#like yes they squabble!! and they are prone to getting under each other’s skin!!

[wickmitz]

i don’t think church would do something so drastic! after all, tracy also said that church “-- does some things that i think are not entirely unreasonable, given the circumstances,” about the part church will later play, which doesn’t sound like attempted murder or the likes to me. and despite the strained relationship him and wick have, he does hold some actual interest in wick ; and wick, in spite of the loathing he feels towards church’s constant critiques, did take the man’s advice to heart later too. there is also the fact that church knows about the duck ( something that only one other person, aka lacy, knows about ) and still met that with leveled advice rather than, reasonably, thinking mr. sedgewick sable a looney and withdrawing his investments. to me, he does care to an extent, or at the very least there’s some form of respect and trust there. but if it comes down to wick or his own behind … then he will choose himself every single time. hence the literal wording on his character card on the lackadaisy site!

if one can crack through the acrid outer coating and pick off the prickly cynicisms beneath, he at least appears to uphold a measure of genuine regard. of course, a devout pragmatist, church always has his self-interest to consider too.

the more likely scenario is that wick will have a fallout with the investors due to the money mitzi stole, and they will probably start to leave him over time. the worst thing i could see church doing ( which would still fit tracy’s statement, as well as making sense for him as a character ) is him somehow convincing wick to hand over sable stone & quarry to him, with wick stepping down and allowing church to resume the operation by his lonesome. it’d be a messed up thing to happen, certainly, but given wick’s own penchant for rubbing elbows with nefarious types and getting himself into trouble, it wouldn’t be unreasonable for church to view him as unfit to run a booming business. but more likely than not, church will just leave wick high and dry to save his own reputation in the end. which, again, isn’t an unreasonable thing to do given what has and will probably happen within the story.

lacy might go through a similar arc herself, where she may be inclined to pick her own future over wick, if you read this old q&a post tracy did in a certain way.

after all, her role in volume two was being wick’s right hand woman -- someone who cares for him deeply ( as stated in her character card ) and wants the best for him and the business. for that role to change to something ‘rather different’ around the time wick begins to suffer due to his gangster related problems, then i could see her jumping ship as well. especially if wick continues to dig his own grave and decides to return to the lackadaisy, even though he now knows it’s wrong to do so. while lacy and church could be read as cruel for these actions, there’s no denying it’d make sense for them to distance themselves … they aren’t obliged to drown alongside wick, even if he is a deeply kind man who got himself mixed up in something he did somewhat try to avoid.

but overall, church interests me as a character for this exact reason. he’s far from being a good person, but like everyone else in lackadaisy he’s hardly some inhuman evil force either. whatever church does to wick will hurt harder if it’s a.) not personal and b.) they at least held somewhat positive feelings towards each other, even if it’s as simple as wick trusting church to guide him properly and church believing wick has promise. only time will tell! but i do firmly believe whatever church and wick’s relationship is will have layers to it, since tracy is very skilled at making every lackadaisy dynamic so woefully complex. if the characters matter and serve a purpose, anyway!

my hot take is that i love the investors actually. i think they’re sooo fun and i enjoy the way they act around wick … edmund church in particular is *chefs kiss*

[mydisasteracademia]

Random LOV Headcanons

• Repeating something from my book “Did My Time”, due to the damage to Dabi’s body, he needs to use eyedrops multiple times a day. The amount depends on whether or not he uses his Quirk a lot; if he uses it more, he’ll need to practically drown his eyes with special medicated eyedrops to help with the dry-eye.

Adding onto this, due to his body’s natural affinity for the cold, he prefers cold things more than hot, because he has a worse reaction to hot/spicy things compared to other people (just like his mother). Yes, this means I HC him to absolutely never get brain freeze. The others are always jealous of him whenever he chugs a Slurpee in one go.

His burnt, scarred skin is extremely sensitive, especially to scents and scented lotions. He’s found that ointment works to keep things moist, but that also means he needs to be constantly re-applying it every time it dries, given that his Quirk is constantly drying out his skin to the point of damage. Every time his staples tug, even a little, it’s really painful and he’s prone to bleeding.

He does have a bit of a protective instinct, but only over those he deems weaker than him (and let’s be honest, he already has a lot of trouble with his own self-image, so that list might be shorter than you’d think). Definitely has an ‘irritated older sibling to hyperactive younger sibling’ relationship with Toga once they start to get closer. Gets unnecessarily competitive with others he considers stronger than himself, even if he himself doesn’t immediately realize what he’s doing.

Due to his Quirk being dangerous to himself, he can smell off, and he gets very touchy about it. Having grown up in a wealthy family, he can get very insecure at his bedraggled appearance and smell. He literally smells like burnt flesh all the time, and it lingers on his own body and his clothing. Due to this, he always hits up a laundromat to wash his clothes a few times a week, using money he’s picked off of wealthier victims of his. Really lays on the cologne to mask his natural corpse smell (and usually ends up smelling like pine trees, smoke, and something vaguely rotting).

Dabi is incredibly touch-starved, given that most people look at him and recoil in horror. He’s more like a cat, though. If you give him too much attention, he gets annoyed, but if he happens to rest his arm on your head or shoulder, that’s his way of subtly asking for positive attention. Depending on who’s doing it, he won’t immediately shove someone away if they decide to hug him. He’s a bit iffy with touch, and the fear of accidentally hurting someone he’s close to with his own Quirk messes with his head a lot. He can be a bit of an attention whore, given his fucked-up childhood, and when he gets praise it can put him in a good mood for a while. He really internalizes negative attention and can brood about not being good enough for a long time though. Won’t admit it, but he lives for headpats. Please give him headpats. He deserves headpats. Just watch out for the hair dye.

• Shigaraki’s Quirk does affect his body, though not by quickly decaying him like he does other things. Instead it’s more of a ‘slow-burn’ decay, and his constant itching is one side-effect of that. Since his body is constantly breaking down (his scratching gets rid of a lot of dead skin on the surface), his skin is incredibly sensitive and he can’t use most face/skin products because it damages him even more and he reacts horribly to it. So far he hasn’t found a brand that can help with his marred skin. Adding to this, he can’t stand spicy foods because it aggravates his decaying body.

Since his body is in a constant state of death and dying, this means he can smell off on even good days. It could be described as musty or ‘stale’, and since he’s extremely sensitive to scents and lotions/creams, he can’t exactly just use any old cologne to mask it.

Sometimes his throat gets super dry and he chokes on debris from his own mouth and throat. He needs to constantly hydrate to keep things from getting a bit too dusty. This means he prefers wet/moist foods over dry, and if he eats anything dry he’ll have a drink to go with it. At Kurogiri’s insistence, he always has a few bottles of water in his room at a time so he doesn’t have to get up in the night to go to a working sink for a drink.

This boy is so touch-starved. Whenever someone of the League hugs him, he acts huffy about it, but he doesn’t shove them off (unless it’s Dabi giving him a noogie, then he threatens death, much to the taller one’s amusement). He secretly craves touching other people. He’s terrified of accidentally dusting someone he cares about again (his family’s deaths haunt his dreams more nights than not), but if someone hugs him he just kind of melts into it. Someone please hug this boy. He needs headpats and positive reinforcement.

• Spinner absolutely loves sunning himself on rocks during summer. Whenever the weather is hot and it’s sunny, if he has a day off you’ll find him chilling outside on a rock just soaking up the sun.

Adding onto this, he really loves humid, hot weather. While the rest of the League (especially Dabi) is suffering, he’s just vibing with the weather.

And he sheds. Usually a few times a year, but it’s not uncommon to see large swaths of translucent white patches left behind. This can annoy the League, but to his credit, Spinner tries to keep it on the down-low. More than once he’s tried inconspicuously rubbing his arm or cheek against Shigaraki to try and help get the dead skin off. (He gets really irritated, but it helps with the itching a bit, so he doesn’t really complain unless he’s trying to concentrate on something.)

• Compress will casually swipe up random items that the League leaves around and later might give them back depending on what it is. The other members can get varying levels of annoyed at this, but they don’t get too beat up about it considering Compress’s Quirk and personality. (This is how Toga lost her favorite lip gloss. She didn’t stop pouting for a week until Twice bought her another one.)

