#nice brass? not in his world. no sir.

[sga-mcshep-4ever]

"Uh, General, sir!" "Thank you, sir." "Major Sheppard." "I'm surprised the briefing went as quickly as it did." "You were very thorough, Major." "Thank you, sir." "In fact, by now I thought you'd be enjoying some well-deserved R and R." "I was just going to arrange some transportation, sir." "Well, consider it taken care of, Major. Anywhere you'd like." "Well, that's very generous." "You've done your country a great service, son. You deserve it." "Thank you, sir."

[empressofmankind]

On My Silent Days

I Miss You A Little Louder

[Crocodile x female!OC]

Explicit with a capital E

Word count: 7k / 15 pages

A/N: Writing this has been my whole life the past 5 days, as anyone who has frequented my Dash recently can attest. I am obsessed with their chemistry.

Technically, this is part of 'The Show Must Go On'. You don't have to read it, but I recommend it. You'll get to know Shivs and her helter-skelter relationship with Buggy which sits as the background to this whole ordeal.

You see, this is like, Arabaste arch at the earliest - Cross Guild era more likely. By then, Shivs and Bugs have rollercoastered through so much bullshit and they've come out rock solid on the other side somehow. Clown keeps failing up, even with this relationship. Sir Crocodile finds the whole thing insulting, to say the least. And seems to think it is one well-placed remark away from utterly crumbling. Jealous ex, whomst? My dude, you fucked that up yourself. Repeatedly. You had more chances than you have fingers. Chemistry aside, this is absolutely a desert of his own making.

What else do you need to know? Shivs is only 2 or 3 years younger than Buggy (i.e. my age, come sue me), but Crocodile is 5 years older than the clown. So, she's in her mid 30s, he's in his mid 40s. She originally met him when he was maybe 28? Do the math. Oh yes, and for those less familiar with the Cross Guild era: our favourite clown has managed to accidentally become the lauded public face of what is actually Mihawk and Crocodile's venture. Understandably, the ex-warlords are a little miffed by this and spend decent amounts of time physically abusing poor Buggy.

Shivs' absolutely flawless plan is basically swapping sexual favours with her ex for get-out-of-jail-free cards for the clown.

My girl literally barging in here telling Croc: "I'll take ur cock if u leave my clown alone."

Yes. That's it. That's the plot.

She almost had him, too. Arguably, she had him the entire time. And then he gdamn snapped her from the pond edge like an unwitting gazelle in the last minute. Cuz we all - her included - forgot who we're dealing with for 14.5 pages straight. APPARENTLY.

screams into a pillow

Tag(s): Oh? Ok. Sexual favours! Is she fucking her boss? No, but he always makes it feel that way. Is she fucking her ex? Yes. Are they technically still married? Maybe. Blow jobs? Deep throat. Size kink? 100%. Filthy language. Graphic sex. Soft dom? Power bottom? I am on the fence. Little girl vibes on the margins, like, he tries. She too sassy and sooner a brat. Oh, orgasm denial! Big time. Humiliation? A little bit. Stretching? Yes. Moar size kink. Choking? Big yes. Spoiling? Also yes. She deserves nice things. Power imbalance? Yes. In whose direction? It kind of flip-flops. Did I need to spend so many words on their smoking and his cigars? Probably not, but it scratched an itch. With them, it counts as foreplay; I am sure. You know you're doing well when he takes the damn thing outta his mouth. World class banter, too. If I may say so myself. But really, the bottom line is that it's just oral and PIV dressed up real fancy.

ON MY SILENT DAYS 

I MISS YOU A LITTLE LOUDER

The double doors were as tall and foreboding as Shivs remembered. All bevelled hardwood and delicate gilding. She stood before them, gazing up. In the dead centre sat a brass knocker shaped like a bananawani's head, polished to a sheen. 

Knocking was for people with appointments, and waiting wasn't something she planned on doing here ever again. She put her palms against the cold, expensive wood and pushed the massive doors open as if breaking a siege. They swung on smooth hinges despite their weight and struck the marbled walls with resounding booms.

The opulent office beyond was exactly as she remembered. Marquina walls, fishbone parquet floors, blackwood furniture. The taxidermied juvenile bananawani set in the wall vitrine behind his desk was new. What had been there before? A map? A ship? No, a stone. An artefact of some kind riddled in curious glyphs.

Crocodile glanced up from his papers and the irritation flitting across his scarred face in the split second before he realised who'd dared barge in, set the hairs on the back of her neck on end. How often had she seen someone shrivel into a desiccated husk straight after that look?

Shivs held his pale gaze, set her jaw and strode into his office as if down the plank. 

The creak of leather as he leaned back in his seat. “You know I've killed people for less.”

She paused in front of his outrageous statement piece of a desk. She put her hands in the pockets of her baggy pants and forced her shoulders to unclench, her stance to relax. If Buggy’s dumb luck had managed to rub off on her in these past months, then now would be the time for it to start working for her.

“Lucky I am not ‘people’,” she said as she crossed her fingers in her pocket. 

Amusement squinted his eyes as the corner of his mouth twitched up behind his cigar. “No, you're not,” he said as he rose.

Shivs was not short. Not by any regular definition of the word. Buggy was only a head taller than her. She hadn't forgotten how tall Crocodile was, not really. And yet, as he came around his desk and towards her, there appeared to be no end to him as he approached. If she reached up, stretched her arm, she could nick his cigar. But only just.

"Do you still smoke?" he said as he stopped well within her personal space, forcing her to crane her neck to meet his gaze. He took a flat, brass case from the inside pocket of his coat and held it out to her. She remembered it. Remembered the exquisite taste of the narrow cigarillos in it.

"No."

"Liar." His gaze flicked down along his cigar at her. "You smell of cigarettes, doll."

"I have changed my ways."

Humour flitted under his gravelly voice. "For the worse." 

Shivs pursed her lips. "It's an expensive lifestyle when they don't come free with a goodnight kiss."

"Hah." 

The bark of laughter actually reached his eyes, crinkling their crow's feet for a moment. He held out the case to her again. "You poor thing. I do support charities, you know."

She took it this time and flipped it open. The rich waft of tobacco and sweet Goji berries greeted her as if no time had passed at all. Might as well enjoy her sojourn back to hell while she could.

She put one of the thin cigarillos between her lips and let him light it. Watched the firelight catch and reflect in his rings. Took a moment to savour the blend, rich and sweet as polished Beli.

They were very good.

Always had been.

Shivs took the cigarillo from between her lips and blew the smoke up in rings through a slow smile. They almost reached him.

Crocodile leaned down through the cloudy hoops to pluck the shoulder of her red-and-white striped sweater between thumb and index finger, a judgemental 'hmph' escaping around his cigar.

She enjoyed the expensive smoke and his fascination while it lasted. Maybe, just maybe, this would be enough? Letting him treat her like a doll badly in need of a better dress up? He liked to spoil, always had. Now, more than ever, he had the means to take it to completely nonsensical levels. Her ego could take it, if that was the price of leaving Bugs alone.

Shivs indicated his everything with an up and down wave of her free hand. "No way to afford the good stuff on a waiter's salary."

He let go of the fabric to brush his thumb across the smear of grease paint near the collar, staining his skin and the gold of his ring red.

"Or a dud's haul." 

He hooked the silk kerchief from his vest's breast pocket and wiped his hand. She followed the length of his arm up to his face.

"The entertainment isn't half bad."

“Yes.” He chewed the butt of his cigar, derision twitching his thin lips as he tucked the kerchief into an inside pocket of his coat. “His pathetic antics can be mildly amusing.”

Shivs’ grip on the cigarillo tightened, but she smiled pleasantly. “I like it when a man can make me laugh,” she said, pointing at him with the thin smoke between her fingers. “Even if at his own expense.”

She frowned at his broad back when he turned away from her without a witty reply, retreating to the button tufted camelback near them.

“You're not here for a social call,” Crocodile stated as he sat down, putting his arms along the sofa's curved back. Something flitted past his pale eyes, but it was gone so fast Shivs couldn't nail it. “What do you want, doll?” 

Shivs rolled back and forth on the balls of her feet, pursing her lips as if preparing to drive a hard bargain. She intended to seem casual, unconcerned. But her palms were slick with sweat and her heartbeat drummed in her ears. She filled her mouth with smoke, tasting the rich flavours. Savouring them before blowing it out in small puffs through her pursed lips.

"I want you to leave him be," she said, extinguishing the cigarillo in his ashtray.

Crocodile shifted and put his shin across his knee. Her gaze flicked down and she saw him take note. 

"And if I do?"

She held his gaze. One breath, two breaths, moved her jaw but didn't form the words. She wanted him to leave Buggy alone. Even if that meant taking his… beating, instead.

He blew out smoke through his nose, waiting patiently for her answer. The hint of a smile lingered as his pale eyes held hers from above the waterline of his scar. And in that moment, he reminded her so strongly of a lurking crocodile. Watching. Waiting. Biding its time to strike. It sent a shiver down her spine, and not entirely out of fear.

Shivs pursed her lips, steeled her emotions, checked her resolve. I'll do it for you, Bugs. It's a deal I know he won't refuse.

She met his intense gaze head on, then dropped hers slowly to his crotch once more. Allowed it to linger there, before looking back up.

He chewed the butt of his cigar and beckoned her. "You never could fit all of me down that skilled throat of yours." 

Shivs watched him uncross his legs as she approached. She trailed her fingertips along his clothed thighs before leaning on them. It brought her face level with his and she deliberately took a moment to breathe in his secondhand smoke. 

“Want to judge if that hasn't changed for the worse?” she whispered against his lips as she savoured the distinct flavours that made up his private blend. 

Strong muscles flexed and relaxed under her palms, and she presumed that to mean ‘yes’. 

She ran her hands down his muscular thighs, taking in their shape until her palms rested on his knees. His breathing changed, she could tell from the way he exhaled smoke. Denser palls, deeper breaths. No resistance as she pushed his knees apart far enough to kneel between them.

Brushing her fingertips across his overstated belt buckle, she smiled to herself. Some things never changed. She slipped the tooled tip through the frame, her movements slow and deliberate as she listened for the subtle shifts in his breathing. She loosened the prong with a sharp tug on the strap, using more force than was strictly necessary. An undercurrent of need laced the grunt that escaped him in response. 

Shivs reached into his pants with both hands, catching his gaze as she drew his penis out, feeling it swell against her palms. She made a noise of appreciation as she let her hands slide down his shaft. His pale eyes hunting after hers when she broke their gaze to look at her fingers fitting around the base. She had not forgotten how tall this part of him was.

Leaning forward, she trailed teasing kisses from halfway down his shaft towards the tip. I’ve swallowed swords longer than this, and dicks aren’t even sharp, she thought as she flicked her tongue past the rim, playful-like. Length was only half the problem though, she knew that perfectly well.

She put a hand on his thigh and leaned on it as she ran the flat of her tongue across the head and took him into her mouth, suckling the tip. Inched his cock further with deliberately slow, short bobs, tilting her head to ensure he’d catch every movement of her lips as they worked around him. Need strained his stoic expression when she stole a glance up. A twitch of his eyebrows when the tip bumped against the back of her mouth. She sucked down and drew his cock back out, watched it twitch and his grip tighten on the backrest as she felt his thigh flex under her palm.

She took him into her mouth again and ran the tip of her tongue along the underside of his cock. Relaxed her neck and let it slip further than before, teasing at the entrance to her throat. Nudging it, stretching it just a bit before sucking down and drawing him back out, tasting precum for her efforts.

The frustrated groan that rumbled up from somewhere deep within his broad chest sent sparks flying down her spine. This is gonna work, she thought as he reached for her head, petted her hair while she teased the precum from him with fleet, wet kisses.

“Stop messing around and swallow my cock, sweetheart,” Crocodile grunted, pale eyes alight with hunger. The petting stopped, fingers tangling into the hair at the back of her neck instead. It was like the twitch on the line that told a fisherman to react.

Shivs glanced up along his hard shaft, and reeled him in: 

“Yes, Sir.”

The horny groan that drew from him, before she’d even begun to take him again, settled comfortably in her bones. Gotcha, she thought.

Shivs breathed slow, deep, steady breaths as she slid his cock along her tongue, lining him up. The head pushed past the entrance of her throat and she switched to shallow breaths through her nose. The grunts and huffs that escaped him every time she swallowed were inhuman and she needed more of it.

She slid his cock further down, felt his thighs tremble as she did. The closer she got, the more his musk pervaded every stifled breath she managed around his thick cock. It was a heavy, heady scent and she shifted her position to press her thighs together. He didn’t notice.

She stroked his legs, ran her hands up to his hips as she leaned closer, and took him deeper still. His fingers were fisted painfully tight into her hair, but his large hand followed her without force or resistance, resting heavily against the back of her neck.

Almost. 

Almost there.

And then the tip of her nose bumped against his flat stomach. She could hardly smirk with his dick this far down her throat but counted on the crinkle of her eyes to work for her as she caught his gaze and slowly raised her hands, palms up. She didn’t care that they trembled. 

Look. No hands, motherfucker.

Crocodile grinned down at her through a huff of smoke, cigar dangling between his teeth. She thought it looked a little worse for wear.

“The pathetic clown doesn’t know what a dirty little slut you are, does he?” Crocodile said, his gravelly voice thick with lust as he petted the back of her neck. “Giving such sweet head to save his sorry hide.” He ran his fingers along her throat as if trying to feel how far down his cock had gone. “I always knew you could do it, sweetheart.”

“Now,” he added as he huffed out a pall of smoke and she felt cool metal sliding around the back of her neck, barring a retreat. “I need my cock-hungry doll to make me feel good.”

Shivs dropped her hands to his hips, gripping the folds of hard muscle there for support. She slid her tongue between her bottom lip and the underside of his cock, making sloppy little noises with the slightest bob of her head. Even those small movements pressed the round curve of his hook into the back of her neck, sending a shiver down her spine that made her squeeze her thighs together. She didn’t bother to try and hide it.

His large hand joined his hook, strong fingers digging into the back of her head, twisting into the hair there and holding her put as his thick cock twitched so far down her throat she didn’t even know anymore where precisely she felt it. She worked her throat around him, drawing rumbling moans from him that pitched.

“Ah -nngh- you feel so good, doll. So. Damn perfect.” His thighs tensed under her arms, flexing his hips with short jerks. She closed her eyes as she swallowed around him, frowning with effort. His breathy grunts as he lightly fucked her throat made her pussy throb.

Suddenly, his grip tightened like a vice and he shoved her nose-first against his hard, trembling stomach muscles, stealing her breath. Her eyes flew open as her throat strained and cramped, swallowing around him in reflex.

 “Fuck, honey. Ah---! Yes, yes.” The satisfied, drawn-out moan as Crocodile spilled his hot cum down her throat reverberated through the quiet office. 

Her fingers dug around his hips, tears jumping into her eyes as she gagged, feeling cum come up around his cock as stars danced into her vision. His grip weakened as he rode out his orgasm and she pulled back before he was quite done pumping cum. Shivs swallowed it mindlessly while coming up for air. His dick slid wetly out of her throat and mouth, streaks of cum connecting them before they broke.

She glanced up from his softening cock, glistening with her saliva all the way to the hilt. He’d tilted his head back, held his cigar nowhere near his mouth as he came down from his orgasm with deep, steadying breaths that expanded his wide chest and flared his nostrils.

He straightened with a lazy groan and a roll of his broad shoulders. 

Shivs met his gaze, panting.

“You’re still my pretty little thing, aren’t you?” Crocodile said, his gravelly voice breathy as he reached for her, stroking her cheek with his thumb. The gold of his ring was smooth where his fingertip felt rough, the warm touch grounding her fried senses. It lingered at her eyepatch, lightly brushing the faded leather. “The things we let people do to our faces…”

He hooked the kerchief from his pocket and dabbed her mouth. She reached for his hand with both of hers, touching the back of it, taking the cloth. She watched him watch her as she cleaned her face.

“Don’t you have a new pretty thing? Miss Face-of-the-Casino in her cute kimono?” Shivs forced her tone to be casual, edged with light mockery, maybe. It was stupid that it’d stung when she’d seen the younger woman. An irrational, petty feeling. An old pain. And, none of her business, at any rate.

The dismissive look that flitted past his pale eyes was rather unexpected. “An investment, nothing more.”

“She’s pretty,” Shivs said. Perhaps, part of the sting had been the fact that Miss Pretty had not responded to her the way women did when they were into other women.

Crocodile looked at his cigar before putting it back in his mouth. “That she is.”

Their gazes crossed and she pursed her lips. He reached for her jaw, fingertips grazing its curve. Then leaned down and pressed a peck against her frown. She sat up and chased after him as he took another draw from his cigar, stole the aromatic smoke from him as she teased her tongue into his mouth. He blew it out through his nose, taking the cigar from his mouth as he caught the back of her neck with his hook and took control of the kiss.

“You can have one if you like, sweetheart,” he said when they broke apart, indicating his cigar. 

And lord, if she wasn't tempted.

“You share ‘em these days?”

His derisive ‘hmph’ made her smirk as she rose to her feet. 

“What about Miss Pretty? She enjoy your… cigars?” Shivs said, and noticed she’d gotten his cum all over Buggy’s sweater. Shit.

Crocodile glanced at her, pale eyes searching. “I prefer making deals with those who have something of value to offer, doll.”

Shivs put her hands in her pockets and rocked up on the balls of her feet with a mildly overacted grin. “Oh, it’s a deal then? You’ll play nice?��

“My compliance doesn’t come that cheap,” he said through a huff of smoke.

She crooked an eyebrow, risking a hint of ridicule in her tone. “Cheap? And here I was, thinking I have a unique skill up for offer.”

He actually cracked a smile as he flicked the butt of his cigar into the general direction of his desk and ashtray. Then beckoned her with hook and hand. 

“Come here, doll.”

It would have been too easy.

She sauntered back to him and linked her fingers with his, curling the others around his hook, letting him draw her into his lap, straddling his thighs. He shifted so his cock was between them, pressing against her clothed cunt.

“What else will it cost me?” she said as she rested her hands on his shoulders, lightly riding against him. Every rub along his dick pulsed pleasure up her spine, and she hadn’t failed to notice it was already stiffening again.

He stoked the tip of his hook along her cheek as his large hand took in the shape of her firm butt, guiding her movement. “I want to know if your tight pussy can take all of me now, too.”

“Here, on a couch?” she said as she slipped her fingertips under his coat and pushed it off his shoulders. She trailed her hands down the revers of his vest, grabbed hold of them as she dry humped against him. “I thought you said you weren’t cheap?”

The bark of laughter that drew from him shouldn’t make her smile the way it did.

He pressed a kiss against it. 

“I wouldn’t dare, honey,” Crocodile said as he gathered her up in his arms and rose smoothly from the couch, leaving his coat behind. He strode across his study and through the adjacent library to the expansive bedroom beyond. She remembered the sweeping view from its curving window wall and the sea of nightlights twinkling far below.

Instead of depositing her on his spacious bed, he set her down on the plush rug beside it. And motioned up and down her clothes with a dismissive gesture. “Take those rags off.”

Not my rags, Shivs thought as she kicked her boots aside, removed her baggy pants and grabbed the edge of the sweater. She didn’t wear a bra. She didn’t like them, and she hadn’t bothered wearing one this evening either.

Fingertips traced the lacy sides of her underwear while she had the sweater pulled over her head.

“You still have those.”

He sounded…not surprised. Curious, maybe?

“No reason to get rid of perfectly fine underwear,” she said as she freed herself from the sweater, finding he’d already undressed.

“They can stay on,” he said as she folded the sweater, her hand lingering on it before she turned to him.

“For now?”

A smile twitched the corner of his lips. 

“Here, doll.” He held something out to her, cream-coloured and neatly folded. It seemed small and delicate in his large hand.

When she took it, the fabric cascaded into a surprisingly classy, mid-thigh negligee of shimmering silk. The top was constructed from intricately detailed lace with tiny bananawani worked into the pattern.

“Pretty,” she said as she brushed a finger across the delicate lace. She put it on and it fit her so neatly it felt like a second skin. An outrageously luxurious second skin for the silk felt soft as sin and the lace light as air. She turned a full circle on her tiptoe, overacting it just a little. She knew he liked that.

“Looks good on you.” He reached for her head, combing his fingers through her tangled red hair, tucking stray bangs behind the strip of her eyepatch. “I’d never let you get so grimy.”

“Can’t be a dirty little slut if you wash me.”

“Hah.” Crocodile leaned down and scooped her up into his arms, just like that. “Come here before I shove my cock down your throat again to shut you up.”

“Don’t tempt me- ah!”

Her reply cut off when he suddenly let go, dropping her into his bed. And that was quite the distance, even if the landing was soft. He immediately climbed on top of her, caging her with his much larger body. She spread her legs, accommodating his wider hips as he reached for her breast. His thumb traced circles around her nipple through the fine lace, stiffening at his touch.

“Like what you see?”

