' eyes burning on his side, "do you want?"

Solaris doesn't even blink as she's watching him with a tilted head.

"Where is she?" Her voice is nearly a whisper.

He simply shrugs.

She frowns.

"Did you leave her alone, Loki?"

Loki turns to face her. "I'm sure she'll be fine, darling."

"Mm-hmm," Solaris nods her head, taking a generous sip of her drink. "I'm sure she'll be fine. But what about you?"

Loki blinks. "What about me?"

She wants to laugh out loud and smack Loki lightly in the face but she holds on to those emotions for future, downing her drink all at once. "Doesn't matter."

"So..." Loki continues, gesturing the bartender for another round for the lady, "did you meet him?"

"Who?"

Loki licks his lips, preparing himself to say the name he knows Solaris has an aversion to lately.

"Nakia."

And he's a second late.

Loki can feel her freeze just for a second, the playful smile disappearing from her eyes as she composes herself to turn around and face the source of the voice.

T'Challa stands in a glorious purple suit with the embellishments of the land he rules decorating the fabric with love.

Love.

That's not exactly the emotion Loki would think of when he sees the king of Wakanda freeze where he stands, his eyes searching for something familiar when he sees Solaris.

"Nakia I..." He knows not what to say.

"Solaris," she helps him. "My name is Solaris," she softly declares with the slightest smile on her lips before turning to the king's confidant. "Okoye," she greets.

"Umngcatshi," Okoye acknowledges, making Solaris feel a cold wave go down her spine.

"Okoye," the king barely lets his lax voice scold his right hand, sensing old emotions surfacing between the two women. "Ndidinga ukuthetha naye..."

Whatever he says does not seem to sit well with Okoye, who bores her eyes into T'Challa. "...yedwa."

.

"Curse you-ah freaking...stupid...arms! Ugh!"

I give up.

Your arms ache with the fruitless effort of trying to get to the back of your dress right.

Stupid stupid dress. Arrggh!

You sigh and let your arms drop down on the sink in the empty bathroom of the villa.

Everything was perfect. Your hair, makeup; you were even wearing shoes that matched the outfit! Boy, you were feeling confident till a woman standing outside the villa pointed out that the back of your dress had hidden protrusions that were supposed to be tied at the back. Only if you had some sort of help.

"Solaris!" you whispered to yourself with relief, picking up the phone and feeling your body jump when the door to the bathroom opened.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," a voice came from behind you, "I should have knocked."

Deep, clear, sweet and definitely belonging to a male.

"Y-yeah I'll just be a minute," you announce softly, easing the shiver in your voice before whispering to yourself, "just need to figure out how to tie a knot without dislocating my arm."

You can see the reflection of the door nearly turning behind you, stopping right before it can click close.

"If it's okay," you hear the densely luxurious voice again, "is there anything I can help you with?"

You think about the offer for a few seconds before internally staring at your ego and thinking about going through the torture of having to bend your arms again.

"Yes, please," you blurt out before your brain can process, "but before that, how good are you at tying a knot."

"Hmm," you hear the man behind you, somehow relieved that the small bathroom space is saving you the embarrassment of looking him in the eye through all this, just giving him barely any room outside the door to have a view of your back, "does bow-tieing gift boxes count as a good knotting skill?"

.

"You know I was thinking how will I find Loki in this crowd but then I suddenly see the most heated corner and thought to myself 'why did I even think it was possible for you to get lost in a crowd'."

Loki has to roll his eyes as he raises his glass of soda just a few inches.

"I apologise if I'm stealing your thunder, Stark," he spews ever so gently.

Tony raises his brow at the cocktail of modesty and high attitude that Loki serves him with a smirk.

"Were you drinking something stronger than soda I would have felt the need to tell you not to shit where you eat but..."

Loki chuckles.

"...clearly it is not my day to tell you that, is it?"

Loki follows his gaze towards the lone steps under a tree where T'Challa and Solaris- Nakia- are having a word.

"They look good together," Loki mutters- surprising both him and Stark, neither of them giving away much except for blinking at the sudden soft outburst.

"Yeah," Stark shrugged, "They do look together."

"Idiots," they hear from their side, turning to watch Okoye judging them, "idiots are running this world."

"Well, I agree," Stark raised his glass of orange juice to her before chugging the cold, pulpy drink down.

"Wonderful party, Mr Stark."

A new voice greets the host and all three of them turn to watch the greeter.

A man stands at a respectful distance from Stark in a tuxedo, wearing a soft smile, both on his lips and in his eyes. None of the audience seems to recognise this tall man with a perfect physique and clearly a really good taste in clothes.

"Thank you, man I don't really seem to recall," Stark responds, narrowing his eyes at the guy still smiling at him, only this time his perfect teeth shine through.

"William Billy Russo," he introduces himself, bringing forward his hand for a shake, "owner of Anvil Corp."

Loki's ears flare up at the name and suddenly he is all interested in Billy Russo.

The man has dark eyes, caramel but way too cooked for the light to reflect back. His ebony hair is pushed back with a generous amount of gel with a soft cut at the sides. His stubble is clean, the jawlines making it all the more better to look at and suddenly Loki feels the inception of some unspoken curiosity tickling his nerves.

"The company that deals in private security, isn't it?"

Billy's head is angled slightly upward. Only his eyes move to meet Loki's before his hand presents itself to Loki.

"You must be Loki Odinson."

"I prefer Loki."

"Of course," Billy corrects himself, "You have made quite a name for yourself, your grace."

"Woah," Stark mutters while Loki gives him a wry smile.

"Like I said," Loki asserts with great poise, "I only prefer Loki. Any person deserving to be royalty is probably in the corner behind us," he indirectly gestures at T'Challa, who is now standing alone as Solaris comes back to the bar to see what the group meeting is about.

"Solaris, I presume," Billy is the first to address the lady, giving out his hand for her, already earning raised brows from the gentlemen.

"Billy Russo," she smiles at the man as he kisses her hand, "I am charmed that you even know my name."

"And I am charmed that I get to be the name you remember," he replies.

"Okay," Tony breaks the flirty air, picking up a glass of champagne, "Hozier is in the house. He is about to start getting medieval lovers crazy so I'd rather be with my girlfriend than in the company filled with-" he looks at all the men around him- "sophisticated testosterones. Let's just leave it for another day. Or lifetime."

Stark walks away and the strums of guitars can be heard on the stage by the end of the lawn with a decent space ahead of it for people who are interested in enjoying the music with dance. A couple of them are already on that glowing platform, waiting for the singer to begin.

"I wonder what Stark did to get Hozier to perform at this gathering," Loki mutters to Solaris, who is facing the stairs with wide eyes right now. "He went all out, didn't he?"

Solaris' lips go wide along with her eyes. "Looks like not only Stark went all out."

Loki turns to look at her and then follow her gaze to the villa's stairs, feeling everything around him stop when he notices the figure standing on top right when the music begins.

.

I still watch you when you're groovin'

As if through water from the bottom of a pool

Stars have been brought down from the sky to be embellished in the green fabric that covers your body. Going down your shoulder, covering your arms with a God-like grace, laying bare the middle of your chest as the neckline plunges further than you would like it on any normal day. A slit till up your thigh lets the chilly wind tease the flowing fabric around your legs while your shoulders, waist and the very tips of this royal green is kissed by tiny suns trailing their way down to the slit.

You're movin' without movin'

And when you move, I'm moved

You are a shimmering delight for anyone who sets their eyes on you; no matter which angle they look from. Your hair sits on one side in the front to let the bare back with just a sweet little bow on the upper back play with imagination.

You are a call to motion

There, all of you a verb in perfect view

The eyes that are looking at you with a lingering gaze are riling up your anxiety and you realise you are right in the middle of the marble steps, feeling the nausea when you start questioning if you can really do it. You begin scanning the crowd for anything familiar. Anyone at all.

And then you see him.

.

Like Jonah on the ocean

When you move, I'm moved

"So she is the one I had the privilege of helping."

Loki hears Billy but he is not swayed by his words because those smaragdines are stuck on you. Only you. No corner of his imagination could have thought how stunning you could look when you willingly wanted to put in the effort. And here he stands watching you become the gravity of this place as every human seems to centre themselves around you tonight, bringing out a burning sensation right in his chest.

When you move

I'm put to mind of all that I wanna be

He can see you look at him, watch how your chest rises and falls in one long moment and your shoulders relax. Because of me? He wonders. You pass him a smile and a piece of his soul seems to melt; he blinks. And just in that blink he watches something expected and yet unacceptable by his heart.

When you move

I could never define all that you are to me

.

You have been walking down the stairs in the block heels of gold that Gustav had been kind to add to your costume. Your eyes are still stuck on Loki, blinking away once when you notice Solaris wave at you and wink, gesturing at how you look gorgeous, catalysing the heat rising at the back of your neck. You do not realise when you've reached the end of the steps.

"May I have this dance?"

So move me, baby

Shake like the bough of a willow tree

You don't want to look away from those green eyes shining under the soft lights but the voice forces you to look at dark embers waiting right in front of you.

"Uhh..." You are lost for words

"As a token of gratitude for helping you earlier?" The man smiles.

You do it naturally

Move me, baby

It takes you a second before you are able to recognise that deep voice and can now finally place a handsome face to it.

Oh well, one dance won't hurt would it?

He already has his hand out. You take it a little hesitantly.

"Don't worry," that soft face says with a smile, his thumb caressing the back of your hand as it guides you to the platform where other people are already swaying to the tunes, "I won't bite."

I hope so.

You let him take you on the floor, but your body certainly isn't ready when he wraps his hand around your bare back as it flinches at his touch.

"I don't really know how to dance," you partially lie to cover the jerk your body feels on the foreign touch.

"I'll lead the way," the man smirks down at you, taking your other hand in his, "you just have to follow me."

 You are the rite of movement

Its reasonin' made lucid and cool

You can feel your muscles twitch. But those strong arms are already flowing, taking them with you, making you move as they move.

.

"What are you waiting for?"

I know it's no improvement

When you move, I move

Loki snaps out of a self-constructed trance where Billy isn't holding you so close to him. He watches Solaris look at him with mischief in her eyes. No, he thinks to himself, you don't get to do that.

You're less Polunin leapin'

"Whatever are you talking about?"

She sighs.

Or Fred Astaire in sequins

Honey, you, you're Atlas in his sleepin'

"Loki, I think we can both agree she is not comfortable in the arms of a stranger," Solaris comments, making Loki shrug.

"So? What am I supposed to do? Swoop her in my arms? I'm sure she's adult enough to handle it on her own. Believe me," Loki asserts, stopping himself from looking in your direction, instead, turning to the bar, nursing his glass of soda, his thumb feeling the edge of the glass.

And when you move, I'm moved

Solaris shifts a little to Loki's side, her voice nearly a whisper. "Kira is at an event with the highest dignitaries where she represents Sun Corp, Loki."

When you move

I can recall somethin' that's gone from me.

The movements of his thumb stop

When you move

Honey, I'm put in awe of somethin' so flawed and free

"She represents you tonight. Do you really think she is in a position to say no to anyone who approaches her?"

So move me, baby

Without an invitation, a graphic picture enters Loki's mind and the glass in his hand bears the impact- having developed a crack right where Loki's thumb was a second ago.