When he gets anxious or bored, he often resorts to simple hand tricks to keep himself entertained: fiddling around with his marbles, practicing simple card tricks, or practicing magic.

• Toga loves horror. Almost any horror. Especially guro. During movie nights with the League, as long as the movie has some form of mutilation and/or blood, she’s giving it her full attention. Adding to this, she really loves anything written by Junji Ito and has read Tomie about twenty times. Despite this, she has a soft spot for cutesy things and her aesthetic is Gurokawa. She definitely has a Gloomy Bear plush or two.

She definitely has a fondness for beauty products, given that she’s still just a normal girl despite her Quirk. This fact can make her really insecure, and she’s prone to depressive episodes just like anyone else in the League where she does herself up real pretty just to try and feel more ‘in tune’ with her femininity and less like the monster her parents saw her as. Magne helped with this a lot in the past, but now that she’s gone she relies more on the others to help cheer her up.

She is not above forcing the other League members into spa days. Shigaraki is the only one who doesn’t have to get a facial, though she does insist on painting his nails and doing his hair.

• Kurogiri’s mist/fog can get blown away quicker than he can create more, but only by a very strong wind. It’s hilarious. Shigaraki can’t stop teasing him for it.

Is not above using his Quirk to forcefully separate two squabbling parties, especially in the bar hideout.

When he’s bored, he does bar tricks, much to Toga’s delight.

Since quite a few League members are under drinking age, he always makes sure to have sparkling cider on hand.

He carries snacks and a first-aid kit every time the League goes out on a mission -- especially when it’s Shigaraki heading out. He really does care for the man and will be the first to hand him ointment whenever his skin gets really crumbly or damaged.

Has come to reluctantly see the League as people he worries for. That’s the closest to “hm yes these are my children now I must protect” that you’ll get.

He misses Magne for how sensible she could be. He appreciates Compress’s overall chill vibe and his being the voice of reason among their little group of mass murderers.

• Kurogiri and Magne were the League’s parental figures. You can’t fight me on this. (Kurogiri reluctantly, Magne enthusiastically.) Compress was more like the outgoing uncle that has a sense of humor nobody can really understand at first and was definitely a theater major in college.

• Shigaraki and Dabi love chicken nuggets. Every time someone brings home fast food, you can bet your ass they’ll have ordered like a fifty-piece chicken nugget meal from wherever sells that. Constantly have to deal with each other trying to swipe the other’s nuggets when they finish their own.

• Twice loves Vine compilations and can recite a worrying number of them from memory. He gets a kick out of the “A Bagel, Two Bagels” one for how much he relates to it.

• Before she died, Magne loved when Toga begged her to help her with makeup. It helped with her dysphoria when Toga would doll her up.

She loved window-shopping and imagining herself wearing some of the stylish clothes in shop windows.

Despite her cruel persona towards her enemies, Magne had a soft spot for elegant-cute things, kinda like Toga but a little less bloody.

• Muscular always challenges the other League members to arm-wrestling when he’s around. He always wins. The others have learnt not to accept his challenges, lest they want bruises/sprains.

• Mustard is very childish in his tastes. He loves chicken nuggets and mac n’ cheese. Provokes people by pulling his lower eyelid down and sticking his tongue at them. I can definitely imagine him muttering “Eat my shorts” or “Don’t have a cow, man” whenever another member is angry about something.

• In this household we pretend that Moonfish does not exist.

• If the League had Switches, you bet your ass they play Animal Crossing on them.

Toga would go for a ‘Aika Village’ aesthetic, all gloomy and creepy but with an undeniably cute element to it. Definitely wears pastels and gothic-themed clothing.

Shigaraki models his after his favorite RPG and hunts down NPCs that fit the personalities of the various characters. His favorite characters tend to be dogs. Will not hesitate to kick out any animal who fails his ‘vibe check’. Surprisingly, this game can calm him down almost as well as an RPG. Joycon drift is the bane of his existence.

Compress uses only the most glamorous, expensive items on his island. Outright refuses to use dirt paths. Uses only Snooty villagers.

Dabi wants his island to look the best and is uncharacteristically stern about how his island looks. Everything is very neat and streamlined (and he has an outdoor gym near his player’s home). Will physically fight anyone who tries to ruin it by littering or messing around on it. He has a rivalry with Compress about whose island looks the best.

Spinner doesn’t really care about how his island looks. He just wants to max out his encyclopedias. Shigaraki once caught him up at 3 AM because he was trying to catch a spider crab.

Kurogiri doesn’t play it that often, so his island is fairly undeveloped. Doesn’t really care about it, considering his responsibilities to the League overpower a video game.

Muscular doesn’t care about it at all and doesn’t play.

Mustard made his island look like something out of Harvest Moon or Stardew Valley; a town area, a forest, and even a beach.

[theshinsun]

please I Am Begging You do that 20 questions for OT3s with AoKagaKuro

asdfgggdfhjkk ok here we go! prepare for Length...

Who sleeps in the middle?

Kuroko. he gets cold the easiest and likes to be smushed between his two giant bfs. he’s also often the peacekeeper stopping them from kicking each other and stealing the blankets. they both get their share of his ice cold toes and fingers that way, and he’s such a light sleeper that once they’re in that position neither of them can move for fear of waking him up, but none of them would have it any other way.

Who is the best cuddler?

Kagami. he’s like a giant snuggly teddy bear, gives the very best hugs and is always the big spoon no matter who he’s cuddling with. and he’s okay with that. in fact he loves it, whether he’s holding Kuroko or Aomine or both at once, he loves that he can just wrap around them like an octopus and make them feel safe and loved. 

Who gets hurt the most?

Kuroko. Kagami might be the biggest klutz of the three but he also doesn’t bruise easily. meanwhile if Kuroko so much as stubs his toe it turns purple and he’ll be limping for a few days. he’s also the one most likely to get in trouble and get scraped up on purpose, whether he’s skinning his knees trying some new technique he’s not prepared for, or picking a fight and getting decked by someone twice his size, he’s always sporting a new bruise or band-aid and getting chastised by his overprotective bfs who are honestly just as bad... just less likely to show it.

Who acts like the baby?

Aomine. obviously. this guy is an oversized toddler in big boy clothes. he’s always pestering for attention and whines and complains when he doesn’t get his way. he’s a picky eater and can throw actual tantrums if he’s annoyed enough -- and usually the root cause is him not getting enough sleep. he’s also treated like the baby of the family, with both Kagami and Kuroko feeding him and taking care of him, but honestly, neither of them mind it much. 

Who teases the others the most?

also Aomine. he’s especially prone to poking and picking at Kagami because he knows just what buttons to press and likes to get him riled up. he can’t seem to resist taunting and provoking him at any given opportunity, and he’s just as quick to tease Kuroko, when he can. the difference is rather than turning red and potentially starting a fight, Kuroko will just coolly sass him right back and move on with his day.

Who proposes?

I’m sorry but I can only see Aomine being the one to propose (or at the very least, being the first one). under the exterior, he’s a useless sappy romantic and would probably either insist on doing things proper, buying a pair of rings and getting down on one knee and all, OR randomly blurting it out during dinner with no planning or preparation or anything. either way, of course they both say yes. 

Who is the most protective?

Kuroko. looks are 100% deceiving here, he’s physically the smallest but mentally and emotionally, he’s the toughest of the three and he’ll go to the ends of the earth to defend the people he loves. he would absolutely put himself in danger to protect the others and worries about both of them a lot (sometimes needlessly, but there are times they do need it). Kagami and Aomine both put up a tough act, and follow Kuroko around like his personal bodyguards, but don’t be fooled, he’s the one you need to really watch out for.   

Who is the closest to the child? (Whether it be a fur baby, scale baby, or human child.)

either Aomine or Kuroko... probably both equally. they’re very emotionally-driven people who love animals of all shapes and sizes (Kagami would have some trouble if their fur baby happened to be a dog -- and considering Nigou that’s a very likely possibility). both of them would form a strong connection with any baby the group decided to have. that’s not to say Kagami wouldn’t also be close to a child or pet and love them, but he’s just a little bit more distant and guarded than the others and it would definitely take him some time.