“Always have, doll,” he rumbled against her collarbone. Though no longer smoking, she could still smell it on him. Would be able to pick it out of a crowd. Subtle tones that reminded her of burnt coffee, dry glass and cinnamon, mingling with the faint wax smell of his hair gel and heavier citric notes of his cologne.

A small gasp escaped her when he brushed the lace down and kissed her hard nipple, taking it into his mouth and licking the sensitive tip. She felt the curve of his hook press against her hip, hitching up the silk as his hand slipped between her thighs. Strong, confident fingers pressed against the fabric of her panties and outer labia underneath. It ignited old desires, flickering life into fires she’d thought snuffed out.

His rough fingers traced the delicate lace, undulating with its curling, stylised waves. Her breath caught when they found the edge along the crease of her thigh. A mewl on her lips as he dipped them under the smooth fabric, fingertips grazing the warm, sensitive skin of her outer labia and sending sparkles of anticipation up her spine. The delicate fabric stretched with an alarming whimper from the seams as strong digits brushed between her folds, not quite able to reach. He grunted against her breast at the soaked pussy he found there.

She felt him slip the hook under the edge, warm from resting against her hip. The thought of him pulling her panties down with it lit up every nerve in the vague vicinity of her hips. Her eyes snapped open at the sharp jerk, the sudden cry of fabric tearing at the seam between silk and lace. 

Shivs made a noise, nose wrinkling. Those were the nicest-.

“I’ll get you new ones,” Crocodile promised against the curve of her breast, his gaze down as he hooked the fabric from her hips. The hunger in his pale eyes as he looked at her pussy made her spread her legs further. He leaned down to caress her labia and press a light kiss against them that made her throb, thinking about his tongue.

A breathy huff escaped Shivs when he slid his middle finger between her folds instead, running slow circles around her inner labia. Gathering the moisture there before teasing them apart and brushing across her clenching entrance. Pleasure sizzled up her spine when he pressed it inside, mapping her inner walls and finding all the right places far too easily. If he kept this up, she was going to come very soon.

He switched to her other breast, teasing the sensitive skin as he inserted a second finger. “I seem to remember you liked getting your little hole stretched,” he rumbled against her nipple, and spread his large fingers apart. She moaned at the strength in them, the ease with which they pried her open. It sent twinges of sweet, sweet pressure blazing through the haze of need fogging her thoughts.

She reached down to his hand, stroke the back of it. Found his thumb and guided it against her clit with a needy moan. Her thighs trembled as he massaged it firmly, pushed his fingers all the way in, then spread them as he pulled out. She felt his knuckles and the hard edges of his rings press into her labia when he pushed them back in but she didn’t mind, kind of liked it. She reached a hand for his shoulder, neck, grabbing hold of the tout muscle there as she arched her back towards him. His pace was torturously slow and she was loving it.

Shivs let out a drawn out whine when he stopped, pulled at his neck, wrist, knowing perfectly well neither will give an inch but trying, anyway. She tried to clench her thighs, rub them together, nurse the need smouldering in her veins, but his knees were between hers and she writhed in vain.

Crocodile shifted unto his elbow, bunching the silk further up her hips while taking his hard dick in hand. A hoarse whisper close to her ear as he guided the head against her slick pussy: “Won’t you beg for my cock, sweetheart?”

“I need to feel your cock in me,” Shivs said as she caught his hungry gaze. “Feel it fill me, stretch me.”

He grunted with barely contained need, she could see it in the straining of his back as she reached for his thick neck, folding her hands behind it. Felt it in the way his hips twitched as he pressed his shaft through her wet folds, coating it with her juices.

“Am I not a good girl, sir?”

“Yes, you are.”

Shivs moaned loudly when he entered her. Whined at the delicious pressure as he pushed deeper into her soaking wet pussy, stretching her around him. She clung to his neck, mewling with incoherent need. Her hand went to his hair, messing it up but not caring. Neither did he.

“Ah -ngh- fuck,” Crocodile grunted, his breath hot against her neck.

Shivs held onto him for dear life as she arched against his hard body, savoured the sharp pleasure of him stretching her cramping, soaking cunt wide enough to plough through. He’d not bottomed out yet. If she could take him, she’d have him wrapped around her finger.

“You’re. Fuck. As tight. As I remember. Sweetheart,” Crocodile groaned into her neck, his gravelly voice strained to the point of being near unintelligible. It was getting tougher and tougher to push further through her tight, contracting walls.

“Almost there,” Shivs whispered as she brushed a stray bang of dark hair from his eyes.

The noise he made in response was inhuman and she drank it in as she closed her eyes, spread her legs further to accommodate his hips and relaxed every muscle she could still feel. A whimper bubbled from her lips when he pushed up against something deep within her that twitched a pleasure so sharp up her spine it sat right next to pain. 

“Fuck, yes,” he ground out as his hips pressed flush against hers, his breath hot, heavy pants buffeting against the crook of her neck. “Feels. So good.”

He managed to push himself up onto his elbow, satisfaction animating his whole face as he looked at their joined hips, her soft labia squashed against his pubes. Shivs whimpered, his movement nudging tight bursts of pleasure deep within her. 

“I knew you could do it, doll.” His tone was thick with lust, laboured from his heavy breathing. He gently brushed a strand of sweat-slick red hair from her forehead with his hook, looking so proud. “You like getting your little cunt stuffed, don’t you?"

Shivs gave a sharp nod, struggling to form words.

“I know you do, honey,” he whispered as he rolled his hips against hers, not truly thrusting. She reached for his face with trembling hands, stroking his hard jaw. He grunted under his breath with each push and she pressed pecks against the puffs of hot breath until he responded. Until he chased her tongue back into her own mouth and pressed her head back into the pillow with the desperate force of his kiss, demanding entrance with his tongue that she was more than willing to give. 

“That's all you g-got?” she whispered through a moan and a bated breath when they broke their kiss for want of air. “I b-barely feel it.”

“Ah? You want more, doll?” Crocodile pulled out with a grunt, just a fraction, before shoving himself back inside her to the hilt, making her mewl with pleasure through clenched teeth as his cock bottomed out and up against her cervix. “Shall I take you back to my study? Pound you bend over my desk, like I used to?”

Shivs whined into his mouth as she latched onto him again, arms tightening around his thick neck as her cunt squeezed around his cock from the pleasure coiling around her spine. If he took her from behind, he could probably push deeper still. Oh, she’d be in trouble.

“Who’s cheap now, hrm?” A breathy hum into her ear as the obscene slap of his hips against hers filled his bedroom. She whined in need, the heady mix of mind numbing pleasure laced with an edge of pain making her tremble against him. “Do you want to be my little whore again? My pretty fuck slut to sit on my cock whenever and wherever I want?”

All she could do was whine and roll her hips to meet his steady thrusts. Fingers digging into the taut muscles across his shoulders, keeping him close as he fucked her deeper than she’d ever felt a man, even him. She whimpered, the heady mix of mind numbing pleasure laced with an edge of pain all but overwhelming her. Especially when he thrust just right, shoving his cock against a sensitive spot so deep inside her she didn’t even know she had it.

“I missed my. Pretty cocksleeve,” Crocodile grunted into her ear. “The. Only. Little slut that can take me -hng- properly.”

“Fuck me harder,” Shivs whispered, hands massaging his broad shoulders. He groaned with effort, she could feel the bridled strength in the muscles working under her palms. His pace picked up, and so did the strain in his body. Every thrust stretched her so deliciously, stimulating every needy nerve inside of her. 

“Do it,” she moaned wantonly as his thrusts started to push her up on the bed, her weight no match against his strength. “I c-can take it.”

“Ah - hng- you’re. Going to. Make me cum, doll,” he growled through clenched teeth. He grabbed her shoulder, holding her in place as he jerked his thrusts up against her. Her mind was unravelling. The only thing she could think about was his cock filling her, burning up every single nerve she had as needy pleasure coiled in her belly. She wanted him to cum. She really did.

When he paused, she struggled to comprehend why. Her gaze found his. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his mouth slack to accommodate the deep breaths heaving his chest. He was barely holding still, strain thrumming through every inch of his large frame above her.

“Does. My pretty little thing want. Cum as deep in her tight pussy. As her pretty throat?”

She whined, pulled at his neck with both hands. “Y-yes.”

“Beg. For it.”

“P-please,” she whimpered as she tried to make him move, weakly rolled her hips towards him. 

“Please what?”

“Please, s-sir.”

The noise he uttered in response to that settled somewhere at the primal base of her brain. She wanted, no, needed, to hear it again.

“Please, sir. Pound my needy hole like I deserve,” she mewled into his ear, savouring the way his breath hitched, that noise came again. 

“Damnit, doll,” Crocodile grunted through clenched teeth as he picked up a pace that became quickly rougher, slightly erratic. He locked his hold on her shoulder, broad fingers digging around her thin muscles and narrow bones, keeping her put as he pounded into her soaking, cramping cunt. “Gonna fuck you so full, you'll be leaking my cum well into tomorrow.”

“Please, please, pleaaasse,” she whined and clenched around him as he fucked her into the sinfully soft matrass with long, deep strokes that shoved his cock shamelessly up against her cervix to fit it all in. She wanted, needed, to cum around it, desperate for release. “Fuck me full of cum, sir. Stuff my tight cunny like you did my slutty mouth.”

“I -ngh- will, honey. I am,” he ground out, barely intelligible as his pace lost all semblance of rhythm and he bucked against her in the grip of his orgasm’s first throes.

“Oh! Yes, yes,” she moaned as he shoved his throbbing cock as far as she could take it, cumming against the deepest corner of her cunt as she shuddered around his cock with unfulfilled need. He stayed buried inside her as he came down, breath erratic before steadying, slowing. She whimpered in need, clenching around his softening cock. She hadn’t been able to cum around it like she wanted. It was too thick to cramp enough for a proper orgasm. She knew that, but had thought maybe this time…

He knew it, too. Remembered it.

“You’re still my pretty little thing, aren’t you?” he said as he caressed her cheek, ran his thumb across her parted lips. “Unable to cum around a cock like a big girl.”

She made a small noise that he swallowed in a kiss.

They stayed that way until her breathing steadied as well. Then he sat up and gathered her into his lap. She held onto him, her cheek against his collarbone. Not quite ready yet to let go.

“You look parched, doll,” Crocodile said as he brushed a bang from her eyes.

Shivs peered up at him. “I would not say ‘no’ to a sweet white.”

A noise escaped him that could have been a fond one as he lifted her off his lap and rose. The sound of his retreating footsteps filled the quiet. He’d gone to his study, judging by the distance. Shivs got up as well and shimmied the negligee down. Despite everything, she did not feel like taking it off. It felt nice against her flushed skin.

She sauntered to the curved window wall and found the view precisely as she remembered it. A sea of nightlights twinkled across the city below, mirroring the deep blue, star-speckled sky above. The moon hung low, waning from view. It wasn’t long before he returned. She heard him uncork a bottle behind her and fill two glasses. The snap and swoosh of his lighter. The familiar scent of his cigar preceding him as he came to stand beside her, still naked.

He held a glass out to her, a cigarillo clamped against its curve. The wine was a deep bronze instead of the pale yellow usual to white wines. She accepted the glass and smoke, gaze lingering on the narrow slot through its delicate stem. It allowed him to hold them with his hook without slipping. She glanced sideways and up at him. A fond smile twitched her lips when she noticed his hair was neater than before. He’d evidently taken a comb to it for a hot second.

Shivs put the cigarillo in her mouth and turned to find his lighter lying on the nightstand beside the wine bottle, and a corkscrew with its split cork still attached. She glanced at the label as she lit the cigarillo. It read ‘1811’ in large, proud capitals, and a name in a curving script she couldn’t be bothered to try and decipher. She would not be able to afford it, anyway.

Taking a sip, she returned to his side. The wine was sweet, indeed. With hints of lime, honey, saffron. She made herself comfortable against him, her bum resting on his thigh. “It’s a nice view,” she said as she blew out a thin pall of smoke.

He glanced down at her and their gazes crossed as he idly stroked her hip. “It is.”

Shivs leaned into his touch, sipping the wine. It really was, very good.

“Clever scheme you’ve gotten up to, in order to save the loser’s sorry hide,” Crocodile remarked as he blew a smoke ring against the narrow cloud she’d just produced. “But it has a flaw.”

Shivs let her weight shift from his thigh to his loin, only the soft silk between them. “You sure?”

A self-satisfied smile twitched behind his cigar as he gave her hip a squeeze. “None of this will work on Dracule.”

Only because I don’t have a penis, she thought, but no matter. They may have both grown older, but Croki was still fundamentally the same man she’d left years ago. And that would work for her, she was sure of it. Inevitably, Mihawk would pick on Bugs. She would take it upon herself to get irritatingly upset about it. Mihawk would no doubt insult her next, and Sir Self-Satisified here would take it personally by-proxy and shut him up. It’d be a win.

“I’ll think of something,” Shivs said as she blew a thin pall through his smoke ring, dispersing it.

He glanced at her, amused. “He’s partial to good wine, at least.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

She nipped her own wine, idly rubbing her thighs together. Pleasure skulked around the base of her spine, denied but not forgotten. She made a little noise against her glass when she felt his hand move up her thigh, his thumb brush under the edge of the negligee.

“Still needy?” he said as he bunched up the fine silk, rubbing his middle and ring finger against her clit in slow circles. It sent lazy sparks of pleasure straight to her brain. Drawing a shuddering whimper from her as he dipped his middle finger between her folds.

“Cum for me, honey,” Crocodile rumbled as he lightly ran the tip of his finger along the inner rim of her vagina, then teased the sensitive spot further down. Shivs gasped through her moan as the briefest shudder of an orgasm stole over her like a thief in the night. It was not enough, not nearly enough.

“N-need more,” she said as she put the glass down with a wobble. Reached for his large hand when he stopped, withdrew, tugging it back. Bunching two of his fingers together, of a mind to stick them into herself if he didn't.

“Come to our board meeting tomorrow. You’ll come sit with me and I’ll take good care of your needy little hole.” He shook her fussy touch and caught her pubes, massaging his palm firmly against her soft cunt, pressing her bum against his cock. “You can ride my palm like you used to, and I’ll make you cum on my fingers till your tight pussy is sore from cramping around them.”

Shivs wasn’t particularly keen on doing any of this semi-publically, least of all anywhere Bugs would be. Though she feared she wouldn’t be able to talk herself out of this, as easily as she’d talked herself into it.

“Don’t worry, doll. I’ll leave the pathetic clown alone,” Crocodile promised as he stroked her flat belly with the rounding of his hook. “Can’t beat the loser if my hand is occupied with something sweeter, hm?”

Shit. She had to tell Bugs. Forewarned, forearmed, and all that. She turned in his hold, his hand moving to her butt instead. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” she said, but he caught her wrist when she took a step back.

“Ah, ah,” he admonished as he stopped her, pulled her with him, back into bed. “You’re staying with me tonight.”

“I, what? Why?” 

Suddenly, she wanted to leave as he gathered her against him, nestling her into his lap and chest, spooning his large body around her like a cage. She wanted to leave, wanted to go to Buggy and cry when he guided his cock back inside her still moist pussy with an incriminating noise and a satisfied rumble. She’d meant to turn this trick and tell Buggy about it. Tell him her plan to manipulate the ex-warlord to leave him alone, to leave them alone. Tell him it had worked. 

Shivs pushed herself on her elbow but Crocodile pulled her back down to him.

“Stay,” he said as he hooked the fluffy underblanket and silk cover sheets about them, his arm around her waist, hand on her hip.

“Why.” She had to tell Buggy, but now she couldn’t. She’d left after they’d gone to bed. She hadn’t told him yet. He didn’t know. He’d wake up alone.

Crocodile stroked the midline of her belly with the tip of his hook, rippling the cream-coloured silk as it moved up her chest, counting to the fifth rib. The one behind which her heart sat.

“Wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

A quiet sob escaped her.

"Ssh, sleep, honey," Crocodile whispered into her hair, fingertips stroking her hip. “I’ll take good care of you tomorrow.”

~

Honourary mention tags: @smut-goblin , @ruledbyproblematique , @gingernut1314 , @swirlsofblackandwhite

(N/A): To anyone reading & making it to the end. Writing this has consumed me the past days. I want to know what you think! What did you like? What made you laugh? Was there something specific you noticed? Something you now wonder about? I am 100% open to lengthy comments and blow by blows, ngl. I am obsessed with this.

If you want for more, I jotted down some of my own thoughts regarding this debacle. I may also be plotting another stint. Because Impel Down, do you understand me??

[atinylittlepain]

Only Lovers Left Alive

vamp!joel miller x f!reader

joel miller masterlist

He offers her another option between life and death. How could she refuse?

warnings | 18+ smut, spitting lol, gore, blood, dark themes in general, joel and his lady dunk on a preacher, you've been warned muah hahahaha

a/n | hello and welcome to the second installation of my vamp series. i'm placing this one around 1910, just FYI. that's all, enjoy

...................................

“We must be delivered from our own evil, our own debauchery! I implore my fellow man, brothers and sisters of Christ, to cast out the wickedness in their hearts and rebuild this town in His image! There is something sinister running through the streets of New Orleans and it is our god-given duty to seek it out and destroy it with His righteous light!”

“Fucking mouth on that one, huh, darlin?” 

“At least this one has a little showmanship. The snake is a nice touch, I’ll admit. Remember that one in Utah? He was practically boring people to tears.” 

“Mormans never did have much flare. Easier going down than Catholics though.” She offers him a faint hum, all this talk starting to fray her nerves, a dull ache in her skull that she knows isn’t just from the sunlight seeping through the fabric of her parasol. Judging by the way he’s pinching the bridge of his nose, Joel is starting to feel it too, hooking his arm with hers as they both start to thread through the crowd that has gathered around the barking preacher.

“You, sir! Surely you and your good lady are god-fearing citizens that will join the battle against darkness!” He’s in front of them in a flash, white collar glinting in the midday-sun, making her squint while Joel angles his broadness between her and the gesticulating preacher whose snake is held by its skull in one of his doughy hands. 

“You’ll excuse us, friend. My woman isn’t feeling well.” She doesn’t even have to pretend, that ache turning insistent, dizzy, until she sees the snaring jaws of two snakes instead of one, her hold on Joel’s arm becoming hard and desperate. 

“Well it’s a simple question, friend. Are you or are you not one of His flock?” A rushing in her ears and a quick flicker behind her eyes, tiny pinpricks that bloom into darkness, the faint feeling of Joel holding her up against the solid weight of him.

It’s the heat.

She needs space, give her space.Let the woman through for Christ’s sake. 

Her mind is alert enough to let out a weak laugh into Joel’s suit jacket at that particular admonition. The crowd parts around them with a wave of murmurs and gasps, a small mercy for them to slip away through the throng, away from that man. They pass down an alleyway, enough shade, enough safety for her to regain her legs, untangling from Joel’s arms to press her palms against the wall of whatever building they just slipped between. 

“I’m sorry, darlin. Shouldn’t have stayed out there that long.”

“Did you not feel that too?”

“I did, but not as strong as you seemed to. Reckon I’ve worked up a little more tolerance over the years than you have.” All she can do is nod, still not quite back from whatever that brink was, barely registering his palm running a soothing circuit between her shoulder blades. She knows he’s right, the few decades he has on her shoring him up against things like that while she still finds herself surprised and stunted by all the unsuspecting vulnerabilities. For all the ways they are steeled and strengthened in this world, the scale is made equal by all the ways they must hurt and hide. 

“It’s not just that, Joel. It’s been too long.”

“I know, darlin. Tonight. As much as you want.” 

…

Dusk pulls a heavy pall over the streets of the city, heralded by the hot brass of trumpets, a warbling cry that resounds in almost every quarter these days. Jazz and its dragging, doleful rhythms, the constant push and pull of sound snaking through the clambering streetcar lines. 

“They’re powered by electricity, you know.” She can feel Joel’s grumble where her palm is resting against his chest, the subtle shake of his head letting her know he isn’t impressed.

“Always something new, darlin. I still prefer a horse myself.” 

“Sorry, baby, but it looks like those days are long gone.” It never fails to amuse her, the act, the game they play. A couple like any other out for a night on the town at one of the city’s many dancehalls, perhaps. Delicate lace creeping up her throat, up her hands, a mercifully looser corset than what she had grown accustomed to in the past wrapped around her ribs. And he in his suit, straining against the starched collar, just a touch out of place, out of time.  Always changing, always shifting in this constantly moving world. Talk like this, look like this, be like this. They do it so well. 

“And you, Miller? Certainly fortune has been kind to you to have a woman on your arm as beautiful as that.” New money, oil tycoons and traders. Vultures, she muses to herself, might be less exacting, staring down their beaks at any new flesh that comes their way in this casino, greedy fingers curled over gold chains. 

“I’d rather not discuss business tonight, gentlemen. It’ll distract a simple man like myself from my cards.” He’s always been good at that, a disarming smile, something earnest in the downward tilt of his lashes, coaxing a laugh out from around the whole table.