Shake like the bough of a willow tree

You do it naturally

Move me, baby

.

Shit, shit, shit.

So move me, baby

Like you've nothin' left to prove

And nothin' to lose

Move me, baby

Your nervousness is showing in your eyes, and you have an idea why, which is why you're keeping your face low, hidden from prying eyes. Too many eyes on you. Too much pressure to not fall down on the floor face first. You have begun sweating. This is bad.

Ooh, ooh, ooh

Oh baby, oh baby

As if to accelerate the anxiousness building up inside your throbbing heart, you feel the man leave your waist to make you twirl. 

Move like grey skies

Move like a bird of paradise

Before you can even open your mouth or your brain to absorb what's happening, you are moving a three-sixty, looking for some kind of support to stop your spin right when your chest lands smack on Loki's.

Move like an odd sight come out at night

The song reaches the highest pitch right at your contact. You are impressed by the timing, no doubt, and by your boss' skill to make an entry.

"You all right?" He looks into your Y/E/C eyes, looking for honest answers.

Move me, baby

Shake like the bough of a willow tree

"I am now." You don't know where the authority comes from but you don't let the rush you're feeling dilute.

You do it naturally

Move me, baby

You don't even realise his hold on your waist, never touching your bare body until his fingers are holding yours.

"Would you like to-" Loki's words are hesitant.

"Yes, I'd love to dance with you," you reply before he can change his mind. "But I must warn you I'm not very good at it."

So move me, baby

Like you've nothin' left to lose

Loki smiles at you and all tied up muscles inside you release themselves one by one.

"Just move as you please," he assures you, "and I'll follow."

And nothin' to prove

Move me, baby

And so you do. Oh, the grace that befalls on the floor is a one time wonder that people witness. The softness of the motion between the two of you, the effortlessness of the way the arms glide over the other's, the heat that flows through your body, being greedily devoured by the envious eyes witnessing the two of you till the song recedes and stops and you are left breathless and glowing in Loki's arms.

So move me, baby

Shake like the bough of a willow tree

Billy watches you two from where he stands and smiles before leaving the floor. Solaris watches the smile quite carefully, not sure what to make of it for she is distracted by the vibrations you and Loki are giving off tonight.

You do it naturally

Move me, baby

.

"I didn't know you could dance so well!"

Compliments from Pepper and Solaris are flowing like a monsoon river while you stand in between them with heated cheeks, trying to find some way to be thankful but all you can do is chuckle bashfully.

"I didn't know Loki could dance!" Tony quips, taking away Pepper's empty glass for champagne, doing the same for you and Solaris.

Neither did I, apparently.

His name makes your eyes scan the crowd for him, wondering where he went right after the dancing stopped. And while doing so, you spot a little girl standing by the bar trying to get the bartender's attention.

You excuse yourself from the company to walk towards her and politely ask her what she wants.

"Orange juice," she replies with the most unadulterated curiosity.

"Orange juice for the young lady, please," you tell the bartender, watching the little one's eyes light up.

"With ice!" She jumps up and down.

"Now, now. We can't have ice unless your mother or father allows it, can we?" You ask her.

She thinks for a moment before turning to look to her left. You follow her gaze and see a beautiful Japanese woman smiling delicately at the two of you.

She shakes her head and speaks something only her daughter understands, who turns back to you. "No ice," she says.

Picking up the small glass from the bar, you carefully hand it to the girl, who thanks you and runs to her mother, who bows to you to thank you for your kindness and you mirror her for her gratitude.

Not another moment passes when you spot Loki's back at the corner of the villa with another man. There's no thinking twice and you're already walking on the little gravel path on the boundaries of the lawn to go to him.

"It is unwise of you to do so, brother," you hear from that direction, unable to make out the features of the other man in the dark.

"Oh, please do tell," Loki's voice never rises it's usual pitch, "what else is wrong of me. Apart from being adopted from the slum of your father's most hated enemy."

A drum sounds in your heart at the words and your pace slows down but never stops.

"Brother please," the other man is stressing, "this is madness. Come back to us. And father will take care-"

"Do not."

The weight in Loki's words throws a rumble inside you and this time you stop; just five steps short of where he and his brother stands.

"Don't you dare complete that sentence if you have a sliver of empathy for your brother, Thor. Don't you dare say another word if you truly think of yourself in any way human or somewhere close to it."

You feel your feet sink an inch into the ground at the harshness coming out of Loki. It is just a glimpse but the darkness of his emeralds is hard to miss even in such weak light reaching this unlit corner.

"Leave him be, Thor," another aged voice comes from the dark, making the buffed up figure of 'Thor' move aside to give place to a much shorter one- with an air so daunting you can feel it up to your throat, "this scum born from dirt does not know the privilege he was bestowed when I carried him from soil."

One step into the light from the shadows and you watch as the part where an eye should be, glimmers in gold in one single patch while the other is...blank. the wrinkles on his face tell his age but there are no emotions. He is expressionless for his son.

"There is nothing wrong in Thor saying you will be taken care of," the man announces quite close to Loki's face and can't help but see your boss' hand twitch and curl up much to your internal fear. "Because, boy, you will be taken care of once you step foot back in Asgard. Broken and disarmed of anything precious to you for the good of everyone living in this goddamn world."

The words are spit on his face. The man walks away and Thor follows but not before he sees you standing there, your eyes only set on his brother's back.

You take one step forward. Then another.

"Loki?" You whisper despite your heart's frail attempts to stop you from doing so.

You feel his head rise just a noticeable bit and your body wants to take a u-turn and dash away but your dull reflexes just freeze you there and then.

It is hard to make out at first but the moment you register his erratic breaths your feet move towards him.

"Lo-"

"Walk. Away."

His whisper is ice burning straight through your heart, breaking your resolve bit by bit. But somewhere some intuitive part of you can smell the fear surrounding him.

"I can't," you admit.

Not after...not after last night. You take another step but a firm hand stops you.

"I'd leave him be if I were you," Thor gesticulates at you, his eyes turning with a single shade of diluted but subtle animosity. Loki is already walking away as Thor speaks. You want to follow him but the grip on you is hard if not abusive. "Believe me, woman," he continues with a sigh, "he does not deserve the love and compassion that is given to him."

.

The walk back to the chalet is tedious. Not because the road is long but because of Loki's inability to breathe right now. He barely manages to get the key in the door's lock to open it and shove himself inside. Sweat marks his brows and his heart burns because of the speed it is beating at. Water. He heads straight to the kitchenette from the door to pick up the nearest bottle only to find it empty. Curses fly out of his mouth as he leaves the bottle to roll on the slab before it slips by the edge shatters on the ground. Tears blur his eyes. He tries to wipe them away but they just do not stop.

It burns. Everything burns. Inside out.

His bowtie is loosened when he is in the nearest room- your room- making his way to the bathroom to get some water inside and over him when nausea starts hitting him. He is on his knees when the bathroom door opens, opening the toilet cover and seat to regurgitate every bit of sickness he is feeling on every level.

He can't take it anymore. It is too much. Another rush hits his throat and he bleches it out, the tears turning his eyes red. He wants to move hands to help himself but they're numb along with his legs.

Why.

Heavy clouds mark his mind, the sweat beads being the rainstorm.

Why am I even alive right now?

There is a slight shift in his weight, unknown wetness around his neck. He is wondering about the source when the prison that is his collar opens up for him to let in as much air as he can.

"Yes, breathe. It's okay. Breathe." Your voice.

It's you. Kira.

"Here, let me take care of your hair." Your voice. Why does it feel so good? Like a Kalimba being played on a sunny day in the mountains. He can feel your fingers run through his hair, catching all the strands with too much affection before tying them up. "Here," you say softly, almost killing him with all this kindness, "let it all out. It'll help you. I promise, it will."

He shifts towards the bowl feeling your hands ever so gently run up and down his back. All the heat gathered up is slowly phasing away and the sweat beads grow bigger, trickling his forehead to the tip of his nose before falling down. Another filth-ridden rush comes up his throat and he lets it all out. Cold air rushes all over him. The sweat is soothed down. His heartbeat relaxes from the rush, his insides feeling four levels lighter. Oh how heavenly it feels to breathe normally again! Or maybe it's your touch. Your hands resting on his arms, leaving this breathy lightness wherever they have touched him.

How is it possible? He has to ask himself.

"Wash your face, I'll get you a change of your clothes," you state.

Loki is in no condition to argue and so he does what he thinks should be done, not what you told him to. Getting up with whatever strength he has left he turns to the sink to wash his face and rinse his mouth. The air that leaves his lungs rots with the stench of his burning insides but it feels good to let it out in any way. The towels are soft and help him neutralise the harshness left on his skin.

Loki's clothes for the night- his black pyjama and shirt are waiting for him on your bed but you are nowhere to be seen and he would drown himself in that sink before calling for you. The tux is thrown in the laundry box by the corner of the room and the cool clothes feel so much better on his skin. With a relieved sigh that escapes his mouth, he settles on the bed and falls asleep.

.

The nightmare comes again. One filled with tortures and screams, blood etching his skin and claws digging deep into him while he cries for help. He sees himself fall, wake up in freezing coldness, die more than once after.

But this time he wakes up before he can see the most barbaric climax.

The heavy breaths are silent this time when his eyes see the unfamiliar surroundings around him. He is not home. He is somewhere else. He is...

Kira.

You sleep on the settee by the wall next to the bed. Back into your PJs. It comforts him- because you finally looks comfortable, snoring lightly as you sleep without a care in the world. How he wishes he could have an ounce of what you have right now.

Loki turns where he lays to face you, resting his head on his shoulder as he watches peace glide right from your face. He does not even know when there is a smile brewing over his lips. The arm your head rests on stretches out, nearly halfway to Loki, your fingers curled downwards; he knows this is going to ache in the morning.

In this moment, he does not think.

It just happens.

The hand under his head slips away and reaches under your hand. He does not dare touch you. Not yet. You are too pure- is what he thinks. But his heart aches for the healing touch you left on him tonight. Never in a million years did he think you would come back for him, rescue him from this darkness that has been building in his heart for so long. With that thought, his fingers rise up and touch yours, feeling the soulful cold on his tips from yours along with a buzz that lights up his insides.

Of all things, he thinks to himself, why did you have to be my cure?

He feels your fingers twitch, pausing for a second before feeling them lower onto his, delighting his heart beyond recognition.

Sleep crawls into the room, taking her sweet time to let Loki be lightened by your touch before she makes his eyes heavy after aeons, bringing well-deserved tiredness with her.

With one thought he floats into a dreamy sleep; this time with Y/E/C eyes smiling and dancing amongst the stars.

Pure.

[a-bear-at-hogwarts]

answer everything on the talk about the muse asks uwu

LEE I HOPE YOU KNOW I WOULD DIE FOR YOU thank you so much oh my g o d Literally every ask; all about Dahlia Goldman!! :>!!