Who gives the best advice?

Kuroko. he’s (usually) the only one with a brain cell to speak of, and has a lot of practical knowledge and common sense. he has difficulty separating his emotions from a situation to look at it objectively, so he can be a little biased with what he suggests, but it’s still good advice, just the same.

Who is like a therapist?

Kagami. unlike Kuroko, he doesn’t always know what to say or what to suggest, but he is a good listener, and easy to talk to, so he lets the others vent to him and work through their issues, and often finds himself on the receiving end of a long and cathartic story or rant from one or both of them. he’s also much better at looking at things objectively; nine times out of ten he’ll bluntly point something out that makes the others look at things from a new angle, because it’s so obvious to him as an outsider but they’re too wrapped up to see it.

Who sings B and C to sleep?

Kagami. I hc that he can sing in three different languages (English, Japanese and some Spanish), the others especially like when he sings in English, and he indulges them since he’s probably going to be up the latest anyway. sometimes Kuroko also tries his hand at a lullaby, but he doesn’t have the instant power to knock Aomine out that Kagami does. 

Is the relationship healthy?

I mean... is any relationship completely, 100% healthy? as relationships go, they have a very good balance between them and there’s a mutual, three-way respect that they all maintain with each other. they’ve got problems and character flaws, of course, they’re very different people and things aren’t always going to be perfect, but they love each other and are all willing to put in the work when it comes down to it.

Do A and B have a stronger bond with each other? Or do C and B or C and A have a stronger bond? Or are A, B, and C close together [equally]?

they’re all close with each other in different ways. not necessarily equally all around, just... their individual relationships within the greater whole have different strengths and shortcomings. It breaks down something like this:

Kagami and Kuroko are probably the most stable with each other. there’s trust and affection and good communication between them, and they’re on very equal footing. the trouble is, because they usually work together so well, they’re not very good at reconciling when they don’t, and things can build up between them that they don’t acknowledge until their whole balance crumbles. 

Aomine and Kagami are in tune with each other in a way that’s almost instinctive, they finish each other’s sentences and seem to always be on the same wavelength. they don’t require much from each other, and have a kind of simple ease in each other’s company, when they aren’t getting in each other’s faces. the downside is they aren’t very good at communicating, and tend to avoid difficult subjects and saying what they really mean.

Aomine and Kuroko have history, are probably the most sappy and romantic with each other, and share an almost indescribably intimate bond built up over years, but they’re also the most likely to argue (not just petty squabbling like Aomine and Kagami, or old-married-couple bickering like Kagami and Kuroko, but actually fight and hurt each other). they’re also terrible about enabling and egging each other on and probably get into the most ridiculous situations because they’re somehow the best and worst combination of personality traits at the same time.

Who can be trusted to be left home alone?

Kagami. he’s the only one. do not leave either of the others home alone they will burn the house down, either accidentally or as a result of getting bored and thinking “I wonder what happens if...” (famous last words).

Who cries the most?

Kuroko, by default. he cries about as much as any normal, healthy person would. Kagami doesn’t cry hardly ever, to the point that it’s a little concerning sometimes, and when he does it’s a Big Deal. Aomine cries every now and then, but doesn’t really feel comfortable doing it in front of other people so he’ll usually try to hide it or hold it in.

Who is the softest?

like... physically, or emotionally? you know what, Kagami for both. he’s a great big softy under the tough exterior, and even though he’s the most physically jacked, he’s got enough meat on his bones to have some nice give and be very comfy to lie on.

Who is the shortest?

Kuroko. ....we been knew.

Who is the tallest?

Aomine. again we been knew; he’ll hold that little 2cm sliver of height he’s got on Kagami over his head until the end of time.

Who likes cuddles the most?

Aomine. he will seek out cuddles every chance he gets, he flops down next to both of the others and nudges them like a cat, or just muscles his way into their space until they have to accommodate him or risk falling off the couch. 

Last of all, who sings terribly in the shower?

oh dear god. you know what, I think it’d be really funny if it was Kagami. it’s boggling because he can sing perfectly well, they all know it, but for some reason when he’s alone and using the body wash as a microphone he lets loose and goes completely off-key and it’s awful. the others love it though (even if they’re confused) because it sounds like he’s having fun, at least.

[polarwooly]

As promised, here’s some goblin boys. 

Up on top we have Gorzog, the leader of a small clan of goblins situated somewhere on the Misty Mountains. He and his followers splintered from a larger group when he got tired of being pushed around by the higher ranking officials. Prone to anger issues and high blood pressure, he is considered an excellent leader.

Lower down is Grek, an ancient sentry-goblin. His rare old age can be attribbuted to his non-confrontational and cowardly nature. His eyesight is really starting to go (especially close up), but relying on his keen hearing and smell usually sees him through perfectly fine. (He may or may not be Gorzog’s biological father, but goblins usually don’t bother keeping track.)

A little fic I wrote like a year ago under the cut, warning for attempted eating of humans and the flattening of one (1) mule.

The fog was thick on the jagged slopes of the mountains that morning. Water hung in the air like particularly lazy rain, weighing down and drenching everything it touched. It soaked into clothes and ran it’s cold fingers under armor, chilling anyone it touched to the bone. The thick air seemed to dampen any sounds as well and the only thing to be heard was the steady drip, drip, drip of the ice cold water droplets loosing their hold on the nose of a very grumpy and weathered-looking goblin standing on a narrow cliff overlooking a mountain pass.

Grek shook his broad head slightly to try and dislodge some of the droplets hanging stubbornly to the folds of skin above his eyes. He hated being stationed outside on days like this, his worn joints aching for the warmth of the burrows beneath. Getting old sucked. Not very many goblins had that problem, he thought to himself. It was pretty impressive of him to have lived to be… however old he was. He tried to wrack his brain for an exact number, but maybe he had never bothered to start the count in the first place. Not that it mattered much, anyway.

As Grek drew in a long breath and sighed, something on the air caught his attention. He sniffed the air with the fervor of a hound after a piece of ham. There it was again, mixed in with the fog. A campfire. The smell of flame was unmistakable, though the sting of burning wood was very different from smoldering of the bone and coal he was more familiar with. Leaning over his narrow perch, Grek scanned the narrow pass below. Although his eyes had been growing dimmer with age, it was easy enough for him to make out the small dot of light down by the root of the mountain. With a practiced ease he started a mad dash down the slippery rocks towards the rest of his hunting party. If all went well, there would be manflesh for dinner tonight.

–

The hasty hoofbeats echoing down the narrow mountain road was everything that remained from the small troupe of humans they had ambushed near their campsite that morning. All Grek’s party had to show for their effort was a patchy-pelted mule, and even that had been half crushed by a mistimed boulder. While the younger raiders squabbled over the supplies left in the messily abandoned camp, Grek was trying to figure out if the squashed half of the beast was worth scrounging out to eat.

Suddenly, a new set of footfalls rang through the mist. Grek didn’t need to wait to see a face to know who was about to arrive to inspect their work. A few hasty sidesteps put the carcass between himself and the approaching sound. Just then, the leader of their clan, Gorzog, came barreling through the mist at his usual determined pace, clad in thick tanned-leather armor and at his side the finest blade on this side of the mountain range; “Bloodcaller”. Grek had long since learned to be wary of the cruel piece of metal and it’s temperamental wielder. The mist hadn’t a chance to stop swirling before he was joined by a handful of his favorite warriors.

Gorzog ran his cat-like eyes up and down the scene, briefly glancing at Grek over the carcass and making some brief, unknown calculation that made the old goblin’s hunch a bit deeper. The young ones had not yet noticed the new arrivals as their squabble was getting louder and louder. They seemed to have uncovered a small dagger from among the travelers’ things and were now waving it around above their heads to try and keep it for themselves. Clearly annoyed at this blatant act of disrespect, Gorzog reached over and easily plucked the knife from the hand currently holding it. The newly disarmed goblin spun around angrily, hissing half an insult before being stopped in his tracks by a sharp growl and a maw-full of fangs.

“Insolent whelps! Why are you nipping at each other like varg at feeding hour?” Gorzog spat between his teeth.