“Mrs. Miller, wouldn’t you be more comfortable in the parlor with the other women? I’m sure you’d find their conversation a bit more interesting than all our dry talk.” Joel squeezes her thigh under the table, a silent warning to sheath any sharpness she has at the ready. She’s always been prone to temper when she’s hungry, a short fuse and a snapping snarl. 

“With all due respect, gentlemen, I’d rather like to watch.” Lips curled back in what could be a grin, sweet and stupid enough for them to settle back into shuffling their cards in a thick haze of cigar smoke. Talk flows loosely between plays, though what game it is she isn’t certain, too busy letting her gaze wander across the table. Skin, spilling over shirt collars, ruddy with booze and the close heat and haze of the room, enough to make her gums twinge with the promise Joel made her earlier. But she has to be patient, and so very lovely. All smiles, all deference, hands folded in her lap just so, her nails digging into her palms until it starts to distract her from that throb in her throat. Light hums and nods whenever the conversation lobs her way, not really listening to the words, more watching the way they jump around the men’s necks, tendons and muscle and–

“It’s getting awfully late, my fine companions. I do believe our women have already retired for the night, save for you of course, Mrs. Miller. It is probably wise for us to call this game while we’re still fresh enough to wander home ourselves, eh?” Big, gray mustache and blubbering lips, eyes drooped with drink, a similar look on all the other men’s faces, except for Joel.

“What’s one more round? Won’t you gentlemen give a poor man the chance to make up his losings?” Again, unassuming, eyes rounded with a little pout. It works every time.

“Well alright, Miller. One more round and then we oughta all go home so they can close this place for the night.” Theirs the only table still occupied in the casino, bartender and attendants gone as well it’s so late, most likely waiting in the back for their lingering group to finally leave. Though they won’t be a problem, this she knows. Money moves in this town, an easy bribe made easier by the ask. Work so hard, just take off a little earlier tonight. 

“Miller, I’m sorry to say it, but it looks like your luck isn’t getting any better.” It’d be friendly if the man didn’t look so smug saying it, fanning out a flush of cards on the table that even she knows is a winning set. 

“I’m afraid you���re right. Not sure what I’ll do seeing as I’m all out of chips to bet with.” 

“Why don’t you wager something else?” Said with a grin wrapped around a cigar, always so predictable she finds herself having to swallow a yawn as her eyes cast lazily onto Joel, something like a smile twitching around his mouth. 

“And what might I wager?” Another one of the men leans forward in his seat, and though he speaks to Joel, his eyes stay on her.

“That woman of yours has been so sweet all night sitting and watching. How about a kiss for the winner?” Blink and miss it, the tick in Joel’s jaw, quickly schooled behind a slippery smile. She knows the man would already be dead if this wasn’t a part of their well-worn dance. Something is skittering across the table as they start to play, like schoolboys excited by a shared secret, hands a little quicker, voices a little louder. It makes her teeth hurt with want.

Joel doesn’t win because Joel isn’t supposed to win. Big, gray mustache curled around a sickening smile, looking right at her.

“Fair is fair, gentleman. Why don’t you come over here, sugar, and give me my winnings?” Joel lays one final squeeze to her thigh before she gets up, a reminder that lingers on her skin as she slips around the table to the man who won.  She’ll admit she’s a little caught off guard by just how handsy he is, pulling her over his lap before she can get her bearings.

“You are a beauty, aren’t you? How about a kiss right here, sweetheart?” He points his fleshy finger to his cheek, dimpled with how smug he is. She keeps her lips pulled over her teeth in a smile, leaning in, though her mouth doesn’t find the spot he directed her toward. That quick, quivering beat of life, so easy to seek, so easy to burst in her jaws. His hands curled around her waist go tense for only a moment, before slackening still as she takes and takes and takes. 

The sounds around her barely register in her slow sate, a murmuring scuffle that she knows means Joel is taking care of everything, everyone else. She never realizes just how badly she needs it until she has it between her teeth, mind going heavy and hazy in the swimming satisfaction of a finally full stomach. Every last drop, pinkness dimming to a dull blue beneath her lips before she finally pulls away with a contented sigh. 

“There’s plenty more, darlin. Have your fill.” Always the gentleman, even with it dripping down his chin, though she’s quick enough to thumb it away before it can stain his suit, humming around her finger as he grins at her. 

“Thank you, baby. Always works like a charm.” 

Neither of them have been this full, this satisfied in a few weeks, limbs turning languid and heavy with it as they slink out into the night. She’ll admit it isn’t their tidiest work. Though it isn’t uncommon for a card game to end in bloodshed with all the money fluttering around in this city. But right now, there’s too much thrum in her veins for her to care much about it, tugging Joel along by the hand through the thick night. Neither of them are used to it, the perpetual light of the city, electricity pulsing and prolonging the day, casting everything in a flickering shade of orange. Loose and pliant, bodies swaying to the dragging rhythm of a distant band. She’d coax Joel into a dance if she wasn’t so hellbent on getting home, driven by a different want simpering along her spine. 

“What a beautiful couple.” They’re both surprised by it, stuttering stop in their walk home and whipping around, catching sight of the woman who said it.  She’s older, curled over with age, a street vendor, one of the invisible people that gets passed by day in and day out as she sits vigil over her small tent of wares. 

“I will read your palm if you like, free of charge for such loveliness as you.” She can already hear Joel telling the woman off in her mind, though she cuts in before he can get the first word out, already stepping toward the woman and her booth, palm extended. 

“I see a long life for you.” She can’t quite hold back her snort at that, glancing over her shoulder at Joel who looks equally amused. But the woman isn’t done yet, still holding onto her hand in both her palms. 

“There is something. Something dark. Something has its hooks in you, deep.”  She jerks her hand away before the woman can continue, taking a stumbled step back right into Joel’s chest. The woman’s eyes are wide, a pale, milky blue that she finds herself unable to meet,  steeling her face with what she can of a smile, leaning into Joel’s palm curling over her shoulder. 

“It’s more of a mutual thing actually. But thanks for the warning.” Those pallid eyes follow her the whole way back to their apartments. She can’t look at Joel, her gaze skittering somewhere over his shoulder as she fumbles with the buttons at the back of her dress, something setting a shake in her fingers that she can’t quite name. 

“Darlin, let me help you.” She does, mutely turning around, muscles jumping as his fingers start to trail down the back of her dress.

“You alright?” She hums, airy, not a yes or no, stepping out of her dress to stand before him in the thin fabric of her shift and corset.

“You’re mine, right, Joel? This isn’t– you aren’t–” He’s quick to cut her off, hands coming to frame her face, to focus her gaze on him.

“Hey, hey, none of that. What’s got your mind spinning like this?” She feels foolish for it, and if he wasn’t holding her jaw steady she’d already be tucking her chin down, a bit bashful, a bit embarrassed to admit it.

“That woman–”

“That woman probably says the same damn thing to every person that comes her way. She talked to you for, what, five minutes? If that. Tell me, darlin, how long have we been together now?” The math is simple, but the result is dizzying, a number she feels silly even saying out loud, though Joel fills in the gap where her mind refuses to catch up.

“A long time. And longer yet. Longer than anyone else can imagine.” His words temper into a quiet murmur, forehead to forehead, his nose trailing the line of hers.

“I just– I need to hear you say it, Joel. That you are mine.” His first answer to her is a kiss, give and take in the way he opens her mouth up to him, a slow, hot drag of tongues and sighs. 

“Yours, always. You know that, darlin.” His chin tilts for another kiss, but before he can she presses her palms against his chest, holding him where he is as a smile slips across her face. 

“Take off your clothes for me, now.” A flicker of recognition, understanding in his expression. He knows what she’s really asking for, and he’s more than willing to give it to her, already shucking off his suit jacket. She watches, barely blinking. The steady work of his hands popping open his collar, tugging loose his tie with just a touch of exasperation. She knows how much he hates all of it, the wool trousers, the shined shoes and sock garters. She supposes that he’d walk down mainstreet in bluejeans and flannels if it didn’t mean sticking out sore and strange. Never far from the plains in his mind. But bare beneath it all, he’s still the same, still all hers. Circling, palm slipping from his chest down the soft strength of his side, along the curve of his ass, his shudder making her sigh as she slinks back around to stand in front of him. And though he reaches out for her, she steps back just enough that his fingertips only brush fabric. Not tonight. Not like that. 

“On the bed, baby.” He’s being good tonight, compliant, a rarity that tells her that he knows. How much she needs this, eyes watching him watching her as she slips the lacing of her corset loose, letting it drop to the floor along with her shift. Always a sigh settling into his lap, her thighs splayed over his hips, nails digging into his shoulders with the drag of her cunt against him, already hard, already aching for her. She’s not looking to tease, not tonight, not tangled in this strange feeling that she wants to chase away with the taut stretch of him, a cry stuck in her throat when she sinks all the way down. 

“There you go, darlin. Gonna take what’s yours, huh?” She does, pressing him down into the sheets, her palms splayed over the span of his chest as she lets her hips grind against his, feeling that fill, that perfect press that makes her eyes roll back. He lets her take exactly what she wants from him, his palms splayed over her ass, a staying, a steadying to the rolling bounce she finds, little moans that break like beating wings. Only she gets him like this, his head pressed back into pillows, curls mussed and mangled, brow pulled down in a pleasure only she can provide. Something about the power of it, the possession of it driving her to curl over him, her palm coming to his jaw, just a little mean in the press of her fingers. She doesn’t even have to ask, his lips already parted around a groan, enough for her to let her mouth hover over his, a thin slip of spit falling onto his tongue. His eyes widen only for a beat before drooping hazy and low, his lips pressing together with a rasped hum in his throat. All hers.

“Fucking filthy, ain’t you? Been a bad influence on you, darlin, fuck.” He’s getting greedy, impatient, bending his knees so he can meet her own jolting rhythm, a quick and desperate snap to his hips that makes her preen.

“Maybe, but you like it, don’t you, baby?”

“You know I do. My angel’s made just for me, huh? All mine.” All she can do is nod, a yes slipped between sighs as everything furls up in a perfect twist of pleasure, spine snaring tight before slackening slow, her body melting over his as he follows her over the edge. Chest to chest, a nip to the hinge of his jaw, just a little one, enough to make him huff and tuck his knuckles under her chin to coax her mouth up to his. 

“Feel better, darlin?”

“Shut up.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Shutters closed, curtains drawn, keeping out the creeping Sunday morning sunlight. They’ll sleep through the day, maybe two with how full they are, limbs slumping into a close tangle as the city starts to wake up.

Men in their finest, shirt collars prim and pressed, holding the brim of their bowlers in one hand, offering their other elbow to their wives, dripping in lace and wide wicker hats. Everyone making their way to church. He doesn’t have the snake out this morning, just a cracked Bible tucked against his chest and a flurry of words ready to jump from his throat, pacing at the pulpit.

“Brothers and sisters, I stand before you today, my heart heavy with sorrow because the devil has struck again in our good city!” A wave of murmurs, hands clasped to chests in shock at his blunt exclamation. His voice rises above the throng, building on the encroaching twinge of hysteria.

“Last night, in one of those dens of degeneracy and sin, four honest and hardworking men of our community were murdered, a most perplexing and pernicious crime.” The crowd is stirring itself up into what could become a frenzy now, men rising from their seats, women clutching at their gloves, though the preacher is quick to silence them with his continued cries.

“Please, everyone, let us keep our heads! We must if we are to strike this evil from our hearts and from the streets of New Orleans. I have already organized evening vigils for the rest of this week and I implore you to come out and pray with us. We must come together now to drive the devil out of this city before he has the chance to propel any more of these heinous crimes!” 

…

“Hmm.”

“You awake?”

“Just about.”

“You thirsty?”

“A bit.”

“What are you in the mood for, my darlin?”

“I’ve been thinking about that preacher man, if I’m quite honest.”

“You know he won’t taste good. Always a little bitter, those ones.”

“I know, but I could do without him shouting up and down the streets at all hours of the day about evil.” She can feel Joel’s huff of laughter against the back of her neck, the warmth of him settling over her where she’s slumped into the mattress on her stomach. Stretched out after a long, languid sleep.

“Well why don’t we take care of him and then find something a little more appetizing for dinner.” She cranes her neck to glance over her shoulder, being greeted by the slip of his grin and the silver of his teeth.

“Now you’re talking, baby.”

[irradiate-space]

Burgess Meredith (narrator): "Well, goodbye, ma'am."

Ma'am: "Goodbye. It's been very nice meeting you both." [shakes hands with Meredith]

Meredith: "Glad to have met you, I'm sure."

Ma'am: [to Black Soldier, shaking his hand] "Funny you should come from Birmingham, too, isn't it? Have you come to by Birmingham, you's come to my home and have a cup of tea with me," [turns to Meredith] "both of you."

Meredith: "Thank you, we will."

Ma'am: "Good bye, and good luck." [shakes Black Soldier's hand again]

Soldiers both: "Bye-bye."

Meredith: "Well, where y'goin?"

Black Soldier: "Well, I think I'll get some cigarettes."

Meredith: "I'm short, too."

Black Soldier: "Well, I'll get some." [exits]

Meredith: "Good." [to camera now] "Now look, men, you heard that conversation. That's not unusual here. It's the sort of thing that happens quite a lot. Now let's be frank about it. There are colored soldiers as well as white here, and there are less social restrictions in this country. Just what you heard: an English woman asking a colored boy to tea. She was polite about it, and he was polite about it. Now, look, that might not happen at home, but the point is, we're not at home. And the point is, too: If we bring a lot of prejudices here, what are we gonna do about them? Well I —" [salutes to two brass who walk in] "Say, do you know who that is? That's General Lee, head of the Services of Supplies. You know that he's got a lot of colored troops under him and they're doing a big job over here. And I happen to know that General Lee comes from Kansas, and that his family fought for the Confederacy. Let's go and see what he says about it." [gestures for one moment]

[Meredith goes to talk to General Lee; Black Soldier sees them talking and looking in his direction.]

General Lee: [calling Black Soldier over] "Soldier!"

[Black Soldier comes over, salutes were exchanged]

Meredith: "And so, we were wondering how the General felt about" [glances meaningfully at the Black Soldier] "him and me, sir."

General Lee: "America has promised the Negro real citizenship, and a fair chance to make the best of himself. When the Army needs Americans to fight for the country, it picks Negros along with whites. Everyone's treated the same when it comes to dying. And so the Army wouldn't be true to America, if it didn't try to live up to the promises about an equal chance."

Meredith: "You mean that we have to get over our prejudices?"

General Lee: "You don't get over a prejudice that easily. There's no use pretending we're different from what we are. But we can try to live up to our American promises. I'd go further in saying: We can't do less, and still feel ourselves patriots. We have promised to respect each other, all of us. That's one of the reasons that makes our world worth fighting for. But you're all together, in this small country, with the same surroundings, the same amount of pay to spend, the same sort of places to spend it, and we're all here as soldiers. Everything we do, we do as American soldiers. Not Negros and white men, rich or poor, but as American soldiers. It's not a bad time, is it, to learn to respect each other, both ways."

[Meredith nods; salutes exchanged; General Lee and retinue exeunt]

[Black Soldier digs out cigarettes; gives Meredith one. Meredith digs out matches, lights Black Soldier's cigarette first. fade to black.]

----

The film continues with a discussion of currency and taxis, and why you shouldn't trust fast-talking men to hold your money while they explain it to you.

A note on General Lee's pronunciation of "Negro": It's not "KNEE-grow" /ˈniɡɹoʊ/. It's closer to "NIH-gruh" /ˈnɪɡɹə/ which Wiktionary notes is the Southern pronunciation. You can tell that it's "Negro" because of the consonant-vowel order: nVgrV. All of that is to say: It still sounds weird, because when I learned the pronunciation from Americans, they pronounced it with a more noticeable break between the syllables.

Some shallow searches reveal that "Negro" was the politically-correct term in the 1940s, capitalized. If that is really the case, then the contrast between the narrator's "colored" and General Lee's "Negro" is therefore quite weird. The narrator is out here preaching racial equality, and then General Lee out-progressives him!

I'm calling the other soldier "Black Soldier" because I can't find any acting credit for him. He is entirely uncredited, even by postwar researchers.

just pinged to this from the subject of "the history of black people in the UK did not begin at Windrush".

i worked on a kids local history project once and got particularly attached to a guy called James Jarvis Wiggins

his was just one of several documented black families living in the small town in northwest england that the project was about in the 1800s (and there were more 'coloured' people whose names and specific ethnicities are not recorded)

but he seems to have been quite a Character; I mean the photo oughta get it across - he seems to have had That Exact personality; funny, larger than life, and been loved by everyone in town for it.

he came over from Virginia in a timeframe that suggests he might've been born into slavery

he pitched himself as 'The Great American Herbalist' when he wrote a book

he became a pillar of the community who ran a successful apothecary and had a comfortably middle-class lifestyle, including employing an assistant from another local 'coloured' family who went on to marry his daughter

the wedding received glowing coverage in the local newspaper - which (having read the 1800s newspaper article myself) did regard the skin colour of the happy couple as a novelty worthy of note, but with zero negative implicature whatsoever - paraphrased, it's saying "Daughter of successful businessman and local legend gets married to his apprentice. This will be the first wedding in our little town where both bride and groom are black, isn't that interesting? Now back to gushing about how lovely the wedding was."

[pollyna]

During the first day in the TOPGUN program Bob looses: his glass, his way to class at least twice, Phoenix and his patience because of fucking Hangman and even more fucking Vice Admiral Cyclone. It's quarter past nine and he's sure he's in the right place this time but the class is empty and his phone isn't working. What a shitty shitty day to start the program of his dreams. The only other occupant of the space is sitting a couple of rows in from of him and his jacket has four stars on the shoulder. Admiral Kazansky? he murmurs and if the class was full no one would have heard him but his luck run out all together that day. Lieutenant Floyd, I see your pilot forgot to pass you the memo. Class will start tomorrow, one of the brasses is still out of town and apparently time isn't the essence for them.

Great, great, fucking great. Nat will hear him, oh if she will, the moment he can find her. No sir, she didn't.

At least I'm not the only one who's walking around in this hell of a place, Admiral Kazansky's smiles at him, getting on his feet and now Bob gets why the always describe him as tall and impotent as the world. I was waiting for Captain Mitchell for lunch but he's late, as usual. Would you like to take his place? I assure you the place as the best chicken wings of the state. Or at least that's what Mav says.

Bob is looking at him, seriously considering if the Admiral is joking or not but apparently the man inviting him, him on all the bases, for breakfast because Captain Mitchell is late. I would really like that sir.

The restaurant is nice and homey but everyone is looking at them because they have on their uniforms but but Admiral Kazansky's face is impossibile too read, he seems almost unbothered by every single other leaving form there. Captain Mitchell is sitting at the table and Bob is five second to say it's not a problem if he's not invited anymore, he can find somewhere else to g-

Lieutenant do you know half of the class is searching for you around the base? Captain Mitchell asks, looking away from his menu. He's going to say he's sorry when the two men start laughing like the other has just said the joke of the century. Holy shit Ice, you should have seeing them, all desperately trying to not let me know they didn't know where Lieutenant Floyd was. Best thirty minutes of today! Don't worry, Ice wrote me the moment he saw you. It was funny to see everyone desperate tho, they actually worked together, it was a good exercise.

Bob spends two hours eating chicken wings, talking with people who probably wouldn't even know he existed if it wasn't for the program and got to taste one of the best pecan pie ever done by someone who's not his dad. After, when the get back at the base, Natasha jumps on him, frantically asking questions and he finds himself engulfed in a group hug because they thought they lost him in the middle of the desert and everyone is sorry for a reason or another. When he finally gets to talk they all watch him like some sort of new person because he has gossip and gossip is golden, expecially when it comes to Capitans and Admirals.

[anonymousewrites]

There's a Will; There's a Way (Book 2) Chapter Four

Chapter Four: Double (Triple?) Black

            “I don’t feel like working,” groaned Dazai. He had tried to hide himself inside a meeting room, but Kunikida had found him.

            “Stop sounding like a broken trumpet first thing in the morning,” said Kunikida.

            “I don’t even feel like holding a conversation right now, Kunikida,” muttered Dazai, refusing to get up from the couch.

            “The town was saved from annihilation thanks to you, (Y/N), and Atsushi. So why have you ended up like this the next day?” Kunikida sighed in exasperation.

            “The boss has me and (Y/N) lined up for this new job…” complained Dazai,

            “Is it what Atsushi and the president were discussing yesterday?” inquired Kunikida.

            “It is,” announced Fukuzawa, appearing in the doorway with (Y/N) beside him.

            “Good morning, sir, (Y/N),” said Kunikida.

            “Morning, Kunikida,” said (Y/N).

            “Dazai, are we making any progress on our secret meeting with the Port Mafia?” asked Fukuzawa.

            “I’ve made arrangements, but…” said Dazai.

            “Do you think the Port Mafia boss will be here?” asked Fukuzawa.