🍯 for a food headcanon

Dahlia is allergic to a substance called theobromine!! Usually the biggest trouble it causes her is chocolate, as anything much stronger than a white to very milky usually has enough to cause her trouble, but it would take an astounding amount to actually kill her - same story with caffeine!! It’s linked to how her biology is affected by the Sítheach curse, giving her physical traits usually associated with bears

🥛for a drink headcanon

Dahlia cannot stand pumpkin juice -  it’s not the taste or anything, but it just feels so slimy and pulpy and gross and she absolutely loathes it

🐢 for a mental health headcanon

Dahlia’s environment growing up instilled in her the belief that she can’t fully trust anyone - not her friends, not her family, nobody. Her heart is open and she grows to care for people almost too fast, but she just can’t shake the voice in the back of her mind that’s a constant reminder she doesn’t know for certain that she’s safe around these people. In large part this is due to her mother -  from childhood she enforced that people hid things, and that could be highly dangerous.  In addition, her father was killed by a man he had thought was his friend - in actuality he’d been a sleeper agent for the Death Eaters. 

Knowing everything she does, it takes her a long time to relinquish anything that can’t be reversed.

🦄 for a physical health headcanon

Okay. The Goldman’s?? Buff as hell. 

From the fact that martial combat is something Sítheach legacies are raised into so that they can defend themselves, to the specific Goldman wariness that encourages the family to maintain their physical condition, to the fact that the curse increases their mass both muscular and otherwise in order to make the transition from human to beast less straining on the body, its a rare Goldman that doesn’t look like an extra from a Viking documentary. In addition, there aren’t many who don’t have a story-map of scars across their skin from various misadventures.

⌛for a sleep headcanon

Up until year three, Dahlia was trying her very hardest to just not sleep. There were too many people around for her to risk transformation, and she just plain didn’t want to. Why should she sleep and risk all the negative that came with it?

But then Talbott appeared, and gave her an option - and she became an animagus.

It was such a huge risk, considering Sítheach legacies were completely outlawed from becoming animagi centuries ago. There would have been no trial for her if she had been found out. But for the chance to rest peacefully, to sleep through the night without the gnawing fear that she would have hurt people or destroyed the life she’d built in the magical world, for the way it muffled the Call to the quietest whisper at the edge of her consciousness - it was more than worth it to her. And she gained a confident along the way :>!!

💕 for a love headcanon

Oh What a disaster she is. On one hand, Dahlia is a master of under-the-table flirting that leaves you breathless and asking questions. If she’s interested romantically, she lets you know in actions rather than words - singing a specific song in your general area, dressing slightly differently around you, making special note and adjusting accordingly. But the second you actually do something overt in response?? An absolute mess

All of a sudden words aren’t working and she can’t look anywhere without flutters - she has no idea what to do with her hands, and often seems almost scared to touch whoever she’s interacting with even if she was holding their hand or dancing with them only a moment ago

(remind me to talk about my ideas for how she and Merula first begin to realise their feelings because it’s a thing I wanna expand on :>!!!)

💣 for a stress headcanon

Unfortunately Dahlia’s approach to stress is pretty similar to her approach to most emotions she doesn’t want - repression. Just ignore it and it’ll go away eventually!

When she can’t deal with a buzzing mind, too full of thoughts and worries, she does something until she’s exhausted - fistfights the dummies in the duelling room, runs until she can’t anymore, anything really. Just so long as it drives her out of her head.

😵 for a sickness headcanon

Oh Dahlia is almost always in the hospital wing - before she learnt episkey, she was a regular due to her constantly getting scrapes and bruises she just paid no attention to at all until the teachers forced her to get them looked at. She doesn’t get viruses or bacterial illnesses very often, but when she does it’s denial city - what do you mean I can’t go to class it’s just a runny nose and a cough I’m fine

🤲 for a religious headcanon

The Goldman’s aren’t religious per se, but there are some folk-superstitions that stick. There’s a horseshoe over their door, and lavender in the pillows - and not one of them will ever set foot in a faerie circle.

🏡 for a home headcanon

When they first bought their property, the family house was in shambles. Dahlia’s mother and father worked on it together, her mother doing the physical placing of new beams and other physical elements while her father handled the magical parts. It became sort of a patchwork tower, adding bits as they needed them - it doesn’t make sense per se, but it’s still home. And at the end of the day, it was the only place Dahlia felt secure for the longest time. 

🍬 for a family headcanon

Mama Goldman is a 7′2 absolute beast of a lady who can and will kick your ass if you give her reason to. She’s known as one of the most dangerous members of the Sítheach legacy, constantly alert and never unarmed.

She’s also the dork who looked at a florists son, a big nerd who would Not Stop Rambling to the pretty and ripped lady who agreed to go get coffee with him about how muggle understanding of plant families could influence potion making and thought “Oh I can’t not marry him”

Dahlia is very much a mamma’s girl in a lot of ways

💼 for a work headcanon

In the future, Dahlia finds employment as an instructor for an elective course available to aurors in training! Hand to hand, escapism and muggle interactions are all handled in her classroom ^-^

⛈️ for a sadness headcanon

Okay so

At the beginning of the canon storyline, it’s been two years since Jacob has vanished. The likelihood of missing persons returning to their families decreases by the hour - something the Goldman’s would definitely know.

Dahlia believes Jacob is dead all the way up until he appears again. They all do. They buried an empty grave for him, they mourned, and as the years passed they moved on. 

It utterly destroys Dahlia to know Jacob is alive, for two reasons; the first is that she stopped looking for him, they all did - during her investigation of the vaults all she was searching for was a body to bury. The second is that he reappears right as there’s strife amongst the family that he knows nothing about. Hell the summer before he’s found she buries her uncle.All she knows is that she couldn’t handle mourning him again.

😡 for an anger headcanon

Anger isn’t something Dahlia feels like she’s allowed. It’s too dangerous, too much of a risk for her to hold on to something like that because anger leads to adrenaline, and adrenaline leads to the change, and the change leads to bloodshed-

but oh, sometimes she just can’t help it.  There’s so much anger that simmers below her constraints, bitterness at how she’s treated by ministry and adults and frustration at herself for her fear and closed-off nature. Sometimes she just can’t bottle it, and when that happens she usually takes it out of a training dummy. Better than taking it out on a person.

💩 for a ridiculous headcanon

The real reason Dahlia never actually met her DADA teacher before Rakepick was because it always took place during the time of the day she was most tired, so she would just sleep through it every time. 

What? She’s got teachers permission and already knew basically everything being taught. It was fiiiiiiiiiine

🌼 for a happiness headcanon

In quiet moments alone in her room, Dahlia enjoys playing the guitar. She can play half a dozen love ballads, a handful of old folk songs, a couple popular pop songs. It’s what she does when she feels safe to lose herself.

After a couple of years of friendship with Talbott, he’s the first person she feels like she can play in front of while he’s visiting over the summer. He’s quiet as she does so, usually absorbed in whatever else it is that he’s got in his hands, most often a piece of writing. It’s a part of their mutual understanding that they don’t interrupt each other, but that they’re simply content in the company.It’s nice, after spending so long afraid of contact, to just share one of the tiniest parts of yourself that never ordinarily sees the light of day

[icenineporcupine]

“Lonicera Paellax”

Ignis/Aranea (FFXV) | 3.2k words | I’ll tag it M but it doesn’t really deserve it

Authors Notes: Oh god, there wasn’t enough content for this ship so I made some??? Have 3,000 words of Ignis over-intellectualizing the entire universe, and Aranea being her generally sassy self. Pre-Altissia. Canon compliant where there’s actually canon to be had. Vague musings of Iggy’s backstory. Allusions to Aranea/Ravus. 

“So what is this plant we’re hunting for, again?”

“Lonicera Paellax.”

“Great. Got anything more helpful than that, Ivory Tower?” Aranea’s voice was a taunting barb a few paces behind him as they picked their way through the beach rose and scrub pine of the Vannath sea-cliffs. “I’m not writing a dissertation. I’d just like to be able to spot the damn things before I’ve crushed them all to hell. These boots aren’t exactly ballet shoes, you know.”    

Ignis smirked. Of course he new that the scientific name was useless in their current context, but he liked the sound of the words… and maybe the sound of her frustration.

“Colloquially, it’s better known as the Dawnshy Honeysuckle,” he clarified. “It’s a small flower of white, blush, or yellow—long and thin as a bugle, with five pointed petals resembling a star. Its season spans mid-April through late July, but it only blooms at night. I expect we’ll have some competition from the fruit bats.” 

“Better bats than demons,” remarked Aranea, dryly. “It must make one hell of a syrup, if you’re willing to lose sleep to hunt for it.” 

“The prince enjoys it with his breakfasts. And I can think of far less savory—or sweet—reasons I’ve lost sleep of late.”

She didn’t reply to that, and he hadn’t exactly expected her to. Still, any opportunity to bait her for information had to be taken. He couldn’t make heads or tails of their current situation: a seasoned dragoon on Niflheim’s payroll, and the chief advisor to the Lucian heir, making idle horticultural chitchat on a midnight hike.

He endlessly replayed the last half-hour in his head as they climbed. They’d left the others back at camp. Noctis and Prompto had more-or-less been asleep during dinner, and they’d quickly passed out afterward without lifting a finger to clean the dishes. Gladio had at least tidied up after himself, but after that he’d quickly retreated into his latest reading material. It was some pulpy spy-thriller they’d picked up at the last convenience store, but he seemed to be enjoying it, and Ignis wasn’t one to look down on a man for reading. So, with a soft sigh, he’d stooped to pick up Prompto’s overturned drinking glass and a plate of Noctis’ overlooked vegetables, and begun the task himself.

Aranea easing in beside him and reaching for the dishrag had been unexpected. He’d figured she would leap at the opportunity to remove herself from Prompto’s constant and adolescent flirtations. Frankly, he wouldn’t have blinked if she’d slipped off into the trees and abandoned their party entirely.

But there she’d been, drying the dishes as he washed them, and they’d fallen into an unexpectedly comfortable silence. She’d removed the heaviest of her armor, retaining her boots and belt atop a simple black leather ensemble, and Ignis couldn’t help but notice how much smaller she seemed without all the freakish spikes, and perhaps softer, too—but no less cryptic. As she’d taken each plate and cup from him, he kept glimpsing a jewel on her wrist: polished amber with some bit of flora or fauna trapped within. Something about it unsettled him—he felt like he was noticing for the first time, every time he’d spotted it.

“You own more cookware than weaponry,” she’d goaded. “Do you plan to fight the empire with forks?”

“A well-fed warrior is a better weapon than any blade he or she might wield,” mused Ignis. “Surely you’d recognize that.”

“Of course I would, but you can feed just as well by shoving a pig on a spit and tearing off chunks with your teeth. No cutlery required.”

“If you’re into that sort of thing…” he’d allowed, carefully.

“I’m into all sorts of things, specs,” she replied, opaquely, but when he’d risked a glance in her direction she didn’t return it.  

When they’d finished with the dishes, she’d dropped casually into a chair across from Gladio and resorted to wiping the day’s blood off her lance. He’d belatedly realized she was still using his dish towel, and he must have sucked a breath through his teeth, because she’d met his eyes and seemed to know exactly what she’d done to distress him. But she’d made no move to apologize.

He’d spent a few long moments staring into the fire, restless in his rolled shirt-sleeves, and wondering if the atmosphere felt as tense to either of his companions. Finally, maybe out of desperation, he’d announced his plan forage for culinary garnishes on the hillside.