“W-well, Gishrak found this neat little dagger, but ‘cause I am leader…”

“Enough!” he cut the young warrior off. He leaned a bit closer, towering over and closely studying the horrified expression on the other’s face. “So, it was your fault the ambush failed, then. Since you seem to be in charge here?”

“Oh, um… well… Grek is the oldest. Oldest warrior is in charge, yes?”

Immediately, Grek felt a cold wave down his spine. Gorzog‘s gaze lingered on the smaller goblin for a moment, before it snapped back to Grek once more. The old sentinel’s tail instinctively wrapped around his ankles and he sank further behind the pancake of a mule. Instead of redirecting his chastising, Gorzog simply rolled his eyes and snorted indignantly. He stuck the little dagger into his belt and turned on his heel to return down into the burrows.

“Get this mess in the hoard!” Gorzog barked, without bothering to turn his head.

All goblins left behind gave a silent sigh of relief, before beginning to sort any viable loot into separate piles.

–

That night the tunnels under the mountain echoed with the loud, drunken songs of the Clan. The trinkets had been divided up among the stronger takers and what was left of the mule was roasting on a large fire at the center of the grand hall. As Grek sat in his own corner munching on a piece of flattened flank and sipping the cheap booze that the travelers’ had ditched, his eyes happened to wander over the great fur covered seat of Gorzog, sitting on the best place in the hall. It took him a while, but he recognized the expression on the leader’s face was even more sullen than usual. Grek could guess that he was worried about the men that had gotten away earlier that day. He didn’t dwell on it very long though, his back was still sore from from that morning, so he took a deep swig of his drink and chased the burning liquid with some more meat. Those were not the sorts of things that he worried about.

[bave-de-crapaud]

The Darkness Within...

CHAPTER ONE

(Lips Like Compass by https://society6.com/withoneline)

Request by: @belladonnarey Thank you girl! Massive delay in writing this but the idea/request comes from the wonderful BellaDonnaRey. I hope you like. More chapters are coming.

Sirius x reader Older Sirius Sirius lives / Post Azkaban Slow burn and eventual smut

Word count: 2300+ Disclaimer: all characters are assumed 18+ Warnings: dark little things and scary crows

-------

It was late. The only light was a near full moon in the sky highlighting your silhouette against a gravestone. Regardless of the darkness you could see clearly in front of you, which was, at least, odd. The mist on your breath indicated that the temperature was low, however you didn’t feel the cold. Another unexplained nod to your true nature perhaps?

Ye gods he was taking ages with this. It is like he is deliberately trying to inconvenience you.

I hate this. You thought for the 100th time.

Yeah well, it’s all you’re good for so suck it up. Another voice played in your head.

The problem with you was that you tried very hard to distance yourself from your past. Very hard. How much distance would it take? Especially as you really didn’t know that much of your past to begin with.

As you waited in the deserted graveyard a prickling sensation you did not like swept up your neck. It wasn’t the crows - you didn’t mind them per-say you even admired their bold plumage and haunting eyes. It wasn’t their fault they embodied dark feathered nightmares in every children’s tale ever read, but their constant scuttling through leaves, foraging for worms and mice was distracting and masking other more sinister movements. You felt like you were being watched.

“For fucks sake! Hurry up Macnair!” You growled loudly to yourself. “I haven’t got all day.”

A wheezy chuckle sounded behind a large mausoleum where Macnair revealed himself in the moonlight.

“You’ve been watching me Walden!” You heavily emphasised his first name, knowing he disliked being addressed as such. “What, didn’t believe I would be alone?” He scowled at you and merely shrugged. “Can’t be too careful Y/L/N, you might have turned.”

A tight menacing laugh spilled out of your mouth. “The Dark Lord holds me in high regard, Macnair. I would have thought that’d be good enough for you.”

Macnair scowled at the reminder that you outranked him at more than half his age. He was not used to being usurped and the fact Voldemort asked of you more important, more dangerous tasks while he was left squabbling over the scraps did not sit well with him at all. He used every chance to get ahead and finally had been thrown a bone. Tonight you were summoned to meet Macnair and collect a package. He was reviling in his 15 minutes of favouritism and he seemed determined to undermine you at every step of the way.

“The Dark Lord hasn’t heard everything about your school days Y/L/N. He would have found your alternative ‘influence’ a lot less palatable that I have.”

You grimaced knowing what he was referring to. It’s true you had been different in school. Not the cold, calculating witch he saw never faltering under Voldemort’s rule. You were small, skinny and weak looking, a little strange, and prone to outbursts. He particularly disapproved of your tendency to talk about the delusion of purist mania, and how wizard kind would benefit from muggles instead of incessantly inbreeding until magic dies out. No one told you this would earn you one of the foulest punishments you had ever endured by your own house mates. You clutched at your throat momentarily.

You learnt the right way to live in this world soon after.

Macnair continued on getting more and more passionate as well as louder about how he was a better Death Eater than you. You ignored him, caught deep in your memories. He had touched a nerve. Was I really that transparent? There is no way this moron could know? The Dark Lord didn’t know. Heck, you didn’t even really know.

You started to mentally take stock of your life as Macnair prattled on.

You were a young woman. You looked normal, pretty even. You tried to behave normally however: -Things burn when you get angry -You can see in the dark and never feel the cold. -You can manipulate peoples emotions by making them feel horrible, terrified, and hopeless however you cannot make people feel happiness -Strange symbols, and pictures appear on your skin whenever you are scared -You were twelve years old when you first conjured all the animals in proximity and set them on a boy in your year for pulling your hair and that scared everyone around you to start throwing words around such as ‘dark magic,’ and ‘locked up.’ You had never done that since. -You had no idea how you had these ‘gifts’ as Voldemort called them -You didn’t know who you were except that…

You were an orphan. You were a Slytherin. You were a Death Eater.

Plagues of memories, shattered glimpses of your past flashed through your mind. How were you supposed to know who you were if you didn’t know where you came from?

No photos, no lasting family heirlooms, just jolted memories here and there of orphanages and foster homes to piece together your origins.

In a happier time, you used to believe that you would find yourself happy and content, filled with warmth from a loving family. However, as soon as you turned eleven, something dark began to grow. It was though these gifts were not yours but belonged to a living creature buried deep inside, a sleeping dragon lying dormant - perhaps forever - but the first day you held your first wand she awoke, sparked a fire in your stomach and slowly filling your heart with lead.

Meanwhile…

Sirius kicked a stray pebble with his boot it bounced along the footpath until it hit a loose cobblestone and ricocheted into a high stone fence. He was bored, Remus could tell. They had been on duty for the Order ten nights in a row, scouring the streets of London for suspicious activity, yet found nothing. Remus surmised that this was a good thing. Sirius, on the other hand, thought they weren’t looking hard enough.

“Alright Pads, let’s move…” Remus stopped mid sentence noticing Sirius had suddenly gone stock still, ear cocked to his left.

“Shhh Moony, I hear something!” Remus listened carefully. For a while he only heard and saw his and Sirius’ breaths in the crisp night air until an unmistakeable chatter was rising higher and higher as if two people were arguing.

Sirius looked at Remus, eyes gleaming with excitement. “You know the drill? Got to check it out!”

Remus nodded slowly and followed Sirius along the stone fence line, coming to an entrance bordered by two large and rather rusty wrought iron gates, grotesque gargoyles standing sentinel either-side.

As they crossed the gates they looked around at what was a very old cemetery. Sirius looked at Remus and jabbed his head to the right before scrambling between two gravestones and further into the dark. After five minutes of tip-toeing behind tombs, trees, and statues, Remus and Sirius located the sound of their quarry. They could clearly hear a conversation between two people standing on the other side of the large mausoleum blocking both parties from seeing each other.

Remus crouched low, pressing his back against the door of the mausoleum listening carefully. Did he recognise one of the voices? Sirius, not content with just listening was twisting his body around the tomb to get a better look. In his attempt he had not noticed that he had snagged a low hanging tree branch on his leather jacket, and continued moving forward. A sharp pop rang through the air as the branch broke startling the two arguing who had so far not noticed anyone approach. Sirius slammed his back, back against the mausoleum grimacing at Remus who slowly shook his head with distain. He mouthed “Sit still” at Sirius, who shrugged but did not make effort to move again, both men listening intently to the reactions of Sirius’ mistake.