            “I’m sure,” affirmed Dazai.

            (Y/N) watched in amusement as Kunikida glanced between the two with a blank expression.

            “It’s a perfect opportunity to kill our boss, after all,” said Dazai.

            “That is preferable to having bloodshed among our members.” With those words, Fukuzawa departed.

            “Oi, Dazai, (Y/N)…” said Kunikida stiffly. All at once, he exploded at Dazai. “A secret meeting with the Port Mafia?!”

            “Atsushi’s idea has turned into a huge deal,” explained Dazai disinterestedly, “Even though the Guild is now our biggest threat…”

            “Wait a second,” cried Kunikida, still confused, “I have no idea what’s going on! First of all, why are you the one arranging the meeting?!”

            “Because I’m originally from the Port Mafia,” said Dazai.

            “What?” Kunikida blanked.

            “You’re the last to know, Kunikida,” said (Y/N).

            “What!?!”

            (Y/N) laughed. After so much stress recently, it was nice to have some normality in the Agency. Not to mention, the meeting coming up would most definitely be a tense one.

l

            (Y/N)’s prediction had come true, but that was to be expected. Anybody could have guessed the meeting would be uneasy and strained. (Y/N) sat next to Dazai, watching intently as the mafia members arrived. Mori walked in front of the Black Lizard. (Y/N) was prepared for conflict. After all, that’s why she was brought along: her offensive capabilities. Dazai had suggested it, and she had happily gone along. She wouldn’t miss out on such an occasion for the world.

            “Welcome,” said Dazai with his usual coy manner.

            “It’s been four years,” said Mori, smiling will false pleasantry, “Do you still wear the coat that I gave you?”

            “Of course…” said Dazai, returning the faux smile and jumping down from his perch, “I burned it.”

            (Y/N) smirked at this statement and hopped down next to him. She didn’t notice how she subconsciously remained close to Dazai or how he made sure he was ready to move between her and the enemy if they attacked. He wouldn’t interrupt her using her ability, she would be able to see around him, but he was motivated to protect (Y/N). Dazai respected her and her competence, but his feelings still pushed him to look out for her.

            “Port Mafia Boss, Ougai Mori,” said Fukuzawa, arriving with Kunikida in tow.

            “Armed Detective Agency Chief Executive, Yukichi Fukuzawa,” replied Mori.

            While their employees hung back, the two powerful leaders walked up to each other.

            “So the time’s finally come…” said Fukuzawa.

            “If the government brass were to find out that the leaders of the two most powerful organizations of gifted are engaged in a secret meeting, they would froth at the mouth,” said Mori, a devilish look in his eye.

            Akira may hate him, but she definitely got her personality and appearance from him…I’ve seen that look in her eyes when she’s gauging how to trick somebody. If everything goes to plan, however, we won’t be the ones getting played, thought (Y/N), carefully observing the pair discussing.

            “The idea of cooperating with criminals goes against the Agency’s standards. But the proposal came from someone who, countless times, was shot, slashed, and kidnapped by the Port Mafia,” said Fukuzawa, “His words carry weight. Therefore, as leader of the Agency, I was left with no choice but to lend an ear.”

            “We are both in quite a difficult position,” said Mori, eyes closed as he listened with a smirk.

            “I’ll get to the point. Alliance aside, I would like to request a temporary ceasefire,” said Fukuzawa.

            Mori opened his eyes. With a cool, calculating tone of voice, he said, “Have you ever read the works of Schelling?” He narrowed his eyes cruelly. “Or perhaps of Kissinger?”

            “Both are researchers of strategic studies,” said Dazai, “Taught by you-know-who.”

            “I do read Sun Tzu,” said Fukuzawa.

            “There is a parallel between state warfare and the strategies employed by organizations such as ourselves,” explained Mori, “No one exists to punish either of us, should we violate agreements. What if the Port Mafia suddenly breaks a ceasefire? What if the Agency betrays us? The party that trusted in the agreement would be the only one to suffer.”

            None of us will trust anything that happens here either way. This agreement will be as weak as a pink-promise at best, thought (Y/N).

            “Under the circumstances that reward the first to commit a betrayal, a limited ceasefire cannot be established. The only possibility is for complete cooperation,” said Mori, a wicked glint in his eye.

            “That’s also impossible,” remarked Dazai.

            “Indeed,” agreed Mori, “The Port Mafia is an organization of face and resentment. Many of my people have been dragged through the mud.”

            “Many of mine have been brought to the brink of death, as well,” said Fukuzawa.

            “But they didn’t die and that is a source of great shame for the Port Mafia.” Mori’s eyes widened maliciously. Clearly, he wished his attempts to kill Agency operatives had worked.

            “Then how about this,” said Fukuzawa. He placed his hand on the hilt of his katana. His eyes were shadowed and solemn. “We settle our accounts here and now.”

            As Fukuzawa drew his katana, the Black Lizard leapt forward to protect their boss. Fukuzawa effortlessly slashed their weapons away. As he went to slice Mori, the mafia boss flipped over him. He drew several scalpels and went to wound Fukuzawa, who managed to block it.

            With a diabolical, slightly deranged look on his face, Mori said, “I thought you had discarded your katana…Silver Wolf Fukuzawa.”

            “And you still haven’t grown past your habit of killing people with a scalpel, Doctor Mori,” replied the Agency president, “You still think like a little girl.”

            “Do you still talk to cats?” Mori’s grin widened.

            There’s some sort of familiarity between them, like they have some sort of history… thought (Y/N). She watched as the mafia members began to see small orbs of pale green light fall around them. Looks like our plan worked. Jun’ichiro did a great job, very convincing.

            The illusion lifted to show that Fukuzawa had never moved from his original position. He had never even drawn his weapon. Mori looked at them with a calm, bored look on his face, like he was tired of them playing tricks and wished he actually got to fight. That or he knew from the start (much more likely for a man who had lived as long as he had as a mafia boss, being paranoid and perceptive was imperative). (Y/N) couldn’t read his expression well enough to tell. Jun’ichiro emerged from behind some bushes nervously.

            “A hologram ability,” stated Mori. His voice regained his light, pleased, smug tone. “That was an enjoyable meeting.” He began to walk away. “Let us continue it on the battlefield.”

            “The Agency will be recovering Q tonight,” mentioned Fukuzawa.

            Mori paused. “And?”

            “Don’t get in our way tonight,” said the silver-haired man, “For the sake of both of us.”

            “Why?”

            “Because that’s our sole similarity: we love this city,” explained Fukuzawa, “As people of this city, as organizations that work to protect it, we cannot allow foreign gifteds to raze it.”

            “The Guild is powerful. The Agency stands no chance,” stated the raven-haired man matter-of-factly. “That is all from me.” He turned and flashed a closed-eye smile at them. His message was clear: this conversation was over. “Dazai, the offer still stands for you to return to the executive team. I’ll even let you bring one person to work for you.”

            “No way. You’re the one who kicked me out of the Port Mafia in the first place.” Dazai answered pleasantly enough, but he was deadly serious. He would never return to the Port Mafia. He effortlessly hid any reaction to the offer to bring somebody with him. He was far from stupid; he knew what Mori was saying. No doubt Chuuya and Akutagawa reported to him what happened when they kidnapped Dazai and (Y/N), and Mori drew his conclusions from that. Mori evidently realized there was some softness between Dazai and (Y/N) and was prepared to use that. Dazai would therefore continue to monitor how much of his affections he showed.

            “Did you not quit because you wanted to?” inquired Mori with fake ignorance.

            “You were afraid, weren’t you?” Dazai’s eyes held a crazed glint. (Y/N) could imagine that those were the eyes many of the Port Mafia’s victims feared. With a slightly unbalanced tone in his voice, Dazai continued, “That I might someday aspire to take your position and put a knife to your throat. Just as you did to your predecessor.” His face relaxed to its usual easygoing smile. “Evil expects evil from others. I don’t agree with allying with you, either.”

            Mori simply smirked before continuing his departure. However, it seemed Dazai wasn’t ready to stop taunting him just yet.

            “Oh, (Y/N), how’s Akira doing?” asked Dazai nonchalanty.

            Mori paused for a moment but remained composed.

            Understanding what he was up to, (Y/N) replied casually to Dazai. “She’s doing great. She got some trouble from the incident yesterday, but she handled it well.”

            “I wonder if she would have been interested in coming to this meeting. I bet she loves having privileged information, doesn’t she,” said Dazai.

            “Her? Here?” (Y/N) was happy to aide his antics. “Please, you’ve only met her once, and I bet you can tell she hates the Port Mafia.” Dazai snickered.

            Mori continued walking, pretending not to know who they were talking about. His associates also were confused, but they knew better to ask questions. Dazai and (Y/N) watched in amusement as they left, finishing their fun.

            After the Port Mafia departed, Dazai turned to the Agency group with a more serious look. “President, I believe (Y/N) and I need to head to where Q is being kept.”

            Fukuzawa nodded. “Then go. Do your best to retrieve the child. If not, the Guild will be able to continue torturing Yokohama whenever they please.”

            “Yes, sir,” said (Y/N) as her brown-haired associate nodded.

l

            Somehow this is less creepy than the hospital from the Azure Messenger, thought (Y/N). She was in the middle of the woods looking at a small shack in the middle of the night.

            “So this is where Q is being kept,” remarked Dazai.

            Suddenly, bright lights began shining down on them, and men began to surround them. Lovecraft and Steinbeck walked forward.

            “Good evening,” said Steinbeck, “Our strategist is adept at reading the enemy’s actions.”

            “Of course, it’s a trap,” said Dazai, his light tone remaining.

            They have no idea that he already predicted this. (Y/N) was tempted to grin.

            Lovecraft looked up curiously as something moved through the air closer to them.

            And this too~. (Y/N) couldn’t hold back a smirk this time. She wasn’t sure exactly what was approaching, but she knew Dazai was expecting it. That meant it was most likely from the Port Mafia in some fashion.

            The object crashed into the enemies. As a figure emerged and began walking slowly towards them, the men began shooting. Red light surrounded them and drove them into the ground, creating a crater. From beside (Y/N), Dazai groaned and frowned in annoyance. Obviously, he wasn’t fond of whoever had arrived. When (Y/N) saw who it was, she agreed with his sentiments.

            “Let me set one thing straight,” said Chuuya Nakahara, “Once I’m done taking out the trash, you’re next.”

            “I knew it,” sighed Dazai, “This is why I wasn’t feeling up for it today.”

            “Huh,” said (Y/N), “You two must have been great partners; otherwise, I have no idea why you were sent to work with Dazai. You hate each other.” An irk mark appeared on Chuuya’s forehead at her comment.

            “I never heard anything about this surprise attack in the strategic forecasts,” growled Steinbeck, on guard. He summoned his ability, but a calm pat on his back deactivated it.

            “Sorry, you don’t get to do that,” said Dazai in a bored tone.

            “This gift disabling ability,” muttered Steinbeck angrily.

            “This seriously sucks,” sighed the brunette.

“That’s my line!” yelled Chuuya. With his ability, he kicked Steinbeck into the forest.

            The three stood back-to-back as the men close in. Chuuya discarded his coat dramatically. As the thugs closed in, the trio sprang into action. Dazai weaved through the men, compensating for his arm with his intelligence. Chuuya used his ability and strength to toss his enemies around. (Y/N) activated her gift and threw her opponents around, stopped bullets, and disarmed them. With ease, the three worked together to defeat the thugs who dared to go against them.

            “Damn it,” said Chuuya after the mercenaries were beaten and they were descending into the shack’s basement. “This is the worst day in years. Yo, Dazai, ever hear of Petrus?”

            “The flabbergastingly expensive wine,” answered Dazai.

            “The night you vanished from the organization, I opened a ’89 bottle in celebration,” said the redhead, “That’s how sick of you I was.”

            “I remember setting a bomb under your car that night,” countered Dazai.

            “You definitely have a flair for the dramatics,” said (Y/N), unsurprised he went with a “bang” from the Port Mafia. A very daring, very Dazai move.

            “That was your doing?!” yelled Chuuya. He was fuming in anger. “I can’t stand you.”

            “I hate everything about you, too,” said Dazai, “The only thing I like about you, maybe, is your taste in shoes.”

            “You think?” asked Chuuya, looking at his shoes curiously.

            “Just kidding, of course,” said Dazai, continuing down the stairs behind (Y/N).

            “You…!” The redhead angrily tried to kick Dazai’s head, but the brunette jumped down to a landing ahead and looked back with a smug smile on his face. (Y/N) simply ducked.

            “Give it up,” he said, “I’m familiar with your attacks. Your timing, your thrusts…”

            “I was going easy on you!” said Chuuya with a visible irk mark. “If I were serious, I would have pulverized your skull and hers!”

            “Oh?” challenged Dazai, “How scary.” Clearly, he didn’t really care about the threats aimed at him.

            “No wonder you both get into trouble,” sighed (Y/N), “Will all your arguing, you alert any enemies around to your location to you being there.”

            “What did you say?!” Chuuya glared at her.

            “I’m saying I would be impressed if you had have heard of the element of surprise,” she answered. While Dazai snickered at his ex-partner’s reaction, (Y/N) descended the last couple of steps into the room where Q was being kept.

            “There’s Q,” said Dazai, looking at the dual-haired child trapped in roots, “The sleeping beauty awaiting his savior.”

            “Sleeping beauty, huh?” muttered Chuuya, clearly skeptic of the comparison.

            “Hand me the knife,” said Dazai, holding out his hand.

            “Huh?” Chuuya raised an eyebrow at his demanding tone.

            “Never mind, I got (Y/N) to swipe it off you earlier during the fighting,” said Dazai. He had just asked to annoy the redhead.

            “You…!” growled Chuuya.

            (Y/N) grinned and handed it over to the brunette. The grin faded to a frown when Dazai held the knife up to Q’s neck.

            “Dazai…” (Y/N) was concerned of what he was planning. She didn’t believe he would kill a child now, though she knew he probably had as a mafia executive. The worry still lingered, however.

            “Aren’t you going to stop me?” Dazai addressed Chuuya as if challenging him.

            “The boss ordered me to take him back alive,” said Chuuya, “but seeing that kid’s face, I have flashbacks of the bodybags my people came home in, thanks to his curse. Kill him.”

            “What about you, (Y/N)?” injured Dazai, “What do you think?”

            “I think you would regret killing a child now,” said (Y/N), looking into his eyes. She used the word “now” deliberately. While in the past he had killed people without a care, Dazai had picked up some good habits. True, his morals were at best questionable, but there was a bit of kindness and goodness in his actions. (Y/N) knew this.

            “I see,” said Dazai thoughtfully before spinning the knife and stabbing it down into the roots.

            “You softy,” muttered Chuuya accusatorily as Dazai began to free Q.

            “As long as Q is alive, you still need my ability as a safety measure. The Port Mafia won’t be able to kill me. It’s a rational decision,” Dazai “explained.”

            Liar, thought (Y/N). Of course, she understood why he was lying: to protect his reputation and hide weaknesses from the Port Mafia, but that didn’t change the facts. (Y/N) smiled inwardly at the revelation that Dazai had changed from when he was a Port Mafia executive. He had a good side, and no matter how he tried to deny it, it was there. It was another reason (Y/N) loved him. He was kind but didn’t flaunt it. He didn’t ask for rewards for being a good person. In fact, Dazai denied to admit to himself he was good and deserved good. (Y/N) wanted to bring him the good he deserved, even if just a tiny bit. She wanted the best for him.

            As they walked back up the stairs, Chuuya carried Q on his back and demanded that Dazai give him the doll.

            “No way,” answered Dazai with faux politeness, “It’s my insurance.”

            “I’m gonna kill him someday,” muttered Chuuya as he exited the shack. His grumbling was cut short when a tentacle grabbed him and pulled him out, leaving his coat and Q behind. However, he was quickly returned by the tentacle throwing him back into the shack.

            “My shoulder’s been stiff for some reason,” said Lovecraft, “Am I working too much?” Judging by the tentacles and literally empty eyes, he was the ability user who had attacked.

            “What was that ability?” groaned Chuuya, looking up from where he was sprawled in the broken doorway.

            “I’d expect no less from the Guild!” Dazai stood on his ex-partner’s head. With a dramatized impressed tone, he said, “What amazing resilience!”

            “Get off me!” A muffled yell came from beneath the squashed hat.

            “Watch out, he’s coming!” warned (Y/N) as Lovecraft’s neck stretched inhumanly and more tentacles emerged.

            “What should we do?” muttered Chuuya after freeing himself. He angrily dusted off his hat before putting it back on and looked to Dazai.

            “What do you mean?” asked Dazai. “Bring on any gift, and I’ll take care of it with a touch of my finger.” As if the universe decided to screw him over, tentacles launched Dazai into a tree.

            “Dazai!” cried (Y/N) worriedly before having to dodge an attack herself.

            Chuuya retaliated with a powerful punch that obliterated the tentacle.

            “A heavy fist,” commented Lovecraft.

            (Y/N) and Chuuya went over to check on Dazai.

            “Are you alright?” asked (Y/N) worriedly, kneeling next to Dazai.

            He looked up with blood running down from his forehead and mouth.

            “You’re hurt pretty badly,” breathed Chuuya with wide eyes. He talked tough, but he still cared somewhat for Dazai.

            “Those tentacles sure are strange,” said the injured brunette, “I can’t disable them.”

            “No way,” said Chuuya, turning to look Lovecraft approaching. He had already regrown the tentacles. “Is that even possible?”

            “There are no exceptions to my disabling ability,” said Dazai plainly.

            “That means…it’s not a gift…!” realized (Y/N). If this wasn’t an ability, who, or what, was Lovecraft?

            “Seriously?” Chuuya groaned in annoyance. “If it’s not a gift, what is it?”

            “All right, let’s do things the old way,” said Dazai. “How about Operation Shame and Toad?”

            “What is this, Rain Beyond the Window?” The redhead raised an eyebrow. “It’s more like the Lie of the Fake Flowers.”

            “Chuuya, when have my tactics ever been wrong?” Dazai smirked.

            Chuuya looked blankly at Dazai before groaning. “Dammit!”

            “(Y/N)—” Dazai turned to the (H/C)-haired woman to explain what the plans meant.

            “Don’t worry about me. I’ll catch on quickly,” said (Y/N), smirking. True, she didn’t understand what exactly the titles meant, but she was a quick learner and could adapt well.

            Dazai grinned at her then turned to Lovecraft.

            “Dispatch the enemy…and go home,” muttered Lovecraft as he sent tentacles towards them.

            From behind Dazai, Chuuya jumped up and kicked the tentacles.

            “The man in front is a decoy?” mused Lovecraft.

            “Double decoy!” sang (Y/N), appearing.

            With her ability, she made a clawing-like motion to the side, tearing off the tendrils. Chuuya ran along the remaining appendage and punched Lovecraft through the chest. Activating his gift, he used gravity to pull Lovecraft to the ground.

            “My gift controls the gravity of those I touch. Take a nap, octopus,” said Chuuya.

            “Good job,” chirped Dazai. He spoke to both of them, but he was especially impressed with (Y/N)’s actions. She had smoothly joined Chuuya’s and his schemes like she had always been a part of them.

            “Bastard, ordering me around like a sheepdog!” grumbled Chuuya as usual.

            “I’d use a sheepdog if I had one,” quipped Dazai.

            “You already basically have a pet tiger you order around,” joked (Y/N). Dazai shrugged innocently.

            They were interrupted when a tentacle ripped away the cast on Dazai’s arm and slammed him into a tree.

            “Dazai!” shouted Chuuya.

            “He’s still alive?!” cried (Y/N) in shock.

            Both turned around as a bright light engulfed Lovecraft and swirled high into the air. A wave of air pushed them backwards to the ground. They looked up as the light disappeared revealing a writhing mass of tentacles and strange wings at the top with Lovecraft’s body hanging from the middle.

            “What the hell is this?!” growled Chuuya.

            “It can’t be human,” breathed (Y/N).

            They looked back at Dazai. He was clutching his arm that had held the cast. It also seemed like his arm was gone.

            “You…your arm,” said Chuuya.

            “Chuuya, (Y/N), there’s something I want you to hear before I die.” Dazai spoke gravely.

            “What the hell?” snapped Chuuya.

            “No way you’re dying here!” cried (Y/N).

            “Boo!” Dazai popped out his arm. It was fine and didn’t even need a cast.

            While (Y/N) deadpanned, Chuuya grabbed Dazai’s collar. The brunette was just giving him a closed-eye smile, extremely pleased his ruse had worked.

            “I was going into a fight injured. Why wouldn’t I do this?” asked Dazai, grinning brightly.

            “Why don’t you stop wasting time on magic tricks and start thinking about how we’re going to deal with that nightmare?” Chuuya shook him and pointed to the monster behind them.

            “No way,” chirped Dazai, “Let’s just give up and die.”

            “Dazai, you are perfectly at liberty to die on your own time, but I’m not dying today,” said (Y/N) shortly, “And I know you have a plan already.”