Gladio had simply nodded with a grunt, turning the page of his book. But Aranea had cast the now ruined rag to the ground, gripped her weapon with renewed resolve, and rose from her chair, asking if he’d mind a little back-up.

He certainly didn’t mind. It helped that Aranea was a great deal more than a little back-up. Three days ago she’d taken them by surprise while they were already being taken by surprise by demons near Costlemark. He’d wanted to be furious with Dino for even suggesting they visit the cursed ruin, but he grudgingly accepted that there was likely a royal weapon within, and Noctis’ need for the Lucian Armiger outweighed the danger of the jeweler-journalist’s ulterior schemes.

Ultimately, he’d only been furious with himself for not preparing better for the inevitable fight.

But she’d bailed him out of his miscalculations, descending from the sky like some Valkyrie of ancient myth, and driving her pole-arm swiftly through the largest demon’s throat. As it fell thunderously face-first into the dirt, Noctis had whooped in glee, and Prompto had squealed like child in admiration. Even Gladio had uttered a hearty hell yeah! But Ignis hadn’t taken the time to gloat. They’d needed to finish off the rest of the demons while they had an advantage. 

That didn’t mean that the image of her arrival hadn’t burned itself upon his mind, though. Every so often it would occur to him again, like an unexpected flash of something that strangely resembled hope. 

“You spoil him, you know.”

Her comment shook him from his meditation. He slowed and turned to face her, and the lamp on his belt tossed its lurid, green-yellow glow upon her. She threw an arm across her face with a curse at the sudden brightness, but then slowly lowered it, squinting at him as she met his gaze.

“Prince Noctis has suffered much in his short life, and if the current circumstances are any divination, he still has many more trials to survive. Cooking is one of the few ways I can grant him respite from that destiny. You didn’t have to accompany me.”  

“I wanted to,” she replied, simply. Her eyes were the misdirecting, mossy green of garden stepping-stones, and her face lay as passive as the moon casting its light across Angelguard to the east. If she’d been chastised by his words, she didn’t show it, and any ill-will he might have fostered toward her seemed to hang in the air, suddenly unsure where to aim itself. 

Why. His mind screamed. Why are you here? He had to know, but he knew better than to ask. A tactician never admitted to the question in his mind; the question was a weakness, to be concealed and mitigated through other means. 

Something swooped between their faces, shattering their stalemate and sending them both ducking. She grabbed hold of his wrist to steady herself, and it shocked him so much he nearly stumbled himself.

“The hell?” she hissed. 

“Fruit bats!” said Ignis, and right then he’d never been so relieved to see them. He righted himself and sent a hand through his hair. “We must be close! Let’s follow them.” 

“Ugh,” she said. But she met his stride as they pressed on through the brush, chasing the barely-there silhouettes of tiny, winged devils against a carpet of constellations.

“So, who taught you to cook?” she asked, after awhile, “You’re very good at it.”

“My mother, originally,” he replied, “And eventually the royal chef and his staff.” He ended the sentence with a full-stop, careful not to sound wistful or uncertain, to leave no vulnerability exposed, and yet—

“What happened to her?” she asked, instantly, and he grit his molars.

“She was among the casualties of Niflheim’s original invasion of Tenebrae,” he said, “—as was my father, before you inquire further.”

“Didn’t mean to pry,” she said, “I’m sorry…” and she sounded so completely genuine in her apology that he nearly shuddered. That couldn’t possibly be right. Of course she’d meant to pry. He huffed a sharp sigh.

“There’s not much for you to be sorry about. It was before your tenure with the Empire, after all.” He made the comment lightly, but he thought he caught her grimace from the corner of his gaze. Maybe he was just fooling himself. “And honestly, aside from the recipes, there’s not much I remember of either of them. I fled Tenebrae with my Uncle, a diplomat, and we received asylum from the late King Regis. I’ve trained in his court ever since. A simple story, really.”  

“Nothing juicy to tell the Emperor, you mean?”

“I mean, it’s a simple story—and a very simple sentence, in fact.”

She laughed, and it was a surprisingly soft thing—nearly a silent thing, like the flutter of the bat wings they followed.

“I was orphaned too—well and truly orphaned at that; no extended family,” she confessed, after a beat, “though I’m sure you’d already worked that out in that brain of yours.”

I haven’t worked out a single thing about you.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

“Are you?” she asked, almost amused at the thought. And for a moment he was struck with a vision he hadn’t prepared himself for. Aranea Highwind, as she might have been were she raised in the same halls as he. Fierce and free-spirited, but dressed instead in Kingsglaive fatigues, she vaulted recklessly off the top of the Insomnian citadel, only warping to her lance just before she hit the ground. She landed perfectly before him, and pushed the spectacles up the bridge of his nose with a fingertip, grinning wickedly.

He mimicked the imagined gesture with his own fingertip, and frowned.

“I am. I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry you were fostered by a furnace so foul as Niflheim.”

“It wasn’t all bad. At least not at first,” she shrugged, but she was hugging herself a bit as they continued, and he didn’t think it was because of the evening chill.

“All the same,” he said.

After some time, they finally found what he’d come for: a cluster of rocks near the top of the hill, bursting with honeysuckle vines. The blooms were easy to spot in the moonlight, and a hint of fire—trick of Lucian elemancy Ignis had tucked away in his satchel—soon made short work of their Chiroptera competition. 

With the last of the magic, he lit and handed Aranea a torch to keep the bats from returning, and knelt to pluck a bloom from the vine. He unstoppered a glass phial and drained the nectar into it. But instead of immediately reaching for the next specimen, he paused, and spun the little flower between thumb and forefinger.

“If you’re contemplating giving that to me, you should know I’m not a flowers and candy kind of woman,” Aranea teased over his shoulder. 

Ignis smirked, pulling a small burlap sack from his satchel and depositing the flower there instead. He hoped the fire wasn’t bright enough to reveal the way his cheeks had burned at her words. 

“They brew a decent cup of tea,” he explained, moving along with his harvest now, meticulously collecting the dewy liquid and leftover petals. “And if you aren’t wooed by flowers, what should I make of the cuff on your wrist?” 

The fire flickered abruptly, as though she’d recoiled her hand in surprise.

“What do you make of it?” she parried, and his stomach took a slightly sour turn. He continued his work as he spoke, flatly:

“A single sylleblossom, embraced by amber and framed in embroidered leather. Sable leather. Lovely, but contrary to the rest of your aesthetic. A well-meaning yet misguided gift, I should think -- from a well-meaning yet misguided Tenebraen suitor. Tell me, how long have you been seeing Commander Nox Fleuret? And what is the true nature of the errand you’re running on his behalf?” 

Almost definitely too bold. What's gotten into you? He half expected her to drive her lance through his neck, just as she’d done with the demon. Some royal strategist you are. 

“There are a hell of a lot of Tenebraen boys besides the High Commander,” she laughed, instead of killing him. “You, of anyone, should realize that.”

“Perhaps, but not many Tenebraens would encounter you, in your current occupation, and fewer still possess the assets required to negotiate with you.”  

She huffed a defeated noise, and he chanced another glance over his shoulder. She was looking out across Galdin Quay, toward the place where the sky met the sea. The breeze licked at the flames of the torch in her hand, and her pale pewter hair. 

“You’re a sharp one, specs. I gotta give you that,” she said, after a moment. 

“It’s my job,” he replied; it was almost a reflex. 

“Oh, I know. But not everyone is competent at their job,” she said. “It’s actually pretty rare.” 

“If you think that flattery will—” 

“For the record, I saw Ravus for maybe a year,” she cut in, turning back to him. “You pretty much summed him up: well-meaning but misguided.”

“And yet you still wear the bracelet.” 

“Harder to misplace it if I keep it beneath my bracers,” she shrugged, snuffing the torch in the dirt beside her feet. Apparently she’d decided it was no longer needed. “I thought I would give it to Lady Lunafreya, after I see Noctis safely to Altissia, as a show of good faith from estranged brother to sister.” 

“You expect me to believe--”

“I don’t expect you to believe anything,” said Aranea. “You’re way too smart for that.” 

His head was spinning. He put the stopper back on the nearly-full vial of honeysuckle nectar and tucked it away in his jacket, for fear he would drop it. 

“If that’s been your motive for accompanying us this whole time, why not just say so.” 

“Who says Ravus is the only person I answer to?” 

Ignis took off his glasses and squeezed his eyes shut until he saw stars. 

“You think I’ll just wait around, with Noct’s life in the balance, with the fate of the world in the balance, until Ravus and Ardyn Izunia conclude their bidding war for your allegiance?” He replaced his glasses and his free hand crept to the hilt of his dagger, easing it inch-by-inch from its sheath. “That’s not a risk I’m comfortable with.” 

“Actually,” she said, so close behind him that he nearly flinched. So much for those boots not being ballet shoes, he thought, absurdly. His knuckles ached for how hard he gripped the dagger, but a moment later her fingers found his -- a soft, cool caress -- and coaxed him to abandon his defenses. “I was hoping you’d outbid them both, and settle things outright.” 

Her nose brushed his earlobe as he turned his head toward her. 

“Me,” he said. He hoped he sounded skeptical and not stunned silly, which was closer to how he felt right then. “With what funds, exactly?” he laughed, “I am Noctis’ advisor, not his treasurer. And the majority of Lucis’ wealth lies lost in the rubble of the Insomnian citadel. I have nothing to offer you.”

She laughed, and it sent lightning through him, head to foot. “Ignis Scientia, born of the lofty spires of Tenebrae, sharp as his daggers, wise-beyond his years. In the war rooms of Niflheim they whisper that he carries the weight the world and the life of the future King upon his shoulders, yet he never dreams of slouching. They claim he’s a master of history, military strategy, astronomy, anatomy, medicine, and the culinary arts. And yet he hasn’t the damnedest idea why I followed him up this hill in the middle of the night...”   

“To be frank, I’d been betting on murder,” muttered Ignis, his mouth suddenly very dry. She slid her hand around his bicep and he was turning toward her in spite of himself. “Although, I hadn’t ruled out sheer boredom --”

“Shut up, Stupeo,” she whispered, and kissed him.

And oh, for the love of Etro, he’d had the damnedest idea. He’d known the entire evening, since she’d met his eyes across the fire, since she’d hovered at his side as he’d cooked, since they’d first pulled into camp. He’d known since she fell from the sky three days ago, backed by the afternoon light like an angel. He’d known and he’d insisted that he didn’t. Because this was madness. This was outright stupidity. Outright treason. He couldn’t trust her. 

But he’d taken one look at her when they’d first skirmished, weeks ago, and for the first time, his mind had dared begin a sentence with I want, instead of Noctis needs. And right now, with his lower lip caught in her teeth, and her fingers toying with the buttons of his shirt, his entire body had resolved to finish that terrifying sentence as swiftly as he could.

---

“Seducing the strategist would be the best way to ensure Niflheim gets what they want from Noctis,” muttered Ignis, darkly, nosing through Aranea’s hair. At some point they’d wandered back down the hill to the campsite, but they’d opted for a spare quilt and the embers of the fire over the crowded comfort of the tent. The stone was hard beneath Ignis’ back, but it made the press of her body seem all the softer. “You’ve made a fool of me—are you pleased?”