———

“What was that?” You demanded? “You bought friends, Macnair?” “What? No I can handle this job on my own!”

You both frowned at each other before turning to look at a large stone tomb on your right. Something or someone was there. You had both heard it. Was it an animal? You cast a spell revealing if enemies where around you yet nothing happened. It must have been another crow, You shivered, feeling the hairs on the back of your neck stand up for the second time. There it was again, the unsettling sensation that you were being watched. The sooner you got out of this place and finished your business the better. “Hurry up Macnair” you turned back to him. “You’ve gone on long enough, probably alerted half of London to our presence. Now, to what do I owe the pleasure? Why did the Dark Lord send you to meet me here tonight?”

Macnair grumbled, looking at you with a sneer before reaching into his robes…

———-

Remus furrowed his brows. That voice sounded familiar. Macnair was a Death Eater but who was the woman he was talking to and why did Remus…..oh god! It’s Y/N. Remus started to panic. He could see Sirius shaking with anticipation out of the corner of his eye. They were about to come face to face with Y/N - this would not go down well, they were no match for her - everyone would know.

He calculated his options not noticing Sirius had started to move again. Realising Sirius was about to interrupt what he thought was merely a tame Death Eater meeting he frantically tried to get Sirius’ attention by waving his hands erratically in front of him but Sirius was focused - he had found a gap between graves and was now locked on his prey like a bloodhound.

——-

“…I was asked to give you this.” Macnair pulled out a small package from inside his robes pausing before handing it to you. “The Dark Lord was most instant that only you should open this as only you with your, history, would know what it was.”

Could this be it? The clue that broke the mysteries of your past? Explain the darkness within? You eyed the package greedily, eyes flashing purple before you swallowed and took a deep breath. The desire to know what was inside you almost overran your rational thoughts.

Why would Voldemort be taking an interest in your past? What did he know? Was it to use you as a force, a weapon only to discard you later like he did most of his followers? You couldn’t let that happen. However strong the desire to know, the desire of self preservation was stronger.

As if sensing your deliberation, Macnair started pulling back at the same time the hairs on the back or your neck stood up, so fast they almost pinched you. You heard a whoosh and felt yourself lifting into the air and thrown back at force hitting your head on the hard ground, causing you to lose your grip on your wand.

Macnair turned on the spot, ducking from another curse with surprising ability for an old man. The words “Black!” And “Werewolf” reached your crumpled heap as you pulled your self off the ground. So you were being watched, by Order members.

“Nice to see you Macnair! My you are looking fat - been sitting on your arse too much lately? Not Voldemort’s best friend yet?” Sirius Black’s laugh vivid in his jest - Geez you thought, rubbing your skull - he knew how to hit a nerve.

Macnair cried out in anger, ducked again as another curse flew towards him before lunging at Sirius, conjuring a large whip and slashing it across his back. Sirius was thrown onto his knees before Macnair had him up in the air, held at the neck by an invisible force.

Before you could get up Remus Lupin was hovering above you pointing his wand at your chest looking panicked. You locked eyes with him as you sat on the ground desperately fumbling behind you for your wand. Why wasn’t he doing anything? You frowned into his face almost daring him to hex you half listening to Macnair taunting Sirius who was now being choked by whatever was holding him up.

“Not so cocky now, are you Black?” Macnair sniggered up at him, “Well…” spluttered Sirius “I have my moments.” One hand grasping at the clasp around his neck he used the other to point his wand at Macnair. It glowed brightly and then suddenly a large fireball emerged heading straight towards Macnair’s wand hand, lighting it up in flames.

At once, Macnair’s curse was broken and Sirius fell to the ground grasping for breath. While Macnair rolled around around in agony. Remus gave you once last look before sprinting over to his friend grabbing his arm hurriedly whispering, “we have to get out of here!”

“What?” Sirius threw him a shocked face, one hand still massaging his neck.

“I’ll explain later, now move!” Before they could a large body of water dropped from above, putting out the fire on Macnair’s arm and drenching Sirius and Remus, while you walked towards them holding the back of your head.

“MY WAND!” Macnair screamed with fury. It was burnt to a crisp. Whatever fire Sirius used was not normal. Sirius was quickly regaining his breath and looking at you with intent to fight.

If you had had time you might have been impressed, but with a quick glance at Remus, you turned your wand on Sirius and cast the cruciatus curse. He fell to the floor writhing in agony. The darkness inside was moving - swirling round and tempting eruption. You braced yourself, waiting. Remus’ hex whipped through your body temporarily winding you and breaking the curse on Sirius.

You grabbed Macnair’s arm, not hearing his screams of protest. The last sight you saw was Sirius coughing on his back, and Remus crouched down next to him but looking at you with an expression akin to sorrow and understanding as you twisted into the darkness and disappeared.

-------- Tag list: @belladonnarey @sirius-lysad @riddikuluslypotter @emmamass24 @evyiione @evyiione @mylovelykelsifer @sly-vixen-up2nogood @ashkuuuu @virgilwrites-archive @songforhema @wangmangagavroche

[lisatelramor]

A Witch Afoot

The last DCMK/DNAngel crossover fic for the moment, written for the random prompt of Akako-Satoshi: Entangled

Ordinarily Satoshi wouldn’t bother being involved with a heist that Dark isn’t involved in. He’s seen the note, different methodology in its warning, different handwriting, different signature, different thief. But unfortunately for him, the thief is interested in a Hikari work, and anything Hikari falls under Satoshi’s responsibility.

The necklace in question is a ruby set in silver with elaborate enamel backing; quite pretty objectively speaking, but the Eternal Heart is one of the more obscure Hikari works. It was a gift to a lover by one of Satoshi’s ancestors, and not even a work of one of the more notable ancestors. The man had been one of Krad’s tamers, died young, and possessed no great magical talent. The artwork had a spark, yes, but it didn’t have the breath of life most Hikari works had. Somehow it had still managed to gain a reputation as a sort of longevity booster. The lover had lived to a good age, as had each successive descendant to wear the necklace until the latest had decided to have it displayed instead of wearing it.

She should have just kept it private. Not even Dark would have wanted it if she had. Now there is a thief Satoshi only knew about in passing after it and a high likelihood that Dark would show up just for the hell of it.

Satoshi hates his family. Even the harmless artworks bring nothing good back to him.

The inspector brought in for this clashes with Saehara, each of them obnoxiously loud and prone to jumping on the slightest hint of a clue even when none were present. Satoshi doesn’t know much about this Kaitou Kid, but if his methods are anywhere remotely similar to Dark’s, he would have a simple time waltzing in under disguise in this chaos. No amount of face pinching is going to hold up for long and half the police present barely know the other half.

Satoshi leaves the inspectors to their squabbling. The usual traps set for Dark are active and the case is riddled with its own fail safes. The defenses there are about as good as they are going to get, and likely just as useless as ever. His focus is on the escape routes. If the thief is like Dark—and he has heard that this thief also enjoys escaping through the sky—then he will likely choose a similar route. And if Dark does show up after all, well, Satoshi will be in position for that as well.

He is just settling into the perfect vantage point when he sees a teenage girl creeping down a stairwell. It is not Harada Risa for once, nor her sister. Satoshi doesn’t recognize the poker straight dark red hair or her face. She is in a ridiculously revealing outfit, a cropped top and tight pants with a red scarf looped around her hips. The outfit is made to catch and draw the eye, not hide, but she moves like she is trying to avoid notice. She stooped a few feet away from Satoshi’s hiding place to stick a piece of paper against one of floor tiles.

There is a tingling rush of magic in Satoshi’s other sense. A witch. Krad stirs in the back of his mind. Satoshi blanks his emotions.

“What are you doing?” He abandons his hiding place. The girl whirls, her magic swirling like the afterimage of a rearing snake around her. She looks at him and…smiles?