            “Fine…We only have one more course of action,” said Dazai.

            “Don’t tell me…You’re going to do something disgraceful,” muttered Chuuya.

            Dazai smirked and narrowed his eyes as he remembered the last time they used this move. “It’s after we wrecked an entire organization overnight that we started being called the devastating rivals. But if I’m late to support you, you’ll die. I’ll let you choose.”

            He’ll die? What type of move is this? wondered (Y/N).

            “You’ll let me choose?” Chuuya scoffed. “Whenever you say that, I never actually have a choice.” With those words, he walked out in front of the monster. He took off his gloves. “Grantor of dark disgrace, you need not wake me again.” Red glowing lines twisted around his arms and face, a red aura appeared, and his eyes turned blank and wild. With a single step, a shallowed crater appeared, and wind swirling up around him.

            “(Y/N),” said Dazai, “Be careful, he is dangerous like this. I’m sure you’ve already figured out ways around it, though.”

            “You know me so well,” said (Y/N). With those words, she moved into the cover of the trees and disappeared around the clearing.

            I wonder what she’s planning on, thought Dazai curiously. He had a general idea, but the specifics were still unknown. He was an expert at reading people, but one of the reasons he loved (Y/N) was that she was still interesting and managed to pleasantly surprise him.

            “What the hell is that?” said Steinbeck, eyes widening at the surge of power radiating through the air.

            “Are you curious, Guild worker ant?” teased Dazai, putting his knife to Steinbeck’s neck. “That’s the true form of Chuuya’s gift.” Chuuya launched himself through tentacles, appearing on the other side. Dazai continued, “Chuuya’s corrupted form allows him to manipulate nearby gravitons.” Orbs of deep red appeared in the mafia executive’s hands. “The graviton bomb is a densely-packed black hole, swallowing everything in its path.” The two bombs rocketed into Lovecraft and created two holes in him. “But he has no control over this ability, so his rage continues until he consumes all his energy and dies.” Chuuya dropped to the ground, and a red shield appeared around him, protecting him from the attacks of the tentacles. From behind Lovecraft, (Y/N) appeared and threw her arms out to the side. Her ability caused the creature to be torn literally in half. Dazai raised an eyebrow. He rarely saw her use such violent moves with her ability. He suspected it had to do with how she usually fought people would die from being torn apart. Chuuya attacked blindly again with his graviton bombs, but none of the attempts had lasting effects. Lovecraft simply regenerated any parts that were destroyed. “Just what is that thing, anyway?” asked Dazai. “No matter how much they chip away, it just regenerated immediately.” He leaned closer to Steinbeck. “You must know what it truly is, given that you’re his partner.”

            “Who knows?” said Steinbeck. He smirked. “Why would I tell you, even if I did?”

            This is bad, thought Dazai, Chuuya’s body won’t last, and if that thing attacks (Y/N) from behind, she won’t be able to use her ability. “That’s a shame,” he said, acting unconcerned.

            Thinking he and Lovecraft were winning, Steinbeck continued to speak without considering what he was revealing. “There’sno way to destroy Lovecraft from outside when he’s in that state.”

            “From outside?” Dazai smirked. He had hoped Steinbeck would let some information slip. His eyes flashed with victory. “So you can get him from the inside.” He had thought it was a possible weakness of the monster; he had just needed confirmation.

            Steinbeck’s smirk fell, and his eyes widened. Dazai flipped out a remote and pushed the button. His “cast,” now lodged in the creature, was activated. It was a bomb. From the inside, the monster began to bubble before bursting from the inside out. Its destruction was aided by a giant black hole Chuuya launched at it and (Y/N) tearing apart it’s outer layers so it caused more harm. It exploded into light. The wind threw up dust, causing all those present to shield their eyes. Finally, the light disappeared, allowing for some visibility as the dust particles still stirred in the air. (Y/N) groaned in pain from where she had been knocked into a tree at the side of the brand-new crater. Chuuya, still in his corrupted form, began to laugh insanely. Blood dripped from various wounds. Cackling, he began throwing around small graviton bombs. He was about to throw a large one that may have injured the others around him when Dazai grabbed his wrist.

            “You annihilated the enemy. Take a break, Chuuya,” said the brunette.

            His gift was triggered by coming into contact with Chuuya. Emanating from where Dazai had grabbed the redhead, blue strings of light appeared. As they faded, Chuuya’s markings and manic look disappeared. The Port Mafia executive fell to his knees in exhaustion. Getting to her feet, (Y/N) limped over to them, sore and bruised from the blast.

            “I told you to stop me as soon as it was over,” muttered Chuuya.

            “I was going to, but it was entertaining, so I had to watch,” said Dazai.

            “It’s a miracle I trust you,” sighed (Y/N).

            “Agreed. I used corruption because I trusted you,” muttered Chuuya, “You…better take me…to the extraction point.” He fell over unconscious.

            Dazai smiled. “You got it, buddy.”

            “I can’t believe it,” said Steinbeck, looking at his friend. “The Lovecraft…Who are you people?”

            Turning to him, Dazai gave the blonde an honest smile. “The bad guys’ enemy.”

            “Watch out,” sang (Y/N) playfully, smirking.

            Dazai picked Chuuya up and began to walk to the extraction point. “I’ve never seen you tear something apart like that,” said Dazai. He was curious as to how she had come across that brutal move. Not to mention, (Y/N) had worked easily alongside the infamous Double Black. Sure, Dazai knew she was powerful and intelligent, but he had never seen her do what she had done that night.

            (Y/N) shrugged. “I learned to do it on trees and rocks, and when I saw Lovecraft regenerated from Chuuya’s attacks, I knew I wasn’t going to kill him, so I thought I should use it.”

            “Are there any other moves I haven’t seen you use yet?” asked the brunette.

            “Plenty,” said (Y/N). She grinned mischievously. “But you’ll have to find out on your own. It wouldn’t be smart to reveal my abilities to everybody.”

            Dazai wasn’t at all offended she wouldn’t tell him. In fact, he found this entertaining. “I guess you’re right. I can’t wait to see what else you can do.”

            “You’ll have to stick around then. You are my partner,” said (Y/N).

            “Don’t worry. You won’t get rid of me anytime soon. You’re stuck with me!” chirped Dazai playfully.

            The pair, carrying the unconscious Chuuya, laughed and continue on their way. After the fight, it was nice to relax before stress picked up the next day. After all, the Guild was still on the loose. Now, however, they would see who they were up against: the Port Mafia and the Armed Detective Agency.

[kemetic-dreams]

Possessed: Voodoo’s Origins and Influence from the Blues to Britney

Blissed-out, ecstatic union with our divine selves — we seek it at raves and rock concerts, and in the desert with the Burning Man. I try to get there when I’m jamming with my band — but I didn’t realize until I wrote The Language of the Blues: From Alcorub to Zuzu how much this longing relates to West African spirituality, and the Voodoo concept of possession.

Vodou (the proper Kreyol/Creole spelling of Voodoo) is a neo-African religion that evolved in the New World from the 6000-year-old West African religion Vodun. This was the religion of many slaves brought from West Africa to the Americas and the Caribbean.

Vodun was brutally repressed by slave-owners, yet its powerful beats, ethics and aesthetics endured. We owe our concepts of cool, soul and rock and roll to it.

The roots of rock are in a West African word for dance — rak. As Michael Ventura wrote in his important essay on rock music, “Hear that Long Snake Moan”:

The Voodoo rite of possession by the god became the standard of American performance in rock’n’roll. Elvis Presley, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, James Brown, Janis Joplin, Tina Turner, Jim Morrison, Johnny Rotten, Prince — they let themselves be possessed not by any god they could name but by the spirit they felt in the music. Their behavior in this possession was something Western society had never before tolerated.

Vodou possession is not the hokey demon-possession of zombie movies; it’s a state of union with the divine achieved through drumming, dancing and singing. It’s becoming “filled with the Holy Ghost” in the Pentecostal Christian tradition or attaining yogic bliss through the practice of kirtan, singing the names of God — Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna.

In the Yoruba culture of West Africa, being able to connect with one’s inner divinity is called coolness (itutu). In Yoruba morality, generosity indicates coolness and is the highest quality a person can exhibit. In American culture, we say that nice person is cool, or that a musician “has got soul.” We notice “Southern hospitality.”

The Trans-Atlantic slave trade carried these ideas to the New World, particularly as slavers burrowed inward from Senegambia on the West African coast to the Kingdom of Dahomey, a Vodun stronghold.

Dahomey spread across much of today’s Togo, Benin and Nigeria and was heavily involved in the slave trade. Vodun practitioners were shipped overseas by the thousands when the Fon people of Benin conquered their neighbors, the Ewe, in 1729. Many Fon were also kidnapped and traded into slavery in exchange for textiles, weapons, brass pots, Venetian beads and other European goods.

Vodun is a Fon-Ewe word meaning God or Great Spirit. This supreme creator was represented as the giant snake Dan carrying the universe in its coils. Today, in Haiti and American Vodou strongholds like New Orleans, Dan is worshiped as Damballah, the Grand Zombie (the Bantu word nzambi means God). He’s John Lee Hooker’s “Crawling Kingsnake”.

Branching off from this almighty God-force are spirit-gods called loa. During Vodou ceremonies, a loa may descend the center post of the temple to possess or “ride” a worshiper who has reached a sufficiently high state of consciousness. The morality implicit in this is stated in the Haitian proverb, “Great gods cannot ride little horses.”

Vodun practices like drumming were definitely noticed by nervous colonists who had imported fierce warriors and tribal priests to work their farms. After a deadly rebellion in the South Carolina colony in 1739, the colonists realized slaves were using talking drums to organize resistance. The Slave Act of 1740 in South Carolina barred slaves from using “drums, horns, or other loud instruments.” Other colonies followed suit with legislation like the severe Black Codes of Georgia.

Soon, religious repression was in full swing. Slaves caught praying were brutally penalized, as this excerpt from Peter Randolph’s “Slave Cabin to the Pulpit” recounts:

In some places, if the slaves are caught praying to God, they are whipped more than if they had committed a great crime. Sometimes, when a slave, on being whipped, calls upon God, he is forbidden to do so, under threat of having his throat cut, or brains blown out.

Vodun practitioners taken as slaves to plantations in Haiti, Cuba, Brazil, and Jamaica were also prohibited from practicing their religion. But enslaved Vodun priests arriving in the Catholic West Indies quickly grasped similarities between their tradition of appealing to loa to intercede with God, and Catholics praying to saints for intercession. By superimposing Catholic saints over the loa, slaves created the hybrid religions Santeria (saint worship) in the Spanish Islands, Vodou in Haiti and Candomblé in Brazil.

On Aug. 22, 1791, Haitian slaves revolted on a signal from Vodou priests, who consulted their oracle to determine which military strategies would succeed. The revolutionaries defeated Napoleon Bonaparte’s army and declared independence Jan. 1, 1804, establishing Haiti as the world’s first black republic. Freaked by a successful slave revolt, the United States and Western Europe slapped economic sanctions on Haiti, turning the prosperous colony into an impoverished state that could no longer sell the products of its fields.

In 1809, Vodou arrived in the United States en masse when Haitian slave owners who had fled to Cuba with their slaves were expelled. Most relocated from Cuba to New Orleans, nearly doubling the city’s size in one year. Today, 15 percent of New Orleans practices Vodou, and it’s popular in other U.S. cities with African and Haitian communities.

Among the arriving Haitians was Marie Laveau. She became the leader of New Orleans Vodou practitioners in 1820 when she was elected the human representative of the Grand Zombie. (Former White House Social Secretary Desirée Rogers is descended from Marie Laveau.)

Laveau kept a python named Zombi, and danced with it on her shoulders while presiding over ceremonies. This image was appropriated, with other Vodou nods, for Britney Spears’s “I’m a Slave 4 U” performance at the 2001 MTV Video Music Awards.

The sensationalistic 1884 book Haiti or the Black Republic by Sir Spencer St. John, slammed Vodou as an evil cult, with gruesome descriptions of human sacrifice and black magic — some of which had been extracted from Vodou priests via torture. It became a popular source for the Hollywood screenwriters who began churning out voodoo horror flicks in the 1930s.

The first musician to bring pop-Voodoo imagery to the stage was Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, who would rise from a coffin onstage with a bone in his nose. Hawkins had intended for his hit record “I Put A Spell On You”  to be a soulful ballad. But once the producer “brought in ribs and chicken and got everybody drunk, we came out with this weird version,” Hawkins admitted, adding “I found out I could do more destroying a song and screaming it to death.” Hawkins kicked off the undead craze among rockers like Alice Cooper and Marilyn Manson.  

Meanwhile, despite the severe repression, Vodun practices crept into Southern black churches.  Descriptions of black Baptist church services in the late 1800s and early 1900s depict the congregation dancing in a circle in a “rock” or “ring shout” as they follow the deacon, who bears a standard.

It was the deacon’s job to whip parishioners into a frenzy of fainting and speaking in tongues called “rocking the church.” The concept of a deity “riding” with a worshiper transferred to these Christian churches, where the cry “Drop down chariot and let me ride!” was often heard, as well as “Ride on!” and “Ride on, King Jesus!” This became the solidarity shout, “Right on!”

Blues singers fronting big bands, like Joe Turner and Jimmy Rushing, copied the way church solo singers belted over the choir. The radio beamed this new “shouting blues” all over black America. It was picked up by country blues singers like Muddy Waters and T-Bone Walker, who had moved to Chicago and used it with their new electrified bands. These, in turn, inspired rockers like Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, The Beatles and The Rolling Stones

Africans brought here as slaves carried with them incredibly strong aesthetic, ethical and cultural values that not only withstood the shock of their forced transplantation to the New World, but transformed and invigorated it. Their influence made us uniquely American. It’s why we respond to that Voodoo beat.

[sergeant-spoons]

18. From Pride to Prejudice

Bernadette Noel

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow​​​​​​ @chaosklutz​​​​​ @wexhappyxfew​​​​​ @50svibes​​​​​ @tvserie-s-world​​​​​ @adamantiumdragonfly​​​​​ @ask-you-what-sir​​​​​ @whovian45810​​​​​ @brokennerdalert​​​​​ @holdingforgeneralhugs​​​​​ @claire-bear-1218​​​​​ @heirsoflilith​​​​​ @itswormtrain​​​​​ @actualtrashpanda​​​​​ @wtrpxrks​​​​​​

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thursday evening had come at last. No more delaying the reality of their departure; the sun that had just finished setting would rise again in twelve hours and conjure goodbyes instead of good mornings. Berni was putting off tomorrow as forcefully as she could. She'd taken the whole squadron out for drinks one last time before they were parted, and though she had not spoken of this aim, she intended to treat the night like a bacchanalian celebration. She told herself that if she drank enough, she would be able to forget everything they were leaving behind.

Even Joe.

She grimaced and downed the rest of her second beer in one fell swoop.

Especially Joe.

Beatrice didn't drink, but she'd come along for a little while anyway to show her support. She was about ready to go by now, just past sunset, and Erma and Ellis had decided to walk back to the base with her. Polly offered to drive them and then take the car back to the pub for the others, but they'd declined, wanting to enjoy the warm night air of North Carolina (for the last time, in Erma's case). Venus had volunteered herself as a bodyguard, fingering the brass knuckles in her pocket, and Berni had been glad to send her along, simply telling her to be careful if decided to come back alone.

"Save me a spot at the bar," she'd said on her way out the door, and since her departure with the other three girls, no one had walked through the pub door, either in or out. That was thirty minutes ago; the pub was nearly as empty as Berni's glass. The bartender, who'd seemed bored at first, was now engaged in an avid conversation with Thelma about his recent visit to the Metropolitan Museum up in New York City. Thelma stood with her hand in Addie's back pocket, and Berni was glad to see the pair relaxed enough to engage in physical affection that clearly blurred the line between platonic and romantic. Addie half-stood and half-sat on a stool, one foot on the ground and the other swinging nonchalantly. She listened to the conversation, nodding here and there, supporting her girlfriend's interests even if her personal knowledge of fine art stopped with "it's nice to look at". Meanwhile, a few seats down, Délia was playing craps with Fiona and Rosie while Earl flipped through Rosie's copy of Murder in Mesopotamia and commented on the cleverness of the mustachioed protagonist. As Berni watched, Rosie seemed to lose another round and got up to stretch her legs. Berni moved to join her, and they strolled around the vacant pub in companionable silence for a minute or so before the captain decided on something to say.

"Glass?"

Rosie looked up at her. "Yes, ma'am?"

Berni, endeared, almost reached out and adjusted the slight crookedness of Rosie's glasses. Instead, she fixed the turn of her sleeve cuffs and asked, "How did you like that book? The one you were reading a few days ago."

Rosie blinked. "A Rose for Emily? Or Evil Under the Sun, ma'am?"

"No, I don't think so... It was an older one—Austen, I think."

"Oh! Sense & Sensibility." Rosie considered the original question. "I thought it was good. I liked it. I do prefer Pride & Prejudice, though."

"Oh? Is that another Austen?"

"Yes'm."

"Why do you like it?"

"Well, ma'am, it's a good story. And, um, the main love interest, well..." Rosie's cheeks started to turn the hue of her name. "He makes a lot of mistakes at the start, but he changes, for the better, and not just because he thinks it's going to get him the girl. Do you know what I mean? He's a good man, a very good man, and you don't meet many of those these days... Well..."

She glanced aside, bashful, hiding her face behind her hair. They'd come back to the bar by now and took seats on two adjacent stools. Giving Rosie a second to settle in, Berni waited, but Tare's best navigator still did not resume their exchange. Her captain reached out and patted her knee, and she hesitantly looked up.

"I'll see if I can get my hands on a copy."

"You will?" Rosie froze in the middle of tucking her hair behind her ear, utterly amazed.

"I have to," Berni insisted. "How could I overlook a glowing recommendation like that?"

Rosie started to smile. "It's a good romance. Especially when your own love life is a bit of a mess."

Berni was taken aback. She almost asked what on earth her typically meek companion was implying, but before she could, Rosie slapped both her hands over her mouth and uttered a strangled squeak.

"I meant myself, ma'am!" she cried, her face even redder than before. "Sorry! I'm sorry!"

"No offense taken," Berni soothed, taking Rosie's flailing hands to hold until she calmed down. "But what was that about your love life being a mess?"

Rosie looked like she might combust from embarrassment. To her good fortune (and the detriment of Berni's curiosity), Polly saw and swooped in.

"Captain, can I speak to you for a minute? I have something on my mind."

"Of course." Berni winked at Rosie. "Don't go anywhere, love. I want to hear all about this mysterious romance of yours."

If she had been able to, Rosie likely would have melted right into the bar. Earl grabbed her hand and dragged her back over to the craps game, chattering about needing to beat Thelma's winning streak, and her endearing naïveté gave Rosie the time to compose herself before rejoining her friends.

"Is there something bothering you, Beranová?" Berni asked once she and Polly had found a quiet spot at the other end of the bar.

"Other than you leaving? No, nothing is worse than that." Polly, motherly as ever, reached out and clasped Berni's hands between her own. "I will miss you."

Berni softened, wrapping her friend in a hug. "I'll miss you, too. But we'll meet again. And you'll do just fine with the girls here—no, you'll do better than fine."

Polly tipped her head, accepting the encouragement. "It is about the girls that I've been thinking..."

"Go on."

"If I'm going to be Captain while you're gone," she wondered slowly, "then who will take my place... for me?"

"Who will be your standing First Officer?"

"Yes."

"That's up to you now." Berni touched Polly's shoulder. "I trust your judgment. Whoever it is you pick, I'm sure it will be the right decision."

Polly thought for a moment. "I think I already know who. I believe—and I mean this as kindly as I can—Osbourne is the only sound option."

Berni nodded, understanding she meant Erma since Ellis would be coming overseas. Out of the girls staying behind with Easy, Erma was certainly the best choice. Earl was too inexperienced, Beatrice was too bossy, Rosie would flat-out refuse such a promotion, and Venus, though a skilled pilot, was not grounded enough to lead.

"Agreed," Berni replied, "I'd pick the same if I was in your position."

Polly tapped her fingers on the bar, thinking, then tutted her tongue. "If only she hadn't left already. I would like to tell her as soon as possible."

"She'll be ready to step up the minute you ask her," Berni reassured. "I wouldn't worry about her needing time to adjust."

"I expected as much." Polly accepted the two beers the bartender slid to her on his way past and handed one to Berni. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"Your new First Officer."

Berni wilted. "Oh, Polly, don't say it like that. You'll be my right-hand woman come hell or high water, you know that."

Polly looked sad but sure. "I know."

"Well, if you must make me decide... Coffey."

"Perfect."

"Perfect?"

"Perfect. If I'm being honest, she's the only one I'd want to take my position."

"For now," Berni reminded.

"Yes, for now." Polly took a sip of her drink, considering. "But do we really know how long 'now' will be?"

Berni shook her head, hiding her sorrow in a long dredge of beer. "No idea. It could be two weeks. Two months. If worse comes to worst, maybe a year."