She hummed idly, pressing a kiss to his throat and smoothing her hand against his chest.

“You know, I’ve never actually said I am working for the Chancellor. That’s been you.”

“Right,” said Ignis, yawning. “Of course. A completely baseless assumption on my part, I’m sure.” He was tired, but not beyond the capacity for sarcasm.

“Maybe I just have a crippling weakness for Tenebraen accents kept on short leashes by heads of state.”

He snorted, and brushed his fingers down her spine.

“We’ll see which of us winds up crippled from this whole affair,” he replied.

“Are you always this morose after you get laid, or do I need to try harder?”

“You’re welcome to try anything you like,” he admitted. “Short of putting me on a spit and tearing into me with your teeth, if your earlier comments are to serve as a benchmark.”

He pinched her thigh, and she squawked a curse and swatted at his hand.

“Quiet now,” he teased, “Don’t want to wake the children.”

“Make sure to keep telling yourself that,” she laughed, and slid down his body beneath the blanket. She left a trail of tiny kisses across his stomach, followed swiftly by the sensory deluge of her hair against his skin. If this is what all the philosophy texts meant when they said keep your friends close and your enemies closer, then he felt he’d done pretty damn well for himself.

[callrobin3-blog]

?A Simple Favor?

When you think of the name Paul Feig, ?crime thriller? https://www.thanostv.org/movie/a-simple-favor-2018 isn?t the first genre that leaps to mind. ThanosTV of ?Freaks and Geeks? and director of comedy hits like ?Spy,? ?The Heat? and ?Bridesmaids? has stayed pretty comfortably in his lane over the course of his 20-year career. So it makes you wonder why Lionsgate tapped him to direct ?A Simple Favor,? adapted from Darcy Bell?s novel by ?Nerve? screenwriter Jessica Sharzer. Sure, Feig has flirted with pathos and drama in previous projects, but this movie, which is far more ?Gone Girl? than ?Ghostbusters,? appears to come from way out in left field.

Clearly taking its inspiration from all sorts of twisty-turny suburban thrillers of the past, ?A Simple Favor? stars Anna Kendrick as Stephanie, the most nondescript single mom you could possibly imagine. She runs a mommy vlog and seems to have the perfect relationship with her kid. Sure, she tries too hard, but there?s no possible way that?s compensating for something, right? Her opposite in every conceivable way is Emily (Blake Lively), the PR director for a high-profile fashion designer (Rupert Friend, in an enjoyably sprightly cameo) and wife to a writer/professor (newly-minted superstar Henry Golding of ?Crazy Rich Asians?) who curses and drinks in front of her kid not because she?s a bad mother, but because she doesn?t buy in to the sort of classical parenting techniques you read about in books. The two women strike up a friendship of sorts; Emily is eternally hard to read in her motivations and true emotions, but when she goes missing after asking Stephanie to pick up her kid from school one day, everyone assumes the worst. Stephanie decides to take matters into her own hands, digging deeper into the mysterious woman?s past until she can get to the bottom of where her new best friend disappeared to.

For much of the first act, it?s tough to figure out exactly what Feig is up to with this one. It opens with a jazzy, spy-movie credit sequence for reasons that are not entirely clear. It positions itself very much as an odd couple comedy that?s more than content to poke fun at the sort of movies it seems to be aping ? a sort of ?Saturday Night Live? skewering of the ?The Girl on the Trains? of the world writ large. It?s all a little too heightened; Stephanie is too aggressively wholesome and Emily is too outrageously shocking. The soundtrack, peppered with haughty French music, is too chic to be on the level. But when Emily goes missing and the plot gets serious, it becomes clear that Feig is just as interested in telling a pretty by-the-numbers riff on the pulpy suburban thriller genre. That doesn?t mean there?s nothing up his sleeve, because even as the stakes do rise, there are still plenty of laughs to be found. But those laughs aren?t at the expense of the premise in a way the first act seems to flirt with. After all, this is a heightened movie for heightened drama.

And the cast is definitely in on the act. It?s delicious fun watching Kendrick and Lively play against each other; they are so committed to their stereotypes and so clearly having a ball bringing them to life. Kendrick slides into Feig?s comedic cadence and sensibilities like a glove. She?s an ing�nue who?s more than capable of unleashing some inner fire when cornered but just as hasty with a meek apology when she realizes what she?s done. She?s the exact sort of person to fly a little too under the radar to be comfortable when a murder investigation comes into play. Lively, on the other hand, owns the screen with little effort, strutting around in outfits that are consistently insane (think power suits by way of a fetish magazine) and striking a perfect contrast to Kendrick?s demure sweater-vest ensembles. She?s so uninhibited that she seems legitimately capable of anything. Lionsgate must be thrilled that they get to release a new Henry Golding movie while ?Crazy Rich Asians? continues to tear up the box office, and his preternatural charm plays into it all wonderfully. Of course, this is all very deliberate, and the script plays on every one of those assumptions as the plot twists back and forth upon itself over and over again.

[prowlpetrex]