“Just setting up a little something for a certain thief,” she says. There’s magic lacing her voice, magic in her footsteps as she approaches, and Satoshi can feel it crowding his mind. There is an awful lot of bare skin showing on her. Especially leading toward her cleavage—why his eyes are drawn there he isn’t sure; Satoshi doesn’t have any interest in that sort of thing. “I suppose you’d be the White Feather?” she says, but that last bit is more to herself than for Satoshi.

It chills him though, snapping through her attempt to ensnare him. She almost succeeded too. Satoshi narrows his eyes. The girl smiles, bright red lips and perfect eyebrows over reddish-brown eyes. “It’s not polite to enchant someone on the first meeting,” Satoshi says.

“That’s exactly the time to do it,” the girl counters. “First impressions are the most lasting.” There is a hint of teeth in her smile. Elsewhere shouting starts. The heist is on. “I don’t mean to trespass on another practitioner’s territory, but the thief is mine you see.”

“Is he.” The spell she placed moments before felt like a binding of some sort.

There are definitely teeth in her smile. “He just hasn’t accepted that yet.”

“I’m afraid you’re interfering with police matters,” Satoshi says. Detached, for she is the sort of magic user that feeds off emotions and twisting them to her will. Lucky for him that he doesn’t have an access of such things for her to toy with. “And you’re interfering with a personal grudge.”

“Against Kid?”

“Against anyone who touches family artwork.”

There is a shift in the air. The girl is an arm’s length away, and then closer, her magic reaching for Satoshi. It’s automatic to raise his own in response, and that rouses Krad, splitting his concentration down the middle. It’s a silent struggle of wills, Satoshi against the pressure on both sides to give in. He could win if he just took out his brushes, but he will not. He doesn’t need his family’s methods, doesn’t need—

A hand touches his jaw, tilts his face up and her face is a breath away from his. Lips brush his. Satoshi jerks back, losing his concentration, letting her magic batter up against him in tight tangles. Krad sweeps to the forefront of his mind and drags on that bit of magic that triggers the shift. His bones ache and fire lances down his back.

The hallway explodes into smoke and chaos.

Two inspectors and half a dozen officers barrel after a cackling figure dressed in white. It’s distracting enough that the enchantress loses her grip and even Krad is left momentarily stunned. Satoshi grits his teeth and wrenches back into control.

“Akako-hime!” the man in white calls. Kid, it has to be Kid, but what sort of thief wears white? “How lovely to see you!” He dodges a tackle and jumps neatly over one of the traps meant for Dark—a pit trap that the officers all fall into. Their shrieks are cut off as the floor closes over them. What is the point of traps when they catch the police instead of the thief? Kid bounces past, somehow avoiding the entirety of the enchantress’s trap. “Good evening to you too, Detective!” he chirps before heading up the stairs.

So much for Satoshi’s vantage point.

The girl hisses between her teeth and chases after him.

Odd. Satoshi was sure Dark would show up. There’s not much point in chasing after Kid now, not when he’s probably reached the rooftop. Instead Satoshi finds the release button for the pit trap. The unhappy voices of eight police officers echo up at him.

“I’ll go find a rope,” he says, not caring if they can hear him over the profanity being spouted or not. His back still aches. And he almost got caught by a love spell of all things. Pathetic, Krad sneers, still awake and ready to try and pull control away at the slightest hint of weakness. Satoshi ignores him.

Satoshi has succeeded in finding a rope (and releasing almost a dozen police officers from their own traps. This is just embarrassing) when the white suited thief lands in front of him. He has the witch from earlier unconscious and slung over one shoulder.

Satoshi reaches for his handcuffs.

“No need for that,” the thief says. He twists his hand and in a puff of white smoke, the Eternal Heart is dangling from his gloved fist. “It seems this isn’t what I was looking for after all.” He tosses it. The silver and gemstone glint in the low light. Satoshi catches it. Its magic recognizes the Hikari blood in him and warms beneath his touch; he could change it, shape it to what he wanted and it would respond happily.

“You’re returning it?”

“I overheard it’s personally important to you. Figured I’d give it back now instead of later.” Kid grins. It is odd how much a bit of shadow and a monocle managed to hide his face. Maybe he has magic of his own too. If he’s using it though, Satoshi can’t feel it.

“What kind of thief returns what he steals?!”

Satoshi and Kid look as one to the man in the police uniform watching this exchange. Satoshi grabs his handcuffs and lunges. Dark rips off his disguise, leaping back with his wings spread wide.

Dark points at Kid. “You’re a freaking disgrace to the name of thieves everywhere! And wearing white! What the hell is even wrong with you?!”

Kid bows. “Kaitou Kid, Moonlit Magician at your service. I happen to be a gentleman thief, and would hardly keep what I don’t need.”

“The whole point of stealing is to take what’s not yours!”

“Something you’d know very well, Dark,” Satoshi says. He catches one of Dark’s ankles sending him crashing back to the ground with a yelp. Satoshi manages to cuff one of his wrists but Dark squirms free before he can do more than that.

With a powerful beat of wings, Dark lands on top of the roof. “Ha! You’re slipping, Commander!” The Eternal Heart dangles from his hand. “If the moron in white doesn’t want it, I’ll be glad to take it off your hands.”

“Rude,” Kid mutters.

Krad yanks on Satoshi’s magic and Satoshi winces. He is not. Feeling. Anything.

“Want me to get it back?” Kid offers.

Okay, he’s feeling something, but it isn’t anything Krad can use. Satoshi laughs incredulously. Kid should have flown away already. “Dark,” he calls. “That necklace belongs to a young woman whose family has had it for over a century. I’m sure she’d be overjoyed to hear that Dark stole it back for her from Kaitou Kid.”

“Stop trying to manipulate me Hiwatari. You’re not good at it.” Dark’s wings block out the moon. “Thanks for the necklace. See you around!”

Well, it had been worth a shot. If Satoshi is lucky, maybe Daisuke would talk Dark into giving it back. Dark is susceptible to the gratitude of a pretty young woman after all.

Kid lets out a low whistle. “Well, that was different. When you free Nakamori-keibu, let him know I tried to return the gem, ok?” Kid gives a bow. “And sorry for Akako-hime. She’s determined to catch me in her own way.”

Kid presses some sort of button on his suit and was hauled upward. Satoshi watches him go with Krad’s frustration bubbling hard enough that it felt like his own. Please let them never cross paths again.

Later, after all the officers are free and the traps are reset or removed, Satoshi examines the spell the witch set earlier. It’s a binding spell all right, one meant to turn whoever tripped it into her obedient servant. Satoshi leaves it there with a seal of his own over top to keep it dormant. Next time Dark has a heist, he’ll remove his seal and see if Dark trips it off.

[clarenecessities]

The Dread Pirate Ladybug, Ch. 8

Chapters: 8/13 Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Implied death, may contain horses

Chapter Summary: “The unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable” Chapter Warnings: Mild violence, death tw, blood cw, blade cw

AO3

Adrien found himself missing the other two members of the mercenary party.

Papillon was smug and irritating and gave long-winded speeches as he led Adrien over the rocky terrain, and if the knife he pressed to Adrien’s ribs was any indication, he was the eager executor of the whole ‘murder the hostage’ scheme.

Despite the man’s ranting, Adrien still wasn’t sure why he hadn’t been murdered yet. Papillon was expounding his own virtues while telling Adrien far too many details about his plan to start a war, but all he had said of their pursuer was things would be settled ‘soon’.

Adrien found little comfort knowing he would be in the custody of either Papillon or this red phantom on their heels. Frankly it made little difference to him which survived the implied conflict; Papillon would probably be easier to defeat (he certainly couldn’t scale a cliff face on his own) but he was also getting very, very annoying.

Plus, Adrien was curious.

Who was this girl? How had she learned so swiftly of his plight? What were her plans for him, and were they perhaps less murder-oriented?

Hiking with his hands tied together, sweltering under the hot sun, Adrien decided he’d worry about it later.

At the crest of a hill, Papillon led him to a series of rocks, partially in shadow.

“If you move so much as a finger,” said Papillon, with a menacing dig of his blade, “I’ll cut it off.”

For someone with such a high opinion of himself, Papillon didn’t seem to take the intellect of others into account when laying his plans. Adrien reclined in the shade, looking on as the older man laid out an elaborate table setting on a relatively flat boulder, quite glad he was being either under- or overestimated.