Polly winced. "How long could it possibly take to train men to jump out of a plane and pull a cord?"

Snickering, Berni scolded, "You know there's more to it than that."

"Right. To jump out of a plane, pull a cord, and shoot Germans."

Berni grimaced. "Somehow, that simplification seems worse."

"Doesn't it?" Polly sighed. "Dobrý Bůh, it's quiet in here."

"Not for much longer!"

Berni nearly fell off her stool.

"Jesus, Frank! Where did you come from?"

"The door." He grinned as she rolled her eyes. "Thought we'd come to give you a proper send-off party."

"'We'?"

He turned, and as if on cue, the flourish of his hand introduced a flood of men in olive uniforms and bright smiles. They poured through the doors, hollering and grinning at the pilots. Berni was swept off her feet almost immediately and found herself lifted onto the shoulders of one man she recognized and another she didn't. Laughing, holding onto their heads to keep herself balanced, she looked around and judged that the whole of Easy Company must be here, and twice that. Floyd Talbert looked up at Berni through the bangs she was pushing over his eyes and told her that when they let slip of the plan to sneak out tonight, several dozen troopers from their brother companies pledged their attendance. After all, who could resist a night of fun, especially if drinks were to be had? The men cheered her on before getting distracted by the other pilots, and Berni was flattered and humbled that they had all come out just to wish the girls a warm farewell. As Berni praised them all, Talbert introduced her to Pat Christenson, a mutual friend of his and Liebgott's.

Joe.

Was he here tonight? Had he come to support them? Berni scanned the room and quickly spotted him in the group that had swarmed Fiona and Délia. He had a cigarette perched in his smile and was waving two crumpled dollar bills as if he wanted to bet on their craps game. They accepted and picked up the dice, and a grand cheer went up with several other soldiers placing their wagers. Rosie had slipped away out of the ruckus, book in hand, and was just about to escape to a booth in the corner when Earl grabbed her hand. Well-intentioned, Earl tried to tug her back toward the game, laughing with delight, but Rosie shook her head, eyeing the crowded space with dread. Before Berni could ask Talbert and Christenson to let her down so she could tactfully send Rosie on her way without hurting Earl's feelings, two Easy troopers stepped up. As Berni watched, Shifty Powers offered Rosie his arm while Popeye Wynn gave Earl, easily convinced, some excuse Berni could not hear. Shifty and Rosie took a turn about the room with Popeye at their side, and when they settled into the shadowed booth Rosie had originally been aiming for, she appeared much more at ease.

"Captain!"

Berni looked down to see Venus waving up at her. "Doherty!"

"What're you doing up there?"

"Enjoying the view," Berni laughed, then remembered her position and patted Talbert's head. "You lads can let me down now. This can't be all that comfortable for you."

Christenson was eager to let her down, but Talbert jokingly protested, even going so far as to catch Berni bridal-style in his arms when Christenson lifted her off him. He shot some vague profanity after his friend, but Christenson waved him off, beelining for the bar.

"How 'bout a beer?" Talbert offered, setting Berni back on her feet before she even had to ask him to. "I'll buy."

"And I'll drink," Berni accepted. "I'm only a little tipsy, and considering tonight's occasion, that's a right crying shame."

"I'll see around, then, Captain," Venus said, shooting her a grin. "Enjoy yourself, won't you?"

"I don't think I'll have a problem with that, Doherty—but wait! Did you come back with all these blokes?"

"I did!" Venus' smile grew. "Met them on the road just around the bend from the base, and when I figured where they were going, I turned right around and came with them. After I made sure Wifey and Osbournes 1 and 2 made it back to the barracks, of course."

"We sang a whole song to her," Talbert informed Berni proudly.

Venus snickered. "They sang 'Don’t Sit Under The Apple Tree (With Anyone Else But Me)'. You know, the one that goes on forever about waiting until they come marching home? Sung by the blokes who haven't even gone to war yet?"

Berni burst into laughter, but not because of Venus' teasing, and Talbert made a face.

"What?! It's a romantic song!"

"Did you even listen to the lyrics?" she laughed. "Or, hell, the name of the bloody song? 'Don't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me'—and you had, what, fifty of you singing it all at once?"

"Well... fuck!" he blurted out, and the 'f' had gotten stuck whistling behind his lips as if he'd tried to think of a retort but gave up. "Fuck, you're right."

Berni and Venus shared a laugh, and Talbert moped until Venus leaned over and kissed his cheek in good humor.

"One of them kept admiring my brass knuckles," she said proudly, showing them off on her fist. "Who was he again, Floyd?"

"Joe Toye, if I had to guess." 

He pointed across the room, rubbing at his cheek where she had kissed him, and Berni made a mental note that if she ever wanted to make the infamous flirt that was Floyd Talbert blush, all she needed was one Marsha 'Venus' Doherty. 

"He's the one with the loose collar, stands half a head taller than most everybody else. 'Cept Bull, maybe. Or Christenson."

Venus went off in that direction with a quick fare-thee-well, and Talbert and Berni turned toward the bar. They managed to find a decent spot, though they had to jostle for it. Unexpectedly swarmed by customers, the bartender looked absolutely overwhelmed, but here came George Luz to save the day. A few confident words and he found himself placed behind the bar, rushing to pour beers for his friends, always delivered with a lopsided grin and a quick quip.

"Captain Noel! To what do we owe the pleasure?" he teased with a wink, deftly sliding two beers across the bar to Berni and Talbert. "Well?" he asked without waiting for a response. "Did we surprise you?"

"Yes, quite a lot," she confessed, and he clutched his hand to his heart. 

"Agh! You wound me, Captain. You really didn't expect us at all?"

"No," she told him honestly. "I thought, with it being a Thursday and all..."

Talbert, seeing his duty was done (for the time being), raised his drink in a wordless cheers! and disappeared into the crowd, citing the craps game as his destination. Luz, meanwhile, gasped and stopped in his tracks despite the half-dozen soldiers vying for him to pour them a drink.

"What! Did you really think we'd just let you go all the way to England without saying goodbye?" He dropped the dramatics and leaned over the bar, his eyes sparkling. "You're our best girls, and our pilots, too. You know that, right?"

Berni wasn't sure when she'd started crying, but here she went, and she quickly drew her sleeves across her eyes, ducking her head. She smiled despite her tears—or, rather, because of them—and Luz kindly pretended not to see.

"I know," she told him once she'd composed herself, leaning over the bar to kiss his cheek. "Thank you, George."

He pretended to swoon. "I've been upgraded to 'George'! You hear that, Frank?"

"Yeah, I heard it," Frank chuckled, stealing Talbert's former spot, a half-drunk beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other. "So, Captain? Don't leave me in suspense. We doin' a good job here?"

"Three things," she responded at once. "First: thank you, Frank."

"Me?" He feigned innocence, tucking the smokes safely into his breast pocket. "For what?"

She narrowed her eyes at him until he caved.

"Alright, alright, so maybe I had a hand in this whole operation-"

"More like both hands, I'd wager," she cut him off, her red-painted lips quirking upward. "And both feet."

"Yeah, yeah." But he was smiling, and she was too. "What's the second thing?"

"I never thought you Americans would ever get so attached to us," she admitted. "Or that we'd get so attached to you."

He laid his hand over his heart. "Awww."

"Oh, shut up."

He grinned. "And number three? What's that, Cap?"

She stuck her hand out and Frank, after setting his drink aside, took it to shake.

"We're friends," she told him. "For the love of God, call me Berni."

His puzzled smile leaped right back into exuberance and he beamed.

"Right, right. Keep forgettin', since you're an officer and all, but I-"

"Frank!" She took him by the shoulders and turned him toward the center of the room, where the soldiers were just about done setting up an impromptu dance floor. "Shut up and go ask Fiona to dance."

He rubbed the back of his neck, hesitating, and Berni raised a brow.

"What is it?"

"Can I ask you something? As a friend?"

"Of course, you can. Lay it on me."

He leaned toward her, swirling his finger over the rim of his glass. A glance toward the craps game confirmed to Berni what she'd already suspected: the subject of his inquiry was bound to be Fiona.

"It's about Fiona."

And Bingo was his name-o.

"What about her?" Berni asked, her ignorance only partially faked.

Frank sighed.

"I like her. A lot. Scratch that, I think she's incredible. And I wanna shoot my shot. But..."

"But?"

He turned to look her in the eye.

"This is the part where you tell me I'm not supposed to fraternize."

Berni couldn't help it: she started to laugh. Frank looked surprised, then embarrassed, and when he swatted her arm, grumbling obscenities at her, Berni bent over double, cackling. She eventually managed to straighten up, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, and patted Frank on the back.

"At least you had the sense to come and ask my permission," she lauded him, feeling a little guilty for the way he was glowering at her. "Most don't. Actually, you're the first."

Frank's eyes widened. "You mean McClung wasn't kidding when he said-"

"Shh!" Berni clamped her hand over his mouth. "You and I both know the answer, and some things are better left unsaid in a crowded pub."

"Okay," Frank agreed, or at least Berni thought he agreed; his voice was a bit muffled behind her palm. "Right," he said once freed. "So this is you saying I should go for it?"

She took him by the shoulder again. "It's our last night, Frank. You should absolutely go for it. Whatever 'it' may be."

"And this is Berni the captain speaking?"

"No, it's Berni who's tired of watching her friends make eyes at each other without doing anything about it," she corrected; still, he wavered.

"But what about-"

"Bloody hell, Frank, go kiss the girl before you've lost your chance!"

He seemed to snap out of a daze. Squaring his shoulders, he gave a single decisive nod, downed the rest of his beer, and marched off into the crowd. Berni, loath to miss such a moment, climbed right onto the bar and sat there, just able to see over most heads in the pub without drawing too much attention to herself. It took her a moment to locate Frank, and when she did, he was already at the craps game. He broke through the attentive crowd and extended his hand to someone Berni couldn't see. Fiona appeared, rising from the little oval glen amidst the leaning trees of the spectators. A cheer went up from half of those watching and Délia leaped to her feet, celebrating her sweeping victory, but Fiona only had eyes for Frank. Berni crossed her fingers and tapped them against the bar, waiting and watching until-

"Yes!"

She started laughing at her own enthusiasm, not caring that she'd drawn a few puzzled glances, watching as Frank kissed Fiona like there was no tomorrow. They broke apart, flushed and beaming, and Berni raised her fist in the air, giving a cheer. Fiona saw and blushed, and Frank turned, wrapping his arm around her waist, to see what had caught her attention. He saw Berni watching and saluted, and the captain pretended to look away as if she'd seen nothing. Frank grabbed Fiona's hand and nodded toward the back door of the pub. They left, sharing lovestruck smiles, and Berni only had time to hope tonight would not be their last as well as their first before she felt a figure push himself up onto the bar and land beside her.

"Hey, Flygirl."

She turned to him with a smile.

"Hello, Joe. Fancy seeing you here."

He smirked. "Is that a happy to see me, or-?"

"Of course, it is." She laughed at the surprise infiltrating his expression. "Oh, come on, Joe, we're friends. I'm always happy to see you."

"Yeah. Yeah, right." He cleared his throat. "Who were you cheerin' for, just now?"

"Frank and Fiona."

"Perconte? And Tulach?"

"The very same."

He gave a low whistle. "Took 'em long enough."

"I’ll say.”

He studied her expression for a long moment, and if Berni didn't know better, she would have thought he was about to kiss her then and there, right in front of everybody.

"Berni..."

But then Talbert appeared, chattering something about shots, and grabbed Berni's hand. She let him help her down from the bar as he announced there would be many a toast made this evening to the departing pilots, and he was certainly not wrong on the count of 'many'. Berni was already buzzed from her first two and a half beers, but then toasts began and she went from tipsy to drunk within the hour. At first, she sipped at her drink like the rest, but then Talbert had the idea to do shots instead, and she was quite a sight from there on out, slamming them down one after the other. Berni was no slouch in the drinking department, she could hold her liquor, but of course, she had a limit, and tonight, she ignored it completely.

"Who's this?" she asked Joe an hour later, leaning on the bar for support, gesturing to a new face she did not recognize. 

"I'm Private David Webster," the man said, offering his hand, and Berni patted his knuckles more like a grandmother than a new acquaintance.

"Ya made a good speech, y'know," she told him, raising her beer for emphasis and nearly spilling it. "Was real wordy. Didn't understand the half of it, but it was nice."

"Uh, thanks."

"How many beers have you had?" Joe asked, and if he sounded worried, it slipped Berni's notice.

"Can't remember," she mumbled. "Lots. An' even more shots." 

She started giggling, looking between Joe and Webster, and they, the farthest thing from friends, were united for an instant as they shared a look.

"Um..."

Joe waved Webster's awkwardness off. "What're you laughin' at?" he asked Berni, trying to ignore how adorable she looked like this, her shoulders shaking with laughter, relishing the night without a care in the world.

"Webster-" She pointed at each as she named them. "-Liebgott-" An explanatory and conclusive gesture. "-Liebster." More giggling.

"Are you drunk?" Joe asked her straight out, and Berni grinned.

"Positively smashed, love!"

"Alright," he said, "time to go."

"No," she reprimanded, pointing right at his face and narrowly missing poking him in the eye. She giggled again. "Oops. Sorry."

"You missed."

"Oh! Good."

She stood up straight and shook her head, her wild hair dancing in the warm light and distracting Joe from his worry for a good few seconds.

"Just one more drink," she assured him. "I can walk, an' everything. Don't need to do much else to get back to the base."

"Yeah, sure, but-"

"Go dance or something!" She waved him off. "I'll be just fine right here."

Reluctantly, Joe turned to go, only to get a gut feeling less than a minute later and look back over his shoulder. Berni was still where he'd left her, but now, there was a man with her, a soldier Joe vaguely recognized from Dog Company—no, Able. He was getting handsy, and Berni was swatting him away, her giggling swiftly turning into admonishments that seemed to fall on deaf ears. The man tried to touch her ass again and before Berni could slap him, he grabbed her wrist. Berni drew her knee back but Joe beat her to it, tackling the man to the ground. Seeing red, he swung his fists, not caring where each hit landed, taking a few solid punches himself. He was more sober than the other man, though, and managed to get the upper hand. He was sure he was about to win—which, in his eyes, meant ensuring the bastard would leave his girl alone—when Berni hauled him off the man and he was reminded by the look in her eyes that she was not, after all, 'his girl'.

She tugged him a good few steps away, and he was so surprised that she was capable of such strength and clarity when her eyes were glazed over like that that he forgot to turn back until it was too late. The man was gone, stumbling away into the crowd, holding his jaw. Joe hoped he'd broken a few teeth. His eye was smarting and when he blinked it hurt worse, but keeping it open proved a futile endeavor and so he gave in, settling for the pain but refusing to wince. Berni looked like she wanted to say something, but she just left, taking the back door out of the pub. Joe followed her, half-sure the bastard had come this way, but there was no sign of anyone but Berni there. She had stopped near the streetside entry to the alleyway, leaning against the brick wall, one hand clutching the side of her head. Joe marched up to her, pissed off, torn between chewing her out for not letting him defend her and kissing her to high heaven, but when she would not look at him, groaning against the brightness of the streetlamp in front of her, he stepped back and forced his anger to quell.

Shit, Joe, he thought, turning his antagonism inward, now you're backing out of fights for this girl. What next? You gonna ask her to marry you? She's not even Jewish.

It was a stupid line of thought, and Joe didn't like feeling stupid. He wrapped his arm around Berni's waist and guided her out of the alley and onto the sidewalk. She didn't stop or stumble once, so that was a good sign. Still, she was in no state to try and walk home alone.

"What're you doin', ya dodgy git?" she grumbled belatedly, leaning against him like she didn't really mean the admonishment. Joe wasn't expecting her weight and stumbled a step to the side.

"Walking you home."

Berni snorted. "Don't 'ave one o' those 'round 'ere." She wrinkled up her face as if she might sneeze but did not. "An' if you mean your place-" She slumped her head onto his shoulder. "-'m not goin' ta screw you just 'cause you're a real bev who took a fist to the eye-" 

She came to a halt and turned to her irritated companion, but his annoyance dipped to see her more alert than she'd been for the past hour or so. Something had sobered her, if only for a moment. Maybe it was the night air, or the way he was half-carrying her, or the state of his eye-

"Joe! Your eye!"

Yep, it's the eye. Joe grimaced.

"I'm fine."

"But..." 

She began to reach for his face and he leaned away, gritting his teeth. God knows he wanted her hands all over him, but not like this, not drunk and dizzy and meaning to baby him after a fight she herself had dragged him out of.

"Come on." 

He tugged her back into motion more roughly than he meant to and she tripped, clinging to his shoulder to keep from falling.

"Fuckin' chav."

"... I don't think I want to know what that means."

"It means-" She pushed his arm off her, walking on her own, and he let her despite a few stumbles here and there. "-you started a fight over some bloke grabbin' my arse-"

"Yeah, no shit!" His knee twinged as his next step landed hard on the road. "What kind of- of friend would I be if I-"

"Hah! Friend!" She swatted his arm, finding a much-needed respite by leaning against the railing of the bridge Joe hadn't even realized they'd started to cross. "Don't pretend you didn't wanna do it, too."

"Jesus, Berni-"

"What if I wanted him to, huh?" She was just goading him now, and they both knew it. "What if-"

"But you didn't!"

"So? I can take care of myself!" 

That was the most coherent thing she'd said since leaving the bar, and yet not even her sudden clarity of mind could prevent Joe from snapping right back.

"No, I don't think you can!"

She deflated.

"Oh, fuck right off."

"Berni-"

"Leave me alone, you- you daft git."

He pulled at his hair. "I meant drunk- fuck- you can't look after yourself drunk, nobody can-"

"And you think you're sober?"

"Yeah, I am fuckin' sober! You wanna know why? Because you're already drunk, and I didn't want some creep to do something to you!"

"Like what?" Her glower wasn't quite as effective as she probably thought it was. "Like me getting some that wasn't you?"

"Jesus!" He threw his hands up and backed away. "Find your own way home, I don't give a shit."

"Fine."

"Fine!"

They each pivoted on their heels (one more smoothly than the other) and started down opposite sides of the mildly-sloping bridge. As he stepped back onto solid ground, he looked over his shoulder. She was shuffling along, fine to move by herself but looking wretched alone. Joe's next exhalation hissed bitterly through his teeth.

"Is that the captain?"

Joe gave a start. He turned and found one of the pilots staring at him, the one with the big glasses, a book tucked under her arm. There was lipstick on her cheek from a fond kiss. The mark was red—Berni's.

Joe looked back. She was almost gone from his sight, turning the corner of the post office. A part of him wondered if he should go and make sure she wouldn't fall into the river when the road came parallel to it, but the bookish pilot was already halfway there, double-timing it to catch up to her captain. Joe pulled at his shirt, agitated, stuck in place. On one hand, he wanted to go to Berni and take care of her, make sure she ate something with starch and drank a glass or two of water so her hangover tomorrow wouldn't be so severe, but Joe was a stubborn man, and even Bernadette Noel could not coax that out of him. In the end, with Berni and her fellow pilot—Rose Glass, the name came to Joe in a slipshod flash—long gone, the bitterness clutching at his heart turned his head and feet back toward the bar.

"Fuck."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[cowboy-canoodler]

Can’t Teach The Mad Dog New Tricks, Chapter 1 (Majima Goro x GN! Reader) SMUT

This work is for 18+ readers only, minors DNI ! ! !

You’re the captain to The Majima Family of The Tojo Clan of Kamurocho, a diligent worker who balances out Majima’s own brand of crazy.

You trust him and he trusts you, but does that trust go deeper?

Are there feelings you previously hadn’t thought about?

And just how far are both of you willing to go so the other may survive?

Tags: TW: Blood, knives, stab wounds, bullet wounds, doctors, fighting, smoking, “c-word use” Slow Burn, Angst, Fluff, Smut, blowjob (giving), dry humping, whining, bottom Majima, praise kink, edging, throat fucking, almoat public fingering/handjob, possessive sex, dirty talking, private fingering/anal fingering

Notes:

“Seiko” is a nickname for the reader, not an OC or a specific gender, it’s a moniker like Hawke or Shepherd in their respective games.

Set during the year off in Yakuza 3-4

Also:

When the reader is having sexual things done to them I have included separate vagina and penis versions just read the one that accommodates you. Chest and body descriptions are left gender neutral; it's only genitalia that’s different. If you’re unfamiliar with the way I write I try my best to be as inclusive as I can for the reader. This includes writing separate paragraphs for each genitalia (penis and vagina) while also including non-descript hair, skin, chest, and body sizes. If you feel that I haven’t done a very good job at that in particular parts of this fic please let me know and I will alter it to the best of my ability.Slowly working on this while balancing life.

Also this chapter has no smut but the rest of the work does

“We all know what you and Majima-san get up to you behind the closed doors” the lieutenant of a small family said out loud as you collectively waited patiently for the officers meeting to be finished.