“Absolutely not.” Shere Khan intoned, voice flat. His face was fixed in that “I cannot believe I’m even bothering to expend the merest fraction of my time on this nonsense” look. It was so well performed, he was willing to bet the average person usually only saw it on TV or in movies. He’d found through his own practices in the mirror that conveying the correct amount of sass, exasperation, and self-important superiority without sliding down one side or another to be surprisingly difficult. He wasn’t too worried, his progress made for great selfies, and the tiger was way older than him with years of experiences beyond the bird’s own. He’d get there eventually. Still… he snapped a quick shot of the cat’s expression for prosperity and his online presence’s sake alone. It wasn’t every day you got to see a master of the art of condescending bitch face at play in its natural environment. He felt the tiger’s gaze hone in on him, a frown forming where a tolerant smile had begun to take form when he’d been speaking with Glomgold. A few seconds trekked by, and he relaxed when nothing was said, and the other man’s focus was once more on Glomgold. Onto twitter you go, he thought happily, clicking the ‘post’ button after attaching the perfectly chosen hashtags to it. He smiled and waited eagerly for the ‘likes’ and ‘retweets’ to come rolling in. “And why not?”  Glomgold practically yowled, raising both his fists and stamping up and down like a toddler having a tantrum. Snap and post. Both of them were creating some great material for his blog. He had become more certain of it when the first shot of Khan had reached over 20 likes in less than five minutes. The people had spoken and they were hungry for more. “You are not the acceptable age for one.” Khan said, face devoid of emotion. “And let yet you let Scroogie in on your little game, no questions asked?” Flintheart said, he crossed his arms, face scrunched up into a childish pout. “You two thought you could start a wee bit of an adventure together and leave ol’ Flinty in the dark, did you?” the old duck marched forward, an angry shade of red visible through his feathers. “You are mistaken, my friend.” Shere Khan said shortly, clasping his hands behind his back. His back was straight and firm. He looked the model of patience and serenity, which was enough to tell Mark he was beginning to become annoyed. He didn’t need to know the tiger personally. He was 110% percent sure nobody in their social sphere would tolerate being talked down like that for very long. “Am I?” Flintheart hissed, pushing himself forward and one of the footrests forward and hopping atop it so that the tip of his beak nearly touched the nose of the feline’s muzzle. To the cat’s credit the only sign that this had affected him, was a slight furrowing of his eyebrows before smoothing out his face once more. Seeing perfect blogging material, Mark subtly captured the scene before him. His followers were really in for a treat today, he thought with a chirping giggle. All those old Scottish games had provided him with great material for those who were into historical gameplay, reenactment, or just wanted to keep tabs on what Scrooge and Glomgold were up to now. Their rivalry was infamous enough that it would keep most of them satisfied. Especially since Flintheart Glomgold was perhaps the sorest loser Mark had ever had the privilege to chronicle. It had been hilarious, but for the elderly duck to then follow that up with an argument with Khan Industry’s reclusive founder and CEO over Scrooge McDuck? It made for the kind of material he could only dream of. “Do ye mark me for a fool?” the outraged growl was loud enough to make even Mark flinch, making it all the more impressive that the tiger’s facial features made no outward response. “In your own words you’ve admitted that you’ve allowed Scrooge in on this little game of yours only to shut the door in my face the moment I asked to play along!” Mark smiled, as Glomgold stamped his feet. It was moments like this that made him feel right at home in the Billionaire’s club. Glomgold was an old man, if he had less money people would have expected him to act his age. Instead he was perfectly content to make a feather-brain out of himself on the suspicion that Scrooge and Khan were purposefully excluding him from some sort of secret game they’d planned on playing together. His behavior made Mark feel mature in a respectable way, instead of a dumb “on the way to becoming obsolete” way. When they had all left, Beaks had done a little Q and A to cool down a bit from the earlier excitement while listening to music from on another tab, and watching the cooking channel as he progressed. Staring at a screen too long tended to make him feel exhausted and he didn’t feel like waking up with phone lines on his face again, so he liked to multi-task. Doing more than one task at once kept him awake and aware. Particularly if it was something he enjoyed. Scrooge had reentered the room after some time, and as was typical of the stuck up old guy, he ignored all of the greetings Mark sent his way. He felt his feathers rise up in annoyance, but took to passive-aggressively slurping his Mango puree instead of doing anything he might regret later. He wasn’t at his company where he could do anything he wanted without suffering much consequence. He was among his peers now and that meant playing nice. Besides, who cared what freaking Scrooge McDuck thought of him? He’d sighed to himself. Adulting was hard. It meant you weren’t allowed to be as Extra™ with peopling as you wanted anymore. You had to bide your time for the inevitable takedown to avoid facing the consequences. So he’d silently watched the McDuck leave, head down as if he’d been in a daze. When Khan had returned next, Mark had thanked him, and offered up some constructive criticism on the drink he’d been made. The Tiger hadn’t made his mango puree the way he’d liked it. No shade. No tea. Just facts. The drink had been smooth and silky instead of thick and pulpy like it should be. He hadn’t ordered some Crème Frappuccino, Jen. However, he could tolerate it, knowing he had gotten someone who had a higher net worth than he did act on a request he’d made-without getting all salty about it, well, that was something that just did not happen to Mark Beaks every day. The cat had raised an eyebrow at him before apologizing profusely, his voice thick with obvious sarcasm that had left Mark feeling just the slightest bit annoyed. But he’d shrugged and rolled with the mild sarcasm. Shere Khan had acknowledged him and that was important. The big cat had apparently returned to retrieve the smoothie he’d made for himself, and, having located the objective, stalked slowly towards the couch where Mark sat. He’d stood behind him, drinking the frozen beverage, and suddenly feeling uncomfortably hyperaware of the predator behind him, Mark had felt himself being assessed. For what he did not know, but whatever it was thankfully brief. As if unaware of his discomfort, Shere Khan had simply tossed the cup gracefully into the trash, and bid him a polite farewell when Glomgold had barged into the room with a loud bang. The elderly duck had clearly been in a rush. He was out of breath, gasping loudly and growling out angry Scottish curses. “I have done no such thing,” Shere Khan said, quietly moving away from his conversation partner, apparently on the lookout for another disposable cup. “Really?” Glomgold laughed as he followed the other man, an ugly mocking noise filled with derision. “What was it you were saying just minutes before then, an elaborate lie to make me jealous?” The Scot had first sounded incredulous, but, as he spoke the words had begun to sound increasingly doubtful but its finish. He’d moved closer to Khan, and if Wiktionary had face claims his would be filed under “suspicion”. It was as if the idea, now that the idea had been expressed, the likelihood of the content having been a lie had exponentially increased. “No.” The cat had located the disposable cups that had been placed inside one of the lower cupboards. “Please do not accuse me of falsehood where miscommunication could easily be the culprit.” Exasperation had begun to leak into the feline’s tone, making his words flatter than they would have been otherwise. in a move Mark would never personally have had the temerity to make, the Scotsman took advantage of the tiger’s decision to lean over to grab one of the cups to seize hold of the other businessman’s tie and yanked it hard enough that their faces were now touching. It was also apparently one move too far for the carnivore’s patience because he had stood suddenly and with the swipe of one furry claw pried the feathered hand from his neck clothing with brutal efficiency. Mark checked his phone and sighed in disappointment. He’d expected Shere Khan to do something. There was only so much the typical person would tolerate m\before they either fled or went on the defensive. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been quick enough to catch the scene in action and had captured only blurry outlines from the two of them. Dang it. He deleted the worthless photos from his phone with a little more force than necessary, and waited for the next moment to strike. “Ah, I see.”  Glomgold drew out the final word. “A miscommunication error on your part was it?” The old duck had crossed his arm in a pout. It gave the impression that he was unaffected by the tiger’s growing agitation. “So it would seem.” Shere Khan allowed, making an attempt at civility. “Then what are the two of you getting up to together?” Glomgold made it sound like he half expected the two Billionaires were carrying on with an illicit love affair behind everyone’s backs, and it was perhaps this tone that made Shere Khan sigh in annoyance. “If everything goes as PLANNED, HE WILL AGREE to provide me with the location for an upcoming reality show I intend to produce.” He said slowly, pinching the bridge of his muzzle. There was a clatter and Mark felt the combined gazes of both men focus solely on him. Mark Beaks gave a start then retrieved the phoned he’d accidentally dropped with an embarrassed chuckle. McDuck and Khan would be hosting a Reality TV show together? He felt himself practically salivating at the interest this news would surely generate. Earlier that day, Khan had seemed on edge about people knowing he was into cooking shows. Maybe what had really been bothering him was that he hadn’t wanted any similar ideas between his show and anything currently existing to be seen as an act of plagiarism or a willful violation of trademarked concepts. He didn’t really know anything about the laws governing reality TV shows to be honest. He just liked watching them and, as he did with most of the fine print corporate paperwork, left the majority of the heavy lifting to his legal team. But that hardly mattered when he’d just gotten front row seating on some juicy gossip way before the newsies could sink their own talons into it. This kind of coverage on the lives of the rich and powerful more than made up for the hefty membership fees new members like him had to pay to get their own piece of the action. He fired off a couple of posts in rapid succession and grinned triumphantly as activity skyrocketed on his feed. With any luck, his posts would go viral and his account would get a mention on TV. He answered a few of the more frequently asked questions, then paused. The foreboding feeling that he was being watched washed over him and when he looked up he found himself once more staring into the predatory yellow eyes of Shere Khan. Feeling nervous self-consciousness well up inside of him, he gave the tiger a friendly little wave. The other man seemed to smile before turning his gaze back onto Glomgold, who, after a moment of useless flailing, had rallied magnificently from his initial surprise. “Why not me own property?” The duck said pointing a finger at the significantly larger mammal. “I’ll have you know---” “---Because these contests will be a competition geared toward locating a child of exemplary business acumen.” Shere Khan interrupted, the words logical and cold, but the fact that he was losing the will to remain polite, spoke of his decreasing patience. “Mr. Scrooge owns an actual living thriving city, populated by potential customers.” Glomgold made an indignant grunt, as if to interrupt but Khan wasn’t finished talking yet and spoke over him. “This is something neither you nor I possess, which is why he was sought out, and I refuse to settle for anything less.” Glomgold slumped, defeat splashing across his face. Mark grinned and took another snap of the almost defeated expression on the old Duck’s face. “There must be something I can do.” Flintheart said, he looked like he was wanted to argue, but had no clue what to say next. Shere Khan only shrugged in response. “I am open to suggestions.” He turned to leave. “If you think of something, I SHALL CONSIDER IT.” The words were short this time as he once more turned to leave, clearly intending to make a hasty retreat before Glomgold came up with anything else to pester him with. Before he’d left, Mark seized upon his own opportunity. “Have you decided on the Judges?” the tiger paused then raised a sleek eyebrow at him. “Pardon?” the word was said politely, no emotion crossing his face. “You know, the duderinos who decide whether these kids suck or not?” He asked with a careless expansive sweep of his hands. “I will be looking into potential candidates at a later time.” The tiger said softly. “Auditions will have to be made, and---″ “I volunteer.” Mark Beaks said immediately. Khan shook his head, but the parrot was not letting him off the hook that easily. “C’mon, Shere Khan, my buddy, my guy, my amigo,” he said beseechingly. “You’re going to want these judges to actually be successful businessmen and women, not some small town reject wearing rose-colored glasses and an over-idealistic idea of how the world works on their sleeves.” Shere Khan paused, evaluating, then--- “My answer remains the same.” the words were almost regretful. Glomgold smirked at him. “Sorry new guy,” he laughed. “You’ve got to wait for those feathers of yours to dry before you depend on business reputation alone.”  