Either Papillon thought so well of Adrien’s physical prowess that the dramatic threat was supposed to discourage him from bursting free of his ropes, overpowering Papillon, and sprinting into the Guilderian hills, or he thought Adrien was so unintelligent that he’d try to stop his enemies from eliminating one another and halving the risk.

As he watched Papillon straighten the edges of a checkered tablecloth, Adrien admitted that the man might just be indulging his theatric tendencies.

He heard rocks clatter a ways behind them, and looking over his shoulder saw the striking scarlet of their mystery woman.

“Ready or not,” he told Papillon, smirking in spite of himself, “here she comes.”

Papillon whirled around, hauling Adrien to his feet and depositing him beside the ‘table’ like he was setting props for a play. He sat beside Adrien, touching each piece of silverware a little neurotically, and brought out Adrien’s old pal Mr. Knife.

The woman in red reached the summit.

“So,” said Papillon, sitting a little taller, emphasizing his impeccable posture, “it is down to you, and it is down to me.”

Wordlessly, the woman began to move towards them. Papillon shifted his blade from Adrien’s ribs to Adrien’s throat.

“If you wish him dead, by all means, keep moving forward,” he hissed.

The woman stopped immediately. Adrien raised an eyebrow. That was interesting.

“Let me explain,” she said smoothly, taking another step.

“There’s nothing to explain. You’re trying to kidnap what I have rightfully stolen.”

Adrien rolled his eyes.

“I believe you mean ‘whom I have rightfully stolen’,” he corrected dryly. He knew he should let them squabble amongst themselves but come on, he wasn’t exactly unimportant in all this. The least they could do was refer to the hostage with pronouns.

“Perhaps an arrangement can be reached?” asked the woman, hands raised in a gesture of peace as she took another step forward. The blade pressed into Adrien’s throat so tightly that he actually felt its sting, and he sucked in a shocked breath as the woman froze before them.

“There will be no arrangement,” said Papillon, “and you’re killing him.”

Two pairs of masked blue eyes watched each other, two predators intent on their prey, while Adrien craned his neck away from the knife and silently wished they’d chosen a spot in the shade for this showdown.

“If there can be no arrangement, then we are at an impasse,” said the woman. Her voice was cool and collected, almost refreshing in the heat. It was certainly a welcome relief from Papillon’s deep and endless drone.

“I’m afraid so,” said Papillon, his thin lips pursed in a patronizing smirk. “I can’t compete with you physically, and you’re no match for my intellect.”

“You’re that smart?” she asked, a lilt of humor in the incline of her chin.

“Let me put it this way: Have you heard of Plato, Aristotle, Socrates?”

“No, who’re they?” she asked innocently, and Adrien would’ve laughed if his neck wasn’t in danger of further bleeding. He wondered if this girl had talked to Alya for long.

“Morons,” answered Papillon, ignoring her sarcasm.

“Really.”

There was a pause as they once again regarded one other, the woman’s eyes glittering beneath her mask. Papillon met her stare with a level gaze, confident and smug.

“In that case,” said the woman, “I challenge you to a battle of wits.”

Papillon’s confidence leaked into a condescending smirk, inclining his head in her direction. She lowered hers accordingly, holding his gaze, her ghost of a smile somehow far more sinister to Adrien than his kidnapper’s.

“To the death?” asked Papillon.

“If you insist,” said the woman in red, dripping with mockery.

“I accept,” Papillon answered immediately.

He sheathed his knife, and Adrien raised his tethered hands to rub at the thin red cut it had left behind, scowling at his captor.

“Good,” said the woman in red, smiling as she at last approached the makeshift table. “Pour the wine.”

Papillon obliged, filling the two goblets (for there were only two place settings) halfway. The woman, taking a seat opposite them, removed a small vial from its place at her belt, offering it to Papillon.

“I have here a vial of poison, which can enter the bloodstream through the skin, and is capable of dropping a grown man in about five minutes.”

Delicately, Papillon unscrewed the lid of the vial. It contained a white powder which, to Adrien, looked perfectly innocuous.

“I wouldn’t touch it if I were you,” the woman in red warned, and Papillon shot her a deeply scornful glare, sniffing the powder as though it were a glass of the wine he’d just poured. He raised one eyebrow as he replaced the lid, not bothering to screw it back on as he passed it to her.

“I smell nothing,” he declared.

“What you do not smell is called akuma powder.  It’s odorless, dissolves instantly in most liquids, and is nearly as tasteless as wearing a silver ski mask in summer.”

Papillon looked supremely unimpressed.

With a wide smile, the woman in red picked up the two goblets, turning her back to Adrien and Papillon, making a great show of moving her elbows around. There was a muted clattering as she clunked the goblets together. With one in each hand, she turned back to the table, moving them around as though to set one in front of herself before ultimately putting it in front of Papillon.

Adrien was getting very bored of theatrics.

“All right,” said the woman, “Where is the poison? The battle of wits has begun. It ends when you decide and we both drink, and find out who is right… and who is dead.”

“Ah, but it’s so simple,” said Papillon, lips pursed, “all I have to do is divine from what I know of you. Are you the sort of woman who would put the poison in her own glass, or in mine?”

“That is the entire point of the exercise, yes,” said the woman in red.

“You wear a mask,” he began, examining what was visible of her expression, “so it’s clear you have something to hide. If you’re used to keeping secrets, it would stand to reason you would keep the poison close to you, where you could keep an eye on it—But if it’s simply to disguise a scar or disfigurement of some kind, it may be that you’re self-conscious—and if you’re self-conscious, you’d put the poison as far from yourself as possible.”

“Don’t you know what the mask is for?” she asked innocently. “Your underlings both figured it out. Here they told me you were smart one.”

“My underlings,” mused Papillon, ignoring the bulk of her question. “You’ve beaten them both. To have beaten Nino, you must be strong—so strong that you might chance poisoning yourself, counting on your fortitude carry you through.”

“Well—”

“And Alya was reasonably well-versed, if somewhat prone to jumping to conclusions. Even allowing for trickery, the only way someone of your age could defeat her would be through ingenuity. The environment, perhaps.”

“Is ingenuity tricks?”

“It certainly was with Alya. I suppose she knew a thing or two about swordplay, but when it came to deductive reasoning—”

“Inductive.”

“What?”

“Inductive reasoning. Deductive is when you formulate a deduction based on evidence.”

“And what, pray tell, do you call this?” asked Papillon, scowling and gesturing between at the wine glasses between them. The woman in red smirked at him, the same condescending, simpering way he had just minutes earlier.

“If I’m being kind? An outside chance. If I’m being honest: Wild and somewhat pathetic speculation, with no basis.”

“I’ve barely gotten started,” Papillon spat.

“By all means,” said the woman in red, gesturing for him to continue.

He frowned at her, brow furrowed beneath his mask, evidently deep in thought. His jaw jutted out as though he was resisting the urge to bare his teeth.

“You are a mercenary,” he said after almost a minute of silence. (Near silence: Adrien was not above sighing dramatically and making a show of checking the shadows’ lengths.) “Hired by the Guilderians to put a stop to my plan.”

The woman in red raised an eyebrow.

“The nation of Guidler can ill afford another war. Their economy never fully recovered from the Tuna Fish Discrepancy, no matter what they’d have the public believe. If they’re going to divert funds to reinforcing their navy now, they’d scarcely survive the winter.”

“And where do I fit into this theory?” asked the woman in red.

“Simply, Guilder got wind of our assignment—how, I cannot say—and recognized an opportunity. A fortuitous opportunity. They allow us to kidnap the Prince, not counting on the elaborate frame I constructed, and intended you to spirit him away following the abduction, assuming we would leave behind damning evidence. They were wrong, of course, but it can’t be helped; I’m very thorough.”

“So I allow you to kidnap him, then snatch him and hope the authorities catch you? Has the Princess issued a reward for his return? I can scarcely imagine she’d let me in the gates with him.”

“Oh, you’re not going to return him. You’re going to kill him.”