You were there with a calm, level headed, expression. Your eyes fixed on the painting on the other side of the hallway as you stood by for Majima to either be told to leave or for him to walk out on his own terms when it got too boring.

“It’s no wonder a newbie was able to be promoted so quickly in their family,” another snide comment from a different lieutenant, once again from a smaller family but a family that was getting too big for its britches, “sleep with the patriarch and you’re sure to move up in the world.” A couple of them laughed as you took a deep breath in, your calm composure falling ever so slightly as a sensitive topic was touched upon.

It was true that you had moved up quickly within the ranks of The Majima family but you hadn’t gotten to where you are now by sleeping with Majima himself. He had always seen how diligently you had worked, sticking to The Yakuza ideals and always keeping a level head when doing your work. Right now, however, you did not have to work, there was no reason to keep these low-level lieutenants happy with you, or the family you belonged to, as you thought of that your hand slowly slipped into the back of your suit and grasped the dagger that was tucked away, ‘always for safe keeping’ Majima would say to you. This, however, did not mean to keep it safe, but to keep you safe, always.

“Gotta admit” the one who had spoken up first walked towards you, a cocky smirk on his face as he strode towards where you were patiently stood, hidden dagger in hand. “Someone who’s so good at keeping level headed does suit Majima-san the most, like that Nishida guy, gotta keep someone calm to balance out the craaaazyyy” his last few words had been drawn out in a mocking manner, a hand raised to his right temple and jokingly twirling in the air to represent his words.

As the other men laughed you pulled out your dagger, grabbed his hand, and turned the tides, pinning his face down against the wall where you had previously stood while twisting his arm and pressing the dagger against his neck. “Mock me all you like,” you whispered into his ear as the other men gasped, “but mock Majima-sama and we have serious problems,” you pushed the dagger further into his skin, a slither of blood dripping down the blade as he swallowed his pride, along with his saliva, “I don’t think your family would survive against ours, would they?” Your tone was one of feigned ignorance, calm and inquisitive as you asked the quivering coward simple questions. “Perhaps you should think before picking a fight with someone you can’t handle, particularly me and Majima-sama, hm?”

Before your victim could reply the door swung open and Majima came into view, his brow furrowed and an angry glare emanating from his good eye. Immediately you stood back, placed your hands firmly at your sides and bowed to greet him.

“Sir! I wasn’t-“

“It’s nothing Seiko-kun, musta deserved it. What’d he do?” A small grin made its way to Majima’s lips as he admired your devotion, he knew you only got that way when someone had insulted him, or the family, personally.

“Nothing that concerns you, Majima-sama , believe me-“ you glared over at the guy and held up your dagger to him once more, “it’s not worth your precious time” you placed the dagger back into its sheath and hid it behind your back once more

“No sir!” The lieutenants bowed as an apology before Majima shrugged and began walking down the hall.

“If ya say so, let’s go Seiko-kun” Majima began walking away and you followed closely behind, your eyes upfront and calm as you made your way out of Tojo HQ and into the car, you in the driver's seat and Majima behind.

A couple of minutes had passed in silence, both of you enjoying the calm of each other's company as you focused on the road and Majima focused on you. His eye bore a hole into the back of your head and you saw it every time you checked behind the car in the mirror, but you chose to say nothing. He was obviously in a bad mood from the meeting, him escaping partway through with a scowl was enough to tell you that, but usually there was chatter in the car as you rode back to the office.

“So what happened?” Majima broke the silence after a couple minutes of staring out of the window, he must have grown bored with the passing cars.

“They said things I didn’t agree with”

“Like?"

“Do you really need to know?”

“Now,” Majima tutted as a smile made its way back to his face, a finger pointed up and waving side to side, “is that any way to treat your boss?”

“Tch-“ you looked back in the mirror and saw his smirk before moving your eyes back to the road, you hated how he knew your weaknesses, “they said we were sleeping together, and that was the only reason I had been so successful, and so quick, with my promotions in the family”

“Ohh, no wonder you were so harsh on ‘em, I woulda been, too” Majima leaned back and looked out of the window as he crossed his leg, his right ankle on his left knee and his lightly hands resting on the inner of his thighs. “Having your achievements pinned on something you didn’t do that woulda been a lot easier, sure as shit ain’t nice to hear- ah- I didn’t mean it like that-“

Knowing Majima had your back always brought a smile to your, usually calm, face. A small display of emotion that was usually kept hidden, on show just for him. “I know what you mean, don’t worry about it, to be honest, I would have slept with you if I could but you were always so damn busy”

“Oh? You woulda?” Majima’s gaunt cheeks reddened a little as he looked over at you, smirking and staring at him in the mirror, “oh- you’re joking” he rolled his eyes and sighed looking back to the window at the passing cars.

“You got really happy at that Majima-sama, something you wanna tell me?”

“Eat shit”

You sat there staring at each other through the mirror as the car sat at a red light before bursting into fits of laughter

The light turned green and you drove off towards the office once again, the last few minutes sat in a happy silence between you both, appreciating the content atmosphere you had cultivated with Majima. Your eyes often wandered back to the mirror to watch him in his small and comfortable world, one of the few places he could let his guard down a little before heading back into his role as Patriarch and Senpai to the family, plus his jacket did nothing to cover himself and you did so enjoy watching him breathe.

“We're here, sir” you said before stepping out of the car and opening his door for him, once more bowing as he exited.

“Thanks Seiko-kun” Majima smiled at you before walking to the doors, hands in pockets and his guard back up once more in the characteristic sway of his hips. You stood and watched him walk away amongst his family members who were all bowed with their head low to greet their patriarch, and you. Another member ran up to you and bowed as you stood aside to let him take over the car and park it in The Family’s usual spot.

The feeling of walking amongst your peers as their captain was still a strange one, while you had filled in the role easily and commanded their respect it was still very alien to you being their commander. Listening to the shallow breathing of the men at your side as you walked past calm and collected, sticking to the Yakuza code and showing them the amount of respect you were supposed to, was rough and something you had never fully agreed with. These men were willing to die for Majima and the family, the same way you would, and probably will, and not being able to show all of them what that means to both you and Majima was insulting. A code that doesn’t value the people who uphold it, not just the top brass who are in charge but those grunts who do the hard work, is a code that will die. It was inevitable.

As you came to the doors you looked back at the men, still bowing low and waiting for you to enter the building, and then down at the pin on your lapel. A familiar, warm feeling spread through your chest as you felt the comfort of your found family before turning back around and proceeding into the offices.

Majima usually took time to himself after a meeting he didn't agree with, usually they were asking him to do something he didn’t wish to do or demanding The Majima family lay their lives down for some bullshit cause. Everytime a Patriarch dies, or a family has to disband Majima, more often than not, would get up to 200 hundred new recruits into his own, making it the biggest of The Tojo Clan so he’s always asked to lay down his men's lives for the sake of Daigo or the greater good. It’s really one of his biggest peeves about being tied down into the Tojo Clan, while he was, ultimately, in charge of his family he had to obey Daigo’s orders no matter what. Yakuza code to uphold and all, and Majima always upholds his moral codes even at the cost of his dignity, freedom, or life.

-

A couple of hours passed and you had kept yourself occupied looking over paperwork concerning the finances of The Family, sorting out spending, repair work for damages made to Majima family turf, and collection payments from said turf. This was the work that you liked, the filing and organisation of it all, keeping things behind the scenes running smoothly. It was what you were good at, the best in the family if your title was anything to go by, and you often felt proud of the work you did, and how little you made mistakes.

Of course there were others who handled the wages and every day frivolities, you were there to check any major problems or spare work whenever you had a moment to breathe away from Majima… but you hadn’t heard from him, not a hair or even a whisper of what he was doing right now.

“Hmm...” you hummed, quietly putting your documents down and looking out of the window, “he’s been too quiet tonight… maybe I should check in on him” the statement seemed to be questioning but you had already placed your documents into the drawer before speedily heading to the door.

The halls of Millennium Tower were always so quiet, the slightest cough or sneeze ringing and echoing through the walls of your floor. Just like the footsteps you were making that erupted through the desolate silence. As you walked down you nodded to the guards, men were stationed at each door, 2 at yours and Majima’s, and 1 at the lieutenants along with their respective groupies inside the rooms when needed.

Your footsteps continued to echo through the halls as you passed various doors, the guards bowing in respect as menial mumbling chatter rang through the cracks of each room until you came to Majima’s corridor, you walked up and signalled his men to move further down the hall. Still on guard but with a little more privacy. You took a moment to yourself before knocking lightly and waiting for a response.

“Who‘s banging at my door this fuckin’ late?”

“It’s Seiko, sir”

“Oh… justa sec-“

A pause before you heard something heavy drop behind the door and Majima exclaiming painfully.

“Majima-sama? Are you okay?” More groans of pain made your heart quicken in worry, the beating echoing into your ears overpowered your, usually, calm composure, “I’m coming in!” Hastily you opened the door and saw Majima sat on his couch clutching his foot, and a bowling ball on the floor slowly rolling towards you.

“Ah,” you chuckled to yourself, “I think I see what happened”

“Just tryna have a happy memory and it’s gotta do that shit to me?!” Majima sighed and leaned back, legs apart and knees spread wide with his arms stretched out along the back of the seat. You smiled and closed the door behind you before picking up the ball and walking over to him, bowing for respect, and placing the ball back into the open bag on the coffee table, his eye following you every step of the way.

“Are you hurt Majima-san?”

“Naw- well... my pride maybe? Having you see me like this sure is a kick in the dick” he rolled his eye and looked away from you, sending his pout out of the window.

“Better than an actual kick in the dick though, right?” His response was nothing more than a click of his tongue and a sigh as he rolled his head, and his eye, back, “I hadn’t heard from you tonight so I thought I’d check in. After today’s meeting you seemed preoccupied, maybe even a little stressed-“

“I ain’t stressed Seiko-kun” his tone was short and guarded as he raised his head to meet your gaze.

“With all due respect Majima-sama, you are. I know you very well, better than most, and I know something happened in that meeting today” you sighed at his silence and sat in an adjacent chair, placing your chin on your fist and staring at him with bored eyes. He looked at you and scowled before averting his eye back to the window, but you continued to stare and crossed your legs.

“Tch- it’s just- it’s shit The Chairman’s got me doing, now that he’s healed and able to lead again, plus losing Mine and shit, everything’s just gone to fuck and I’m the one who has to put it together again”

You could see how annoyed it made him to be tied down like this, he just wants to do his own thing with people he trusts surrounding him but every time something happened in The Clan Majima was usually the one who had to clean up the mess and with every mess he got tied down even more.

“Unfortunately, this isn’t like in 2006 when you were able to just break away and start on Kamurocho Hills… although-“ he looked back over to you, eye soft and pleading behind his dagger-like glare, “-technically there’s not much stopping you from doing the same right now, if that’s what you choose to do, sir”

“Nothing but a promise”

“To whom?”

“Kiryu Kazama"

You both sat in silence for a moment, the muffled sounds of Kamurocho below echoing into the dimly lit room. The silence was suffocating, unsaid feelings and context ripping the two of you apart before you gathered the courage to break it.

“I see, you do hate breaking promises, sir"

“You really do think you know me don’t you Seiko-chan? Huh?!” Majima stood up and balled up his fists, the soft squelch of leather rubbing against itself filling the angry atmosphere. You sat there and stared at him silently, your eyes telling him you weren’t buying this façade he was putting up. “Ain’t nothing worse n’ a guy who can’t even keep his word. It’s too much that we let Yakuza get this fuckin’ soft all this time, only caring about makin’ money and being on top. Ain't shit without the strength to back it up.”

Majima turned around and sighed before walking over to the window, he placed his elbow above his head and stared down at Kamurocho like a lion watching and guarding over his pride.

“Is this about Makoto Tateyama-san?”

Once again, silence.

You could hear Majima’s breathing getting heavier as he thought about how he wanted to approach this with you and you sat there ready to take it all, he needed to get his emotions out and into the open. Carrying a torch for someone for 21 years wasn’t exactly healthy and the only way Majima knew how to take his mind from it was filling his days with menial tasks, or finding people to fight to prove to himself

“It’s been 4 years since she left the country with her family” you could see Majima’s fist tightening and the scowl on his face getting even angrier as he continued to stare out of the window.

His voice was low, almost a growl, and nothing like his usual scratchy tone “you should know when to shut up and to keep her name outta your mouth”

“I can tell you how she’s doing if you wish, I have people checking on her and her family often to make sure she’s safe”

Majima’s breath hitched in his throat and he looked over to you, his eyebrows still knitted together but now in a combined look of anger, curiosity, and affection. “Why? I never ask’d ya to do that, how’d ya even know?!” He took a step towards you, his arm falling down to his hip and hands still balled into fists. You stood up and clasped your hands behind your back keeping eye contact with him.

“When I joined the family I had my sights fixed on becoming your captain as fast as I could so I dug into your past. The things that happened with Shimano-san and Saejima-san, Yuki-chan and Makoto-san.” He stopped and stared at you, eye wide with awe and mouth slightly agape along with his still knitted brow, “I’ve made it my goal to make sure no loose ends come and bite you in the ass in the future, and that the people you care about are taken care of no matter what. I had hoped to keep your mind at ease.”

“At ease?” Majima’s voice was barely a whisper, the words only just crawling their way to your ears as you stood your ground. “Finding out one of the only people I trust is going behind my back to get info on me, that’s supposed’ta put my mind at ease? Huh?!” Majima’s voice rolled into a roar as he took a step towards you, the anger radiating off of him and his mad eye shaking around as he bore a hole into your skull with glare alone.

“Yes.”

Your reply was short and abrupt, the final tipping point before Majima ran towards you and grabbed your collar pushing you back into the wall. You both grunted at the impact as books fell off of his shelves. Your hands came up and gripped his arms in a futile effort to keep him at bay, there was no way you’d be able to take The Mad Dog in any kind of fight, not that you’d want to but you had to try to calm him down somehow.

“The fuck you think you are?! Huh?!”

“The one person who’s always on your side no matter what Majima-san!” He didn’t budge, “I didn’t do it for blackmail or for any kind of leverage, if I wanted that I wouldn’t have worked so fucking hard to get to where I am now. Here! Right by your fucking side where I plan to stay!”

Tears blinded your vision as you poured your heart out to him, the things you admire most about Majima flashing through your mind as his grip on your collar loosened.

The way he never backed down from fights.

His loyalty to the people close to him, especially his family.

The promises he never breaks no matter how hard it is to get to the result.

How hard he fights when he lets loose, especially when he fights Kiryu.

His smile.

His laugh.

His nose.

His lips.

Him…

“Sei- no… (Y/N)-kun…” him saying your name made your heart skip a beat and the breath in your lungs disappear. His hands lay on your chest, slightly smoothing down the fabric of your creased shirt and he averted his gaze, almost sheepishly, as he realised what he had done.

“Unless you throw me out yourself I don’t ever plan on leaving you, Majima-san. Not for all the Yen in Japan, not even to start my own family-“

“You’d be a great patriarch, y’know”

You smiled and lightly sighed, “not nearly as great as you.”

A small gasp made it’s way past his lips once more before his gaze made its way back to your own, eye slightly watering as you studied him making sure to remember every little detail you could. Only now could you feel how close he had gotten, Majima’s breath a small breeze upon your lips, both of you breathing in eachothers air.

All the blood in your body became intimately known to you as well as where it was rushing to. The heat rising in your cheeks and the small, rushed, beating of your heart echoing into your eardrums.

Majimas voice was barely above a whisper as he leaned his head forward, eye now focused solely on his gloved hand smoothing down your shirt. “Seiko I…” he let out a breathy sigh before a small smile made its way into his lips, Kansai accent slipping from his words, “I haven’t felt this comfortable alone with someone in years, I don’t even know how I’m supposed to feel… not anymore”

“I know” you were in no position to give him advice about how to feel when your own emotions were hardly ever in check, “I’ll be here whenever you need to feel comfortable. No matter how far away I am, even if another family has me locked up. I’ll fight my way to you with every fibre of my being, nothing will keep me from you Majima. Our world has no enemy I won’t kill to make my way back to you.”

He leaned his head down slightly, eye closing as he became more and more vulnerable the closer he got to you, and you felt the same about him. Your breath became shakier as your heart continued to beat out of turn, you leaned your head forward and pressed your forehead against his, feeling how hot his body was, your noses barely touching and your hand resting on his bicep.

Kamurocho stopped in those few seconds, no sounds, no lights, no traffic, just the two of you alone on this earth.

Majima was the first to move, his hand creeping up to the side of your neck and his head tilting to the right as he brought your lips closer together, your breath trapped in your lungs as you anticipated his lips upon yours. Your eyes had been focused on anything but his gaze until now, you looked up and he had already been studying you. Just as your lips were about to touch there was a knock at the door, both of you jumped and parted before someone walked in and bowed, looking like he had bad news.

“Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt but there’s a phone call from The Chairman, he says it’s urgent”

Majima sighed and turned away from you, the lingering heat from his hand on your chest slowly fading away as you averted your gaze. All of the trapped air in your lungs made its way out and you stood there out of breath and embarrassed.

“You should get that! I’ll leave you alone. Thank you for seeing me Majima-sama, have a good night.” You bowed and Majima opened his mouth to protest but before he could you quickly made your way out of the door and down the hall to the elevator, face red and still short of breath.

Once the elevator doors closed, and you were alone, everything hit you and you couldn’t stop yourself falling onto the wall for support, the cool metal of the lift. All breath left your lungs as the emotions took over, arms wrapping around yourself and eyes fixed on the floor as you tried everything you could to calm down the thoughts in your head and the thoughts in your heart.

You remained that way until the elevator came to the floor of your office. You stepped out, having regained your calm persona, and walked down the halls with your hands firmly by your side, the right one almost burning as you remembered the feeling of Majima’s bicep in your grip. Your chest aflame with his handprint as you continued trying to keep your composure, determined not to let any of The Family see you like this.

You spent the remainder of your night awake and alone in your office, laying down on your couch with a pillow for company and the Kamurocho sounds, and rain, for ambience. Each thought was of him, how close the two of you had gotten, and how much closer you were about to get before you were interrupted.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

I’m not sure if you have something planned for this already but wouldn’t it be the height of irony if Tooley got monched on by a starved Chris when he forgot to drug him? Just opens the door and whoops! He eaten!

CW: Whumper death, drunkenness, some dehumanization, blood drinking, bit of gore, vampirism, some very light catholicism

-

New York City, 1936

KING EDWARD VIII ABDICATES THRONE British Monarch to Wed American Socialite Wallis Simpson

Tooley kicks at the sodden, half-frozen newspaper stuck to his shoe, grunting with the effort it takes to dislodge it. His hands are buried deep in the pockets of his thick woolen coat, and he ignores the envious stares of others whose threadbare outfits are patched, whose gloves are little more than rags wrapped around their not-quite-frostbitten fingers.

Instead, he pulls his scarf up higher, tucks his chin beneath its knitted warmth, and finally manages to send the scrap of paper with its water-stained black-and-white image of a stern-faced soon-to-be ex-king and his Baltimore lover into the street, where it sticks in a puddle and soaks clean through.

The old-timers say a heavy rain is coming, citing their aching joints and bones. It's been a wet winter already, and the absolute last thing New York needs is more rain.

Tooley plans to be holed up in his nice warm little house for the whole of it. He's sold three paintings in a month, and he can spend the next few weeks on the next one until his hands want to drop right off his wrists without having to distract himself with petty concerns like money.

The liquor bubbles warm inside him, and even with the frigid air he's broken a sweat along his back, trickling to his waistband, almost a tickle. He stumbles a little, catches himself, coughs out a laugh as the cold air burns deep into his lungs. It can't penetrate the hazy heat of the drink, though.

Mel's always has the best whiskey, and Tooley has the green these days to pay for the very best indeed. He's spent what might be a whole month's pay - if he weren't the luckiest artist in New York - in a single night.

You might say he's made a deal with the devil.

He pulls the brim of his fedora down, shielding his brow from the bit of freezing moisture speckling his cheeks. He struggles not to giggle like a child.

"Got a bit to spare for a hungry man?" A rasping voice calls out from an alley as he passes. "Help me feed my family, sir? I'm out of work, sir! Got three little ones with hungry bellies!"

Tooley ignores him.

There are crowds like that everywhere these days, always pressing for help, for a little something more and more and more. Men out of work, men in bread lines, women with tired faces and sad children. He's had just about enough of it.

They're calling it a depression, and he finds the term apt enough, considering it seems the whole country's been tumbled into a hole and can't find its way out.

He'd take his muse to Europe and paint there if it weren't for the echoing tension that bleeds over across the sea. Every nation he's idolized for their arts is trying to posture at each other. Rattling sabers while the people sigh heavily and keep washing their laundry, like always.

Tooley was a child when the Great War tore his own family apart - losing an older half-brother to the pointless trenches, a father to the mustard gas that ate his lungs to pieces, a mother to her desperate, sharp grief at her husband and stepson's loss.