Glomgold faced Shere Khan with a grin. “I would like to offer up my considerable experience to this project of yours.” He had placed one palm upon his chest giving off the impression that he was a high profile politician swearing into public office. “I’ll have to decline that gracious offer as well.” The tiger said brusquely, and Mark burst out laughing as Glomgold visibly deflated. “What?!” The laughter from the duo’s audience had clearly rankled, offence born of an injured ego. “No one says no to Flintheart Glomgold!” Mark wiped mirthful tears out of his eyes and grinned at the Scottish Duck. “Really, man?” he laughed brightly. “I’d have thought all those years spent as Scrooge’s quote end quote ‘Arch-nemesis’ would have taught you a thing or two about rejection.” Glomgold glowered in his direction but Mark didn’t care. He didn't like it when people were condescending towards him, and he refused to tolerate it from anyone without saying anything in return. “Be that as it may” Khan directed the conversation back onto its previous conversation, perhaps worried the two would cause a scene if they didn’t. “If what you say is true, then I apologize that necessity must force me to be the first.” He looked so genuine Mark almost believed him. “But after the events I witness earlier I really must refuse.” Glomgold looked like something distasteful had found itself lodged in his mouth. The older man clearly believed what was being said was true, which made Mark wonder what had happened that would give a normal person logical reason to decline such an advantageous offer but he could tell it was just an excuse. Mark knew an actor when he saw one and it was clear Khan was after something from Flintheart he felt he would not get by being direct with sharing his desired outcome. The tiger looked ever so regretful before stretching out till his back cracked satisfactorily and once more heading to the door. The limp in his gate was more pronounced than ever as he head out the doorway that would eventually lead to the entrance hall “What if,” Glomgold began, words choked and desperate. “What if I paid you to let me be the Judge?” There wasn’t any visible change in the tiger’s expression but Beaks could feel the other man’s attention zero in on the heavyset duck. “I’d want to know what you intended to contribute.” he said slowly. Glomgold frowned, “I don’t know what's needed for this project of yours.” He confessed. “I don’t even know where to begin.” Shere Khan smiled, pulling out his cell. “That, dear fellow, is what legal teams are for.” Glomgold nodded in agreement and pulled out his own. Shere Khan had requested the assistance of an employee to set up webcams and before long the two were sitting on the stools near the bar, busy ironing out arrangements. Their distraction left him with his own thoughts. Mark wanted to be a judge but it was clear to him Shere Khan didn’t want to pay the exorbitant wages reality TV shows usually afforded their judges. Like many wealthy people Mark had known throughout the years, the man was quite stingy with his own wealth. This contest was probably just a publicity stunt meant to last one season then cancelled after it had drawn more public attention back onto Khan and his company, and honestly speaking here, Mark wasn’t all that comfortable with the whole pay to play concept. Actually paying someone to become a job when most shows would have paid him randomly didn’t sit well with him. Glomgold obviously found it an easy choice because of his long history of defeat at scrooge’s hand and this was a way to one-up the old timer. But for Mark, the choice was not so easy. He didn’t have the same relationship Flintheart shared with McDuck. What he did know made him dislike the guy, and, sure, he considered himself an “antagonist” to the old man because his behavior towards Mark had made him feel things about himself that he’d found...unpleasant when he’d wanted to impress the richest duck in the world and had been summarily dismissed as unimportant. That title was one of many measuring sticks he used to assess his own self-worth. This one for his own personal wealth, which, sadly, wasn’t in the same margin as old man McDuck, but he was willing to bet much of that was due to age. Mark Beaks was still a young man and there was plenty of time to catch up with the man if he was patient. Trouble was he didn’t want to be patient. Another, even more important method of judging his amour-propre was his follower count… which had dropped since the two failures, first the BUDDY system robot and then his brief but highly destructive stent as Gizmoduck, he was ashamed to admit were now attached to his name. Judges on popular TV shows got a crazy amount of followers, so joining this game of theirs could potentially help him regain what he’d lost. His followers were the lifeblood of his company. They were a very big part of the reason waddle had done so well in the first place. But as he watched Glomgold and khan finally reach an agreement with the promise that the duck would for the catering in addition to the promised cash donation, he shook his head with a frown. It was obvious why Flintheart was the second richest duck in the world despite the fact that Scrooge wasted money on stupid superstitious stuff like supernatural defense if his sources. Glomgold, whether it was spending obscene amounts of money attempting to one-up scrooge or building death traps that ultimately failed was just a lot looser with his money than Scrooge was. These were issues born of a raging inferiority complex, and one that would likely doom himself to an eternal position of second place. On the plus side, his flaws made the duck more entertaining to be around. He was that short angry guy nearly every successful squad seemed to have on the TV shows of his youth who was getting himself and his friends into some stupid mess nearly every other episode because he literally couldn’t control himself for more than ten minutes. Sure, he’d yet to reach “friend” status with Flintheart, but it was all part of the plan he’d first conceived on the night of Scrooge’s birthday. It was another waiting game which required him to have patience if he wanted to see it come to a successful fruition, but the idea of developing a tie between himself, Glomgold, and Ms. Beagle was a good one. He was confident that, if he could get Mr. Graves to start returning his phone calls they’d be the perfect quartet. But that would require him to spend more time around Glomgold first. So far the older man seemed content to ignore him in favor of Scrooge McDuck. It had been irritating to be ignored constantly but Mark Beaks was a master at rolling with life’s disappointments and he’d be banned from the internet before he let the old duck’s brush-offs get to him. But, the dawning realization hit him as he watched Shere Khan summon one of the many moles who were employed by the Billionaires club to fetch him the head representative of his legal team, who was currently waiting at the front gate to be permitted access to the exclusive club. If he were to become a judge, not only would his follower count skyrocket, it might give him the opportunity to get Glomgold alone, possibly developing, if not a friendship, then a camaraderie between the known enemies of Scrooge McDuck at least. But it was also important to read the obvious clues Khan was leaving that more or less stated in no uncertain clues that he expected to be given a pricey little nest egg in exchange for their participation and finely made one at that. Going by what he was witnessing with Glomgold, it seemed as if he was not satisfied with accepting monetary bribes alone, which left Mark in a bit of a pickle. What, beyond money, did he have that he could easily part from without much sacrifice on his part…that Shere Khan might actually want? He thought it through as he watched a smartly dressed…canine… of unknown species introduce himself as Tabaqui as he took out several sheets of paper that had very likely been printed on site. The neat rows of printed words were visible but not legible from his position across the room. Taking stock of the new occupant, Mark vaguely thought that there were times when he found it frustrating that it was considered offensive to ask what species someone was. This was one of those scenarios. For the life of him, he couldn’t tell what species the guy was supposed to be, it could be anything, really, from dog to jackal to dingo or even a hyena with really muted coloring(in which case he wasn’t a canine at all since the hyena breeds were a family class all there own), but he was letting himself get carried away. It really didn’t matter what species the guy was so long as he didn’t turn on Mark randomly and ask him what he was. Yup, it didn’t matter at all. He was totally going to Google it later just so he could have that question answered though. Even though it meant nothing. Glomgold, in a rare display of maturity, had actually picked up the sheets of paper and was reading through them in their entirety as he asked questions and had the language edited as he saw fit. They were at it long enough for another waiter to ask if anyone would like something to drink. Khan wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to the man but the lawyer was the only one to take the employee up on it and before long he was unlocking the wine cabinet and pouring something dark and purple into a glass. The canine(?) thanked him and the guy had returned to the counter to lock the cabinet again. He left the room shortly after, the note the tiger had given him still in hand, but it was enough to have the figurative ball start rolling in his head. B.U.D.D.Y. When he’d seen the notes and blueprints for the machine online, the user had mentioned the robot was useful in locating keys. His first batch of the models had proven to be a failure as the robot had shown itself to a temper that exceeded their actual size, but perhaps that could actually make them useful in this little contest Khan was throwing down. One of the most important skills an up and coming business owner needed was customer service skills. It paid to be seen as charismatic. The B.U.D.D.Y. robots would required delicate handling if the contestant was to avoid setting off the robot’s rebellious ‘KILL’ mode. Anticipating a high consumer demand, he’d had ten robots made. Following the trial run, they’d been scheduled to be decommissioned and scrapped for parts he’d use on any one of his other projects. However, if his robots got Khan’s attention, well, maybe they wouldn’t be considered quite the failure after all. Following the contest he could even have them sold as souvenirs from the show. Provided the customer signed a lengthy contract stating he and his company were in no way responsible for any damages that might occur following the sale. Mind decided, he approached the table where the three men were reaching the finalization of whatever it was they’d agreed upon Khan’s man noticed his presence. “Your witness, I presume?” The canine(?) asked with a rakish grin. Glomgold grunted a short unimpressed “He’ll do.” and before he knew it papers were being foisted on him by the lawyer as he translated the agreements between Khan and Glomgold from legalese into plain English, and a pen was being pressed squarely into his palm by the old duck, demanding that he sign the firms stating he had seen the deal between the two take place, that they’d both been of sound mind, and neither had threatened or otherwise coerced the other man into action. It had. It had been altogether too much. “Now, now.” Khan laughed amiably, watching the spectacle in amusement from his corner of the table. “I do believe you’ve frightened the poor chap.” Mark Beaks would have liked to have refuted it, and some part of his mind did object to what the tiger had said because it really wasn’t fear that he felt now. His mind was dissociating which was an entirely different than fear, but his mind had gone temporarily numb and he had frozen in place. But the tiger’s words did have the desirable effect of getting both men to stop talking, and more importantly cease touching him. So he could not bring it in him to despise the feline too much for his words. “As you both are aware,” Khan continued, a passive smile crossing his face. “A witness is not required in a contract such as this, however,” the last word was spoken over whatever Glomgold had tried to say. “I took the liberty of requesting the presence of notary.” Khan said shortly. “Ask the manager of this establishment to give the surveillance footage of this arrangement, and pass it to him, so that he might do his job properly.” Khan stood and Mark Beaks was suddenly made very aware of how very tall the predator was. “And Glomgold,” he said, smile as sharp as his teeth. “Do remember to pay the men.” The mallard left the room muttering darkly under his breath, and Mark was left staring after the two other men who were preparing to head after Flintheart as he wracked his brain for a way to say he still wanted in. Normally, he wouldn’t have had a problem volunteering himself for anything that was of interest to him. He’d just done it not too long ago. But he truly hated rejection, especially by people who were higher up on the corporate totem pole than himself. Nowadays that wasn’t as many people as it once was, but…Khan was among that rare clique of people he wanted to impress, and the tiger hadn’t even seemed to think his usefulness was even worth debating. That had been a royal burn to his ego, man. But the decision to say nothing wasn’t one he wanted to make either. If you wanted to be successful in life, you had to seize the opportunity wherever you might find it. Even if you failed it was better to have failed than to have done the task with anything less than a full set of tail feathers. So, when both men had gathered the papers and seemed set to leave. He stood up with them, and summoning all the confidence he could muster told them he still wanted to participate as well. Two sets of eyes locked on his as he explained what he thought he could bring to the table. He might have understated just how dangerous the B.U.D.D.Y.s could be, but otherwise he had stuck to the truth as he internally called out to a higher power than he that they realized how good he was, and how much they needed him to be on their little panel of judges.  The discussion went on longer than he’d like. It was always important to keep up a positive public image and the direction their conversation was going made it difficult for him. The fact that the robots were rather dangerous and uncontrollable when provoked did seem to be a sticking point for Shere Khan, “But,” Mark Beaks reasoned, “We can make both the parents and children themselves sign a release of liability form.” He shrugged carelessly. “It’s not like they’re going to be unaware of the danger and if they sign anyway they can’t sue.” But still Khan hesitated before he admitted for the children’s emotional well-being in addition to how it would affect the little one’s friends and family. The words themselves were practically an antithesis to everything he had thought about Khan and he might have been shocked by the admission if it hadn’t been spoken in a voice, dry as a desert, and so lacking in any sort of concern whatsoever, that he wasn’t actually concerned for the children for their own safety. No, he might as well have admitted that the only thing that mattered to him was how potential customers would feel and respond if a child was injured during a competition hosted by Khan Industries. Realizing that he was quickly losing his audience, and that he’d been correct when he’d theorized money, or at least not money alone would not be enough to get him in a seat on the panel of judges he’d gotten desperate, and kinda, maybe, sorta, well…. promised Gizmoduck would be there to halt and protect any Child from a rampaging B.U.D.D.Y. if the situation called for it. There’d been a frosty silence between the two of them after that announcement. Mark had desperately wanted to take back his words. Gizmoduck no longer obeyed and his commands so he was in no position to promise anything, and Shere Khan, well… ceiling cat alone knew what he was thinking, but Mark had heard some stories on the grapevine that Khan had an issue or two about people that had lied to and broken promises with the man in the past. The older businessman had request-no, that didn’t quite describe the way the words were said, commanded seemed a better fit, he produce said he’d need to produce said hero before they discussed the conversation any further, let alone have a contract drawn up for him to sign. He had been left spluttering after him as the Tiger and his lawyer left together, the former giving the later a respectful distance, head bowed submissively for the first time that evening, and leaving no room for doubt who called the shots in that relationship. After his business with the notary was finalized, Glomgold had returned to wait behind the door to see how the situation between Khan and Beaks resolved, and had been witness to the whole sordid affair. When Mark caught the elderly avian staring at him from behind the door, he’d tilted his head to the side, wondering why the other man was lurking in the shadows. It hadn’t been until Glomgold had pointed a figure at him and laughed like a loon that he realized the other was laughing at his miserable failure like it was a joke. Maybe it was, in a way. He’d tried to bribe someone using killer robots and had been surprised when it failed. He kept his shoulders squared and head held high, doing his best not to show anyone that Glomgold had gotten to him. The task was more difficult to do than he’d thought. The mallard had clearly returned to make fun of his misery and rub his beak in the fact that he’d gotten the contract and Beaks hadn’t. He wanted to get under Mark’s skin and he’d been more successful than he would ever realize the parrot thought took one final look at the other man mocking him, than taking out his camera and snapping a photo for his blog. It wasn’t everyday someone of their economic status willingly took time out of their schedules to check in on him, and, even if Glomgold had only been their to see him fall on his face, it was hard not to let the fact that the old man had viewed him to be worthy of so much of his time get to him. He’d felt cheerful enough that he almost forgot to