Adrien jolted a little, looking between the two of them. They were both wearing poker faces, which he found deeply unnerving. That couldn’t be right, could it? If she wanted him dead she would have just let Papillon slit his throat.

He stared at her, trying to find some hidden emotion behind the linen mask. All he could see was a stony expression and a pair of eyes as cool as her voice.

Okay, maybe she did want to murder him.

At this point he really just wanted them to get on with it.

“Why am I going to kill him?” asked the woman in red, tone carefully neutral.

“You know—as everyone does—that the King of Florin is gravely ill, nearing death. The Princess’s impending marriage is their dynasty’s last hope. Or should I say, second to last?”

“Ah. The Prince.”

“That’s right. The Prince of Guilder remains unattached, and though Chloé would never have him under ordinary circumstances, in her bereavement she might be forced to consider more drastic options.”

“So, just to be clear I’ve got this right: You kidnap the Marquis. I kidnap the Marquis. I then murder him, depriving Princess Chloé of her stud-to-be, driving her into the arms of my alleged benefactor out of desperation. A political alliance is secured, you’re apprehended and convicted of the Marquis’s murder, and I carry on my merry way.”

“Exactly,” said Papillon, smugness oozing from every pore.

“Well—and I am sorry to burst your bubble like this—absolutely none of that is true. Except perhaps that no one would marry the Prince without significant duress.”

Papillon spluttered, ready to defend his reasoning, but the woman in red raised a gloved hand, and he fell silent automatically.

“You also haven’t guessed where the poison is,” she pointed out, very exaggeratedly looking between him and the wine glasses.

“Well, I will now, then—what in the world is that?” he yelped suddenly, staring at a point over her shoulder.

The woman in red whirled, hand on the saber at her hip, eyes scanning the empty down.

“Where?” she demanded, keeping her back to them as Papillon swiftly and silently exchanged his glass for hers. She turned back after a moment, frowning at him suspiciously. “I don’t see anything.”

“It may have been a wolf,” said Papillon, trying to contort his furious grimace into an innocent smile. The woman in red continued to look suspicious, but now with a hearty helping of discomfort.

“Well—I doubt it,” she said, like she knew as well as he did that there were no wolves in Guilder. “But come now: The wine.”

“Ah, yes. It’s in your glass,” he growled. He seemed to be growing angrier the longer she went thinking he was wrong. She smiled at the wine, lifting it accordingly.

“Then let’s drink,” she said.

“Let’s drink,” he echoed. Papillon snatched his glass off the table as though it had personally offended him, still scowling at the woman in red as they raised their respective drinks to their lips, swallowing in perfect synchrony.

“You guessed wrong,” she said immediately. Her voice was soft, almost an apology, but Adrien could hear the bitter satisfaction beneath.

“You only think I did, you stupid girl!” said Papillon, barking out a single, dry laugh. “I switched our glasses when you weren’t looking! I drank your wine!”

“In point of fact, I provided the poison; the wine was yours,” said the woman in red, perfectly calm despite this revelation.

“And they’ll kill you both together!” Papillon cackled, his face cracking into the first genuine smile Adrien had seen on him since his abduction. It still looked fake somehow, more of a mask than even his silver cowl. He laughed and laughed, even taking another swig from his glass in jubilation.

He was quite cheery until the akuma powder took effect.

Adrien stared as the man slumped lifelessly to the ground. He wasn’t struck by the enormity of what he had just witnessed, or puzzling out what had just happened. He was instead seized by a powerful and irrational urge to rip away Papillon’s mask, to do something about the ridiculous costume he was still wearing.

When he was alive it had been rather funny; in death, it seemed… ghastly. A little nauseating.

“So it was your glass that was poisoned,” he said dully, staring at the body as the woman in red cut away the ropes binding his hands. Looks like he had a new captor.

“What?” she said, looking up at him in confusion and then laughing, shaking her head. “No, no. Neither of them was poisoned.”

Adrien moved his thousand yard stare from the lifeless corpse to the lifeless abductor.

“I did tell him not to touch it,” she tutted, rubbing blood back into his wrist with an idle hand. “Told him it was soluble and everything. So what does he do? He goes and snorts it. Just inhales the akuma powder like smelling salts.”

“He was dying that whole time?” Adrien asked, feeling a little sick.

The woman in red got to her feet.

“He didn’t suffer,” she said. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind so much, but I’m on a bit of a schedule and filleting the poor bastard would have taken up a valuable twenty minutes.”

She hauled Adrien to his feet by the back of his vest, and he stumbled as he righted himself, staring at her in bewilderment, feeling a twinge of something that might have been fear.

“Who are you?” he asked, scarcely a whisper. Was she a mercenary? Had that much been true?

“I am no one to be trifled with,” said the woman in red. “That is all you ever need know.”

She pulled him into a run behind her, leaving no room for argument.

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               “This is taking forever,” Chloé exclaimed. She would have stamped a dainty foot on the ground, had she not been perched atop her enormous white horse.

Chloé—or rather, an array of Chloé’s servants—actually bred the creatures, selecting as much for aesthetics as utility. She demanded, as from all things, that the horses be obedient to a fault, and obey her every thought and whim, while still managing to reflect the diligence with which she attended her own appearance. The result was a series of animals which dwarfed their wild brethren, with immaculate ivory coats, and shining marble manes. Chloé looked delicate and beautiful atop them, the reflected sunlight casting a soft halo around her, and she looked more willowy than ever.

She looked like a painting in motion, but few could stand to listen to her for very long. The guard was changed out every fifteen minutes, and only the faithful Countess Rossi remained at her side throughout.

Where Chloé’s specialty was horses, the Countess had recently begun to take an interest in more aggressive beasts of venery: Specifically, foxhounds. They followed at her heels or her steed’s, trotting dutifully in her wake and awaiting an assignment. They received one almost daily, whenever she happened upon game—the Countess was by no means averse to a little bloodsport. Her dogs were black and tan and dedicated to their craft with a fervor that bordered on frenzy. They paced eagerly behind her, some whining eagerly, checking the scent on the piece of Guilderian uniform they’d discovered on the boy’s horse, which had unfortunately led only to the horse itself, the stallion’s scent having drowned out any more useful profile.

“Patience, Your Highness,” said the Countess, “We’ll get there soon.”

They had sailed for the better part of the night, only to discover their quarry had ascended the Cliffs of Insanity, rendering an equine pursuit impossible. Chloé, not one to be deterred by things like “horses can’t climb cliffs” or “the nearest port is two hours North” had demanded a solution immediately.

Ultimately they had been able to secure a hold on a sawn-off piece of rope dangling most of the way down the cliff face, and, using that to climb and secure anchor points, built a ramshackle but sturdy platform from pieces of an abandoned ship (likely belonging to the culprits), on which, via a series of pulleys, they were in the process of raising the Princess, the Countess, and their menagerie.

“He’s mine, Lila,” said Chloé, her furious gaze fixed on the clifftop above them.

“You can’t blame me,” said the Countess, huffing. “I could hardly provide an escort; the boy hates me.”

“This had better work out,” said the Princess. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“The dogs will find anything there is to find,” said the Countess in a soothing tone. “It’s not too late. Not yet.”

They reached the top of the cliff, and followed the dogs onto solid land. The ground had been disturbed by the work of the servants, but only near the edge; the Countess reigned in her dogs until she could inspect the scene.

“There was a duel,” she said, examining the footprints and kicked up leaves. Vines had been ripped from walls and branches, and there were fresh gashes in the bark of a few trees. “The loser was tied and abandoned, while the winner carried on to the east.”

“There are two groups?” the Princess demanded, stiffening in her saddle.

“Two people, at least. It looks as if the winner was following those tracks towards the frontier. They seem to have been bleeding, though not heavily.” The Countess beckoned her dogs, training them on the scent of the scant drops of blood that peppered the courtyard.

“The Guilder frontier,” said Chloé, grimacing out at the hills in the distance. “Agents of Guilder, then. If he’s been so much as bruised, I’ll raze the whole country.”

“I know, Your Highness,” said the Countess, watching as her dogs began to bay and wriggle. “We’ll find him. One way or another.”

The party took off across the moor, following the foxhounds after the missing Marquis.