be upset about Khan. If Mark had been half-hearted about the venture before, he’d definitely committed himself to the mission now. His anger wasn’t quite the result of having been rejected, although those feelings changed and stung at his pride. No, it was the way hed been rejected as if he, his resources, and his money had meant nothing to the old tiger. The man’s attitude had been what had stuck up inside his craw like nothing else. He hadn’t longed to be invited to join the Billionaire’s club only to be treated like a nobody once he’d finally been inducted. And honestly? He refused to put up with that attitude from anybody let alone some uppity feline with delusions of grandeur. He wanted to prove he could get the man on board, and this is why he’d broken the window latch on the second story of the Fenton household. He preferred to go about things legally but if the door was barred to him he had other ways of getting what he wanted. Fortunately he hadn’t needed to enter the room without permission as M'ma Cabrera was surprisingly welcoming once he expressed an interest in hiring her son to work with children in need. It hadn’t even been much of a lie. The children didn’t know it yet but they were in need of being terrorized by killer robots who would teach them proper customer relations. The self-styled ‘hero’ was currently working on something for Mr McDuck she’d said but he’d soon return home. In the meantime shed told him he was welcome to wait in the guest room which was across the hall from her sons room if he didn’t want to stay and watch soaps with her. He’d thanked her and made his way up, entering Fenton Crachshell’s bedroom to fix the lock he’d broken. He gave the place a curious once-over, finding nothing particularly out of place. Outside of a small shrine devoted to bandages and first aid supplies, it was a normal bedroom one would expect to see from a man of average financial means who still lived with his mother. Mark didn’t know if he should be disappointed or not. He shrugged and got to work, broken windows weren’t in the habit of repairing themselves. He frowned at it for moment looking at the information he had pulled up on the waddle phone and after making a quick call to his office, got to work. It wasn’t a difficult task, just not one he did often. He had just finished fixing the mechanism when he heard the front door open and a familiar male voice tiredly greet his mother. The volume on the television was lowered and the couch made a loud creaking noise as she presumably stood up to greeted her son in turn before the two began speaking in Spanish. Mark took that as a sign to beat a hasty exit and propelled himself into the guest bedroom as fast as his legs would allow. That proved to be a wise decision as he heard footsteps bounding loudly up the step and a wild-eyed Fenton appeared in the doorway looking harassed. Mark grinned and lifted his arm in a friendly wave. For his part the parrot looked as if he had been patiently waiting where Ms Cabrera had directed him, one leg folded over the other, the portrait of a relaxed guest that had every right to be where he was. Mark’s apparent ease within the environment seemed to have the opposite effect on Fenton, so he continued to smile amiably at him. It was fun when people were easy to provoke. Fenton was less than thrilled to see him. “You” the word was drawn out and filled with enough venom to kill a fully grown elephant. “Me.” he agreed pleasantly, waving off the former intern’s irritation like a tiresome fly. “Why did you come here?” Fenton growled darkly. Well somebody hatched the wrong nest of eggs this morning he thought, watching in bemusement as Fenton threw his arms up, looking for all the world like he wanted to rumble. Mark almost laughed, Perhaps when he wore the suit it looked a little more frightening, but at this moment he looked like a scrawny little nerd with fantastic cranial plumage. His face was the kind that looked friendly even when angry, he wondered if anyone had mentioned it to him but he doubted it. Otherwise, his face wouldn’t look so intent. Mark wondered if the reaction would be worth it if he was the one to break his heart by telling him. Probably not. “I don’t know what your game is but you’re not welcome in my home.” jeez the guy really was buying into his own hype. He really did sound like one of those Saturday morning cartoon heroes from the 80s. Mark was glad the duck wasn’t wearing the suit or it would have been more difficult to focus on what he actually wanted. “Game,” he repeated dropping his voice to a near purr, as he approached Fenton steadily catching his gaze. “I’m not the one who’s playing any games.” The answer was, of course true. At the moment anyway. If something like this had occurred during his childhood he’d have jumped at the opportunity with all that he was, but it hadn’t, and now he was jumping at the chance to have something lesser but still significant. His only response was a long-suffering sigh. “Hey, think all you want but out of the two of us, its Mr McDuck who comes the closest to gameplay right now, sport."Mark’s tone was light as he watched Fenton react to his words."What do you mean by that?” As if he were a small child, instinctually hesitant out of fear of adult reprimand. “Wait,"Mark said slowly , widening his eyes for dramatic effect. "Could it be that you don't know?” The last was spoken in a theatric stage whisper. Fenton looked puzzled. “M'ma said whatever this is had something to do with children?” Fenton said slowly, beginning to look frustrated. “Yes,” Mark agreed, then went for the kill. “Scrooge McDuck and Shere Khan are starting a contest and they'll be using my B.U.D.D.Y. robots to help teach them proper customer service skills.” “What!” The look of shock on his face was priceless. He had to resist the urge to take out his phone and take a selfie with him and Fenton’s face, but at the moment he was cleverly disguised as a concerned and compassionate adult. Somehow he didn’t think that would go with his act. “So you really didn’t know I–” they both startled in alarm when they heard knocking on the front door, and for one wild moment he worries that it was Scrooge, or Gyro, or even Khan on the other side of that door. Both men sat quietly as someone spoke to M'ma Cabrera and then left. The silence between them was heavy as her steps leisurely ambled up the stairs before the woman knocked on the door and her son got up to meet her in the doorway. The two had another brief conversation in Spanish, some of which Mark understood from linguistic osmosis to be thanking her for the papers she had passed to him, but the majority of what was said had been lost on him. The duck returned to his seat and passed the papers to him, which he immediately recognized as the legal documents he’d sent for prior to fixing Fenton’s window latch. “I believe this belongs to you.” Fenton’s voice was several shades colder than it had been and Mark was now holding the obvious culprit. Clearly the paperwork had reminded the duck of the train wreck that had been last time he was employed by Mark Beaks and the parrot cursed the lawyer internally for his less than optimal arrival. “It does.” He admitted slowly, as there was little else he could say. “Why, and no lies now or I’m kicking you out.” The duck said, pointing a finger threateningly in his face. “Did you really come here?” Mark thought for a moment, then changed tactics. He’d gotten this far, he was certain he could get the other bird on his side with a bit of prodding. “Lets call a truce.” He said offering his hand and rolling his eyes when the duck eyed it as if it were covered in some particularly disgusting infectious disease. “Truth is, i need your help, amigo.” The fact pained him but that wouldn’t stop it from being true, no matter what he may have thought. Fenton frowned “Why haven’t you gone to Doctor Gearloose instead?” Mark laughed. “You’ve worked for the man, I’m sure you know how well that would’ve worked out.” His voice adopted a drawl that was a very good take on Gyro’s, if he said so himself. “Oh, the disgrace to proper scientist’s everywhere needs my help.” He pretended to straighten Gearloose’s imaginary glasses. “Words fail to describe my amazement.” He settled once more on his normal voice. “And that's if he didn’t decide to have me thrown into a recycling unit and used as fertilizer for the landscapers.” Fenton laughed . “The Doctor wouldn’t do that,” he defended, but in a more teasing voice “Right now Mr Gearloose is being watched too closely by the board of directors, and I really can’t see them letting him get away with coldblooded murder.” Mark tugged absentmindedly on the nape of his neck. “You’re probably right.” He said in amusement. “Murder tends to be bad for long-term public policy.” Fenton fidgeted at that. “So you’ve never considered–” “–No.” Mark said, interrupting the sentence before it had been fully asked. He’d like their brief camaraderie before it had slipped away. He regretted its absence. “Doctor Gearloose would probably have more respect for you if you didn’t steal so many inventions from other people.” Fenton shrugged. “If you, y'know, acted like a ‘proper scientist’.” Mark was partially tempted to laugh in the other man’s face. Science as they knew it today had been built on people borrowing, stealing, and taking credit for the work of others, often doing utterly deplorable things to the original creators in the process. Mark had never done anything that would be especially awful to a rival, so as far as he was concerned he was actually one of the nicer guys out there. But he had a feeling that if he were to actually admit that he and 'the hero’ would be debating morality forever, so he chose to ignore the statement. “That's one way of looking at it.” He said instead. Fenton raised his eyebrows. 'Oh, and what do you think would get him to change his opinion on you?“ There was just a hint of challenge in his voice and Mark smiled in response. "I have money, Doctor.” He coaxed, pulling out his briefcase to reveal said currency, flaunting it before the other bird as he traced the edges in an almost seductive manner. “And I’m willing to finance a few of your pet projects if you help me settle a simple problem of my own.” He shrugged amicably, closing the briefcase. “You know the man better than me but I’m betting his view towards me would be improved, even if its only by a little.” Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera was left absolutely speechless. Mark chuckled softly at the hungry desperate look that had entered his eyes and twisted his mouth before he checked himself, and pretended that little slip hadn’t happened. But he couldn’t prevent his eyes from darting back to the briefcase like a pet denied its favorite snack. “Why did you bring that here.” Fenton frowned, clearly suspicious. “I need to borrow Gizmodu–” “–No.” Fenton didn’t even bat an eyelid before responding. “You didn’t even let me finish!” Mark protested, the former intern could not be allowed to prevent him access to his super robot self. “I am not here for you to use however you see fit!” The parrot blew air through his beak in frustration, he’d really made things needlessly complicated for himself when he tried to take on the mantle of Gizmoduck, hadn’t he? “Look, this isn't about me trying to take on your mantle again, okay?” Mark said, trying to sound reasonable and hoping like hell he was successful. “In fact, if you get a call requesting your help you can leave at any time, as long as you return when it’s over.” He sighed. “I just want to prevent a few dumb kids from breaking a few bones on live television.” Fenton paused then stared at him. “Run that by me again?” Mark hid a smile confidence returning. “Oh, just a reality show Scrooge and I are involved in.” He said before giving a brief description of what they were planning, fudging only a few specific details a centimeter or two. It was only with this duck’s help that he’d be part of the game. “And I’m going to be a judge!” He finished brightly, watching as Crackshell-Cabrera slowly absorbed the information he’d just divulged. “I… I wouldn’t have thought Mr. McDuck would be interested in starting such a thing.” Fenton admitted, looking more than a little lost. “Me neither!” Mark confessed. Neither Khan nor McDuck seemed like the type of man who would think of doing something like this, let alone act on it. But truthfully he didn’t know either of them well enough to make an accurate judgement call, and when he got down to the wire, he honestly didn't care as long as he somehow got in on it. “But getting back to the topic at hand, Scrooge might not be willing to call in the big guns for something like this, but I’m not him.” Mark grinned all relaxed smiles and casual grace. “I’m thinking of hiring you as Robot manager.” This got Fenton’s attention.“Would you need to make modifications on my armor?” Mark had to cover his mouth to prevent a string of giggles from escaping it. The memory of event, the lack of control, the pain, the humiliation, the fear…it was, well, frankly too soon to try it again. Maybe later he’d warm up to the idea again, but right now he had no desire to chance it and found it hilarious that someone would think he would. “No.” He said after finally settling down. “We both know you don’t trust me as far as you could throw me, and I"d rather avoid the looks, and well, everything else Gyro’s going to throw at me if i altered one of his precious specimens on live tv before a live audience.” Fenton snorted inelegantly and Mar smiled, each knowing the parrot would certainly need to watch his back if he ever tried it. Fenton cocked his head to the side, a small smile reaching his beak. “And i still get decently paid?” “Of course.” Mark assured him, as if even considering to do anything but that would be a crime befitting the worst of punishments.“Good.” He said and had begun reading the contract he had been given to sign. Unlike Glomgold he made no changes, edits or additions, but on some parts he would pause an ask for an explanation when he didn’t understand, listening intently while Mark patiently did his best to answer. This went on for about an hour and they were interrupted only once by M'ma when she insisted they eat something, declaring it was bad to do business on an empty stomach. Mark hadn’t complained. The food had been quite good. About thirty minutes later and Fenton, looking nervous but determined, said he could agree to the terms. Part of the arrangement included shifting Fenton into Gizmoduck and signing the contract while Mark recorded everything using his cell “Neato!” Mark exclaimed once it was all finish. “All that's left is to turn this into a lawyer and get you all nice and paid.” Fenton paused and gave the briefcase a significant stare. Reading the duck’s expression he laughed. “Nope, sorry to say it, but ” Mark said shaking his head. “That's all fake, my man.” Fenton stared at the parrot like he’d grown a second head.“Why do you have a briefcase full of fake money.” “Mugger bait.” Mark said with a shrug. “They think they’re stealing a small fortune, but I’ve got a tracker in this baby, so what they’ve really won a quick trip to the slammer.” He preened for a moment, expecting praise, but drooped slightly when none was forthcoming. “I mean, why would someone have a briefcase with actual money in it? Fenton shrugged looking terribly foolish all of a sudden. "I don’t know, i guess I’ve just seen enough movies that it didn’t seem so strange.” Mark laughed. “I’ve been there, buddy.” He gave the contract a once over, then stood up stretching for a moment before retrieving his briefcase. “If this all checks through, I’m going to be wiring the money into your account later tonight.” Fenton nodded for a moment before looking him straight in the eyes. “I like to think people are mostly good, and I want to believe the only reason you’re doing this is to help the children, so…” Fenton stopped, seemingly unable to provide the words for how he felt. “So, just don’t betray that trust, okay?” Mark smiled and gave him an easygoing salute. “You have my word.” He said, before finally taking his leave of the house. He would send a copy to Tabaqui’s office and he would finally get to arguing terms of his own contract  with Khan. If all went well he would be a judge. He could hardly wait.