The War had rendered him alone in the world before he was even twenty, though he'd been too young to hardly understand it and it had had nothing to do with him.

Wars were for rich men to send poor men to fight in, and Tooley is hoping to have enough wealth to maybe just float right past a new one, if the rumors beginning to swirl came true and Europe is going to erupt. Surely, though, no one would let a second war as horrible as the last happen.

Surely not.

Still, even so, he can simply disappear if they try to call him up to fight. He has no one left to lose, after all. No one to fight for, no one to care for. No one but his pretty little model, all locked away, his to keep.

Tooley takes a sharp left and the streets begin to change from the harsher gray of the city proper into neighborhoods, houses crammed tightly together. It's not the best part of town - Tooley's parents weren't the wealthiest, and he doesn't live like a gentleman, he's got no need to, it's not how he thinks a proper artist should live anyway. Have to keep up the image of the nearly-starving creative genius, after all.

There are still lights in some windows, despite the late hour. Tooley isn't the only one drunk at midnight and still moving.

It's a mile or so from the start of his street to where his house is nestled between two others, close enough he could reach out his kitchen window and touch the brick of the home next door. He smiles a little. His nose aches with the cold at the tip of it, but that's nothing to worry himself over.

He's home.

It takes him four tries to unlock his front door, the key jabbing into wood and brass too far to one side or the other. He laughs, breath puffing white clouds into the air, his ears burning with the cold where his hat doesn't quite cover them.

Good thing he's not with a woman, tonight, if his aim's so bad with just his hands.

The thought makes him laugh harder, nearly a guffaw, loud enough that he's sure he's woken a neighbor or two. It's not the first time.

Finally, the key slides home and the lock clicks and Tooley moves inside. The house is chilled in the entryroom, but as he slides his coat and fedora off to leave them on the coat rack and moves into the kitchen, towards the back, he can feel the warmth slowly trickling from the ticking radiators along the walls.

He's due for a coal delivery in the next couple of days, and boy, he's going to need it with the weather the way it's been.

Tooley heads for his perfect little secret, the vampire held in the backroom, once a sort of servant's bedroom for some family that had owned the home even before his own parents did. It's his studio, now, and the place where the little vampire boy is kept.

He unlocks that door, too. A key, a deadbolt, a little sliding lock at the top for added safety.

"Here, kitty kitty kitty," He slurs, and laughs again, delighted at his own little joke.

There's a scrape and a rustle, and Tooley steps back to let the vampire boy move forward, out of the freezing unheated room - Tooley only turns the radiator on in there when he himself is working, it's not like dead things care about being warm after all - and into the kitchen proper, with its little two-person table.

The boy is looking dirty - he's due for a bath, long overdue honestly. Good things he doesn't sweat enough to stink.

His hair hangs lank in his eyes, closer to dark copper than the new-penny shine Tooley prefers. There are smudges along his cheeks, marring his perfect freckles. He's draped in a sweater patched badly where his elbows have worn holes right through, pants that are tied with a rope since Tooley sure isn't going to waste money on a belt for a corpse.

"Is, did, did you, um, did you bring me food?" The vampire boy looks up at him, eyes glinting a little in the dimness, that unsettling cat-like glow-in-the-dark effect. His little fangs flash, too. "I'm... I'm, I'm hungry, Tooley."

"I know you are, bloodsucker."

"It's, it's been, um, it's been weeks, Tooley-"

"I know, I know. Shut your trap." Tooley ruffles his hair, then pulls his hand back with a grimace as he remembers how dirty and greasy it's gotten, walking away to go to the sink and wash his hands. "We'll get t'that. I met with someone very important at th' bar tonight, and first things first, you and I are going to celebrate."

The boy moves slowly, staying half-crouched - he's been hit before, when Tooley didn't want him to stand all the way up. He settles himself against the wall, head tilted to the side. His cheekbones cut sharp angles in his face, edging down to his narrow chin.

Those big green eyes follow Tooley everywhere he goes.

"Celebrate what?" He asks, and Tooley wonders just how old the ridiculous little thing is. He'd said early aughts, hadn't he, on when he was turned? So he'd be, what, in his forties really?

Funny.

Was he locked up during the Great War?

He's still a pretty teenager, but he's probably closing in on fifty. Tooley's twenty-some years younger and looks infinitely older, in his own estimation.

Tooley should look into vampirism, seems an excellent way to hold onto your looks, doesn't it? He wonders if the boy knows how to turn him. They could make beautiful work forever...

Hm.

Something to ruminate over when he's hungover in the morning.

"New commission. I'm taking a few weeks off, give us both a break, but I've got the basic details. I'll pick up a broad, get her all set up for modeling, we'll make us a mint, sweetheart." He moves to the counter, picking up the half-full bottle of gin he keeps there, taking a swig and grimacing, coughing. There's a rattle in his lungs these days he doesn't like much.

"You'll, you'll kill her?" The vampire watches him. He looks hungry, with all those sharp lines emphasized, as though he were a painting himself still in progress, with the outline still written in graphite showing through the colors. He's pale, painted in wash, not yet turned to vivid velvet intensity with oils.

"'Course. You think any of my models would stay alive anywhere near you?" He laughs at the very idea, missing the vampire's little flinch as he turns away. He pulls a loaf of bread from the breadbox, already starting to stale but that's all right, he's going to toast it over the stove anyway. The world swims around him from the liquor, and he catches the counter with one hand to keep himself upright.

The feeling brings another laugh out of him.

The little vampire smiles faintly in echo of it. He has to work to get the stove to gas, narrowing his eyes as it struggles, sputters, before finally a little flame flares up. Just enough to give off a little heat for the toast.

"Fuck. Drank too much. Or not enough." He laughs again, and pulls a knife from the knifeblock, the sharp serrated thin blade best for slicing through the heavy sourdough he buys from a woman down the block. Bit of toast, pat of salted butter, that'll get him through to morning when he can head down for eggs and bacon at Paulie's diner.

Maybe he'll even buy some extra for the hungry men who hound around the doors. He can be a philanthropist.

As he slices, the knife slips off the stale, hard crust and cuts right through the back of his hand, a long line immediately welling with bright red blood. He groans, irritated, and sets the knife down, turning to run cold water over it as the pain flares bright, but slightly muted from his drunkenness.

There's a rustle behind him, and Tooley's mind only belatedly begins to allow alarm to trickle through the warm fuzz of the gin and whiskey. He slowly turns around.

Where the vampire boy had been curled against the wall, a bundle of skinny bones and too-big clothes, there's... nothing.

Tooley glances to one side and sees the boy crouched on the floor by the edge of the lower cabinets, his hands pressed into the ground. He moved five feet in less than a second.

His eyes are flared, wide and with pupils burying the iris in black. He clicks, softly, tongue against teeth in an inhuman way.

Click-click-click-click.

click-click-click.

How'd he move so fast?

"Shit," Tooley whispers. "When's the last time I fed you?"

The vampire doesn't answer, only stares, unblinking, muscles tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing. He clicks again.

His lips pull back from his teeth and those fangs that seem so cute and little on every other day suddenly look long, like daggers, dripping a shimmering venom to the ground.

Tooley tries not to blink, too, but his eyes dry and dry and dry and eventually he can't help it. His eyes close, a fraction of a second, and flare open right away.

Not fast enough.

The vampire leaps and Tooley grunts at the impact of the small bony body against his own, his lower back smacking into the line of the counter with a flash of pain. The bread and knife both clatter to the ground.

Panic comes, but it doesn't help. He's still groping to get at another knife when the vampire's fingernails dig into his scalp, grip into his hair and jerk his head to the side to bare his throat.

"Hungry," The vampire boy hisses. "Hungry, Tooley. Hungry."

"I-I know, just, just don't blow your wig, gimmee a minute, I can get you something, just hold on-" Tooley's voice is thin from the harsh angle his neck is being held at, and he swallows, seeing in a bleary haze the way the vampire's huge eyes are focused on the movement of his adam's apple, the bob of his throat.

Can he see the blood pulsing there?

He puts his hands up against the vampire's chest to try and push him off, but it's like pushing against rock. He thinks about painting the vampire as a kind of young Prometheus for a dandy from Boston, tied naked to a rock to be pecked at by eagles, and wonders if the mythological man ever tried to push the rock itself, and if it failed as miserably for him as it does for Tooley now.

"There's blood in the shed out back, just let me go and I'll grab it for you." He pitches his voice soothing and slightly patronizing, like speaking to a whining dog. "Okay, kitten? Just two minutes and you'll be fed, right as rain."

The vampire pauses, hesitates, and Tooley feels his hands working at Tooley's hair and one shoulder, like a cat kneading into your lap before they settle. His little stray. His breathing starts to ease, his heart to slow down, the first rush of panic subsiding.

The world still spins a little, but the rush of adrenaline is settling things into something more solid, wiping away the liquor.

"I'll put you back in your room and go get it for you, it's right outside, good and cold," Tooley coos, and realizes too late it isn't what he should have said.

"There's blood right here, and and and, and, and it's living," The vampire boy says, eyes wide and inhuman, and he's absolutely gorgeous. "Your, your, yours is hot."

Tooley would paint him like this, all feral instinct overwriting the living corpse of an anonymous Irish immigrant who died dozens of years ago. A metaphor, maybe, for the way some of the children who come here lose all their European culture and get boorishly American, and-

The vampire bites down, and all thoughts of art and culture flee from Tooley's mind.

The liquor holds off the pain so long the venom hits before he even feels the way those sharp teeth have breached his skin. He goes limp, dropping in a heap to the floor. He thinks he hits his head on the loaf of bread before it knocks into the floor.

They feel about the same level of hardness.

The knife is right next to his head, lying there, shining in the yellowed lamplight, with its carved wooden handle.

All he has to do is move his hand a few inches to reach it.

Just a few inches.

He tries, desperately, to tell his fingers where to go.

The vampire sucks hard at the wound in his neck, pulling blood from his veins like a man drinking an egg cream after a long hot day's work, and Tooley groans. He can feel the press and pull without the pain, and it's the strangest thing he's ever felt. Stranger than those he's gone to bed with.

The venom makes his limbs feel like stones, weighed down to motionless. He struggles even to swallow saliva, to take a deep breath. His heart never races again with panic. He isn't able to feel it any longer.

Those sharp little fingernails dig hard into his shoulders, the weight of the vampire settled on him, straddling him. A little flirty thought - at least buy me dinner first - makes its way across his mind, barely coherent, slow as molasses.

The vampire starts up his soft rumble, the vibration filtering in through into Tooley's body. It seems like it makes him feel even more frozen, heavy as the ocean and weightless at once.

His eyes are on the ceiling, and he realizes how long it's been since anyone cleaned the corners where cobwebs have grown and grown. They need swept away.

Funny how he never noticed before. Too busy with his art.

There's a moment where Tooley is surprised to look down at himself, as if he's floating somewhere near the ceiling staring down at his own open eyes. When he needed not to blink, he couldn't stop himself, but now the body he is looking at just stares and stares and stares, unseeing, unblinking, unbreathing-

Oh.

As soon as the realization hits, Tooley's awareness of himself as a body he can observe is gone.

There is darkness, and then a point of terrible final light. He feels the grasping of bloodied hands.

And he's gone.

The vampire drinks until the blood stops pumping, until the heart beneath his kneading hand is still. Then a rough tongue laps at the wounds, finding the last few droplets there that still sing with life.

The vampire pulls back, skin flush with life, no longer white as snow. His freckles stand out, scattered like constellations of stars over his skin. The dead man beneath him has all the paleness he had before, they are switched, swapped death for life.

He wipes the blood from around his mouth and looks slowly upwards, breathing in deep gulps he doesn't need but which feel so, so good.

He moves to the stove, to turn it off, but he doesn't quite turn it off all the way. An odd smell fills his nose and the vampire's nostrils wrinkle, but he doesn't know what the scent is, and he simply pulls Tooley's coat on before he leaves, door unlocked.

A few minutes later, a man with his hands over a barrel fire looks up to see a redheaded teenager in a woolen coat far too large for him move under a streetlamp, pausing to look up at it as if surprised by how bright its light is.

He blinks, and the man squints.

The young man's mouth is open, as if scenting the air by letting it roll over his tongue. Before the man can quite understand what he is looking at, the boy's mouth closes and he turns to look at the man. As his eyes shift from being lit by the lamp to draped in shadow, though...

They glow.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," The man whispers, crossing himself hurriedly. "Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle, b-be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil-"

The boy looks right at him, head tilted. The flames of the barrel flicker, hissing a little when raindrops start to fall. His lips pull back from his teeth and there are an animal's fangs there, plain as day.

The man feels pure horror at the sight of a demon walking free and unfettered in New York City. He grabs at the cross he wears around his neck and holds it out, his voice trembling. "May G-God... rebuke him, we humbly pray-"

"I, I, I hope that works for you," The boy says, and his voice is soft, and there's almost a lilt of the old country there that the man recognizes, not quite his own but not far off. "It never d-did for, um, for me. Don't worry. I'm... I'm full. You're, you're, you're in no danger from me. When, when, when, when... when did you come here? To this place?"

The man swallows around a lump in his throat, and yet he finds himself compelled to answer honestly. "Two years past, give or take. Came with m'wife and baby girl."

"From where?"

"... Kerry," He says, against his will. He can't seem to hold back the words. "And my wife grew up in County Cork."

The boy smiles, and his horrid teeth disappear when his lips press together. He looks for all the world like any other young man, a bit skinny perhaps and in need of a good meal or three, but no danger to anyone.

But the man has seen the demon that he is, and he finds himself grateful for the fire between them and the cross still in his hand, the shield of St. Michael and the cloak of Christ Himself.

"My, my, my, my parents were from County Cork," The demon boy says, lightly. His lilt is slightly stronger. "Wonder if we're cousins, your your wife and I. Maybe so. Stay home, um, after dark. Don't, don't, don't work when the sun is, um, is down."

The boy turns and walks away.

The man realizes with a start that in the midst of a chilly December night, the boy's feet are utterly bare. He steps over ice like he could walk on water.

There was blood smeared on the back of his coat.

The man flinches as he hears a sudden boom, close enough that he feels it in his chest as well as hearing the sound. A moment later a woman runs by shouting that a house has caught flame, to call for help.

The man looks back at the way the boy went.

He's gone.

-

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @insaneinthepaingame @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @newandfiguringitout @astrobly @endless-whump @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @doveotions @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @what-a-whump

[mp100fanworkstranslation]

God Help the Girl -Part 1/2-

By Rubato This book was published in 2017. Currently out of print.

Chapter 1: The Guard

Good Morning

Every day is the same. A black and gray world.

This same man is always amongst the morning crowd, his hair is unusual. An interesting shiny brass in the morning sunlight.

I only started seeing him in April of this year, so I suspect he’s new. His eyes are always dull. The dead-eyed look of a souless job. Not that different from me really. 

Guard: Good Morning

Very few ever respond when I greet them at the door. 

Reigen: Good Morning

But this man would always looks at me and replies. 

7:39 and 17 seconds. Guard looks at watch as Reigen swipes his card key.

I don’t know when it started, but I came to look forward to seeing him every morning. Something interesting to look forward to in this otherwise dull job. 

Guard looks at staff key card records. The man who entered the building at 7:39:17

Found it. Reigen Arataka. Don’t know what the Kanji is for his name.

I’ve been a very reserved person since I was little. I’m not a very emotional. I’ve never really held an interest in anything in particular, or taken an interest in anyone. 

Gotten in plenty of fights as a student. I never start them, I was always just called in to help finish them. I don’t like violence, I don’t hate it either. I just go with the flow. 

After highschool, I drifted around from one job to another, often ended up working with some shady dangerous types. 

Even then, it was more of the same. A largely empty person in a mostly dull life.  I don’t expect anything to change. That’s my life I guess.

I’ve been working at this office for god-knows-how-long when I first saw this guy. 

-Lunchtime-

Older Guard: Hey

Guard: How are you?

Older Guard: So uh, I’m sorry to ask, but could you take over my night shift tonight?

Guard: sure

Older Guard: What?! Really?! Thank you! That’ll really help me. So, I’ll take your morning shift tomorrow then.

Guard: No, you don’t need to, I can work my own shift.

Older Guard: Um....well... 

He’s walking around the office at night and notices that one of the rooms still has the light on.

Guard: I’m sorry, but I need you to leave so I can lock up. 

There’s a guy collappsed over his desk. Guard: Oh... Oh god....

He imagines a news paper headline “Karoshi: Employee dies during the night”

(Japanese office workers occasionally die at work. This is common enough that it has it’s own term “Karoshi” People will spend days at the office, working nonstop, chasing deadlines until their bodies give out. )

Upon closer look the guy is breathing.

Guard: He’s asleep

Touches hair Guard: I touched it.

Reigen: nnnnnngh

Guard: Sir, the building is closed.

Reigen: OH NO I FELL ASLEEP! I..Im so sorry, Give me a minute, I need to gather my things.

Guard: Uh, take you time. It’s fine. 

Reigen is escorted to the elevator by security. While they’re waiting for the elevator, Reigen asks: Hey, I see you every morning at the door. 

Guard: ah yes

Reigen: So are you gonna be there tomorrow morning too?

Guard: Yes

Reigen: Wow you work really hard

Guard: yeah Well, alright, I need to move on and check the next floor. I’ll leave you here. 

Reigen: Thank you. Sorry for the trouble.

Guard: You haven’t been looking well recently, don’t overwork yourself. 

Reigen: Thank you. It’ll all be over tomorrow, and I’ll finally have a chance to rest.

Guard: ?

Reigen: I’ll be leaving now, thank you. 

Reigen walks out. The caption on the guard says he’s very happy, even though his face has a flat expression. 

Didn’t think I’d get to interact with him more. Maybe it’s worth staying at this job a little longer. Just think about it that’s all.

As the guard is thinking this, the background comic images show Reigen sticking his resignation letter into his bag.

Guard: Good Morning

Reigen: Thanks for your help last night.

Guard: GOOD MORNING

Reigen: You don’t have to yell. 

Guard: I hope you got some good rest. Reigen: I left just in time to catch the very last bus last night. You saved me. 

Guard: that’s good. 

Reigen: Actually, today I’m...(he gets interrupted)

Coworker: Reigen! I was looking for you!

Reigen: Sen...Senpai!

Coworker: I can’t find the data report you were supposed to transfer over. I hope you didn’t shred it. 

The guard tips his hat at him as Reigen is pulled away

Guard: Alright, I’m headed out

Older Guard: Okay, thanks again for covering my shift

He leaves. A while later Reigen comes by.

Reigen: Hey

Reigen: Where’s the other guard? the guy that’s at the door every morning....

Older guard: Oh, he finished his shift and went home. 

Reigen: I see. I’m sorry but could you please......

Guard: Didn’t sleep last night. Guess I’ll go home and take a nap. 

His phone rings. 

Ah... hello?

Yes, it’s me. It’s been a while. Do you have a minute?

Sure 

I have a job for you

Yeah?

It’s a security contractor for a facility on the outskirts of the city.  It’s some kind of government thing or some kind of corporate research lab.  I don’t have a lot of details, but either way, you’d need security clearance. 

We just need some discreet people that wont open their mouths. I think it’s a good fit for you. 

I’m sorry, but I’m busy with my current job. 

Is that so? Well the pay for this position is very nice. I can pull some strings andf offer you a cash advance if you were to accept. Please think about it. 

He hangs up

Thinks: Nah, I’m good, I’m looking forward to seeing him again. 

-The Next Day-

Employee: Oh god I’m late!

Guard thinks: I didn’t see Mr. Reigen today. He’s never missed work. Did something happen? 

Older guard: Oh hey, I’ve got something for you.

Guard: huh? Energy drinks and a card for the lobby coffee shop? The card has “Take care of yourself!” written on it.

Older guard: The guy with the light hair left them for you. He said it was too much trouble to take this stuff home, so he said you could have them.

He walked out with a box, I think he quit.

Oh, I see.

Life was dull once again, like it had been before.

TO BE CONTINUED

“God help the Girl“ is an odd title, but it’s actually a song from 2017 when this was first written. It’s about a person working a day to day job just to pay the bills. Their life is so mundane and dull that only supernatural or divine force will make it something different.  

This comic is an attempt to explain why Ekubo always possesses that one guard in fanworks. 

[holdingforgeneralhugs]

Joe Toye Day

A/N: A very happy Thanksgiving to everyone here who celebrates💕 And in honour of Joe Toye day I whipped up this little one shot of Easy celebrating the holiday together.

"Hey Joe, pass the mash will ya?"

"Lieb I swear to god if you use up all that gravy I'll drown you in it."

"Malark, stop hoggin' the stuffing!"

"Jesus Christ Babe, ya think you've got enough?"

The mess hall was buzzing with the excited chatter of the men of Easy company. They'd made it back to Mourmelon a day late for Thanksgiving, so the brass had decided to throw them a belated Thanksgiving feast to give them a boost in morale after Holland. And it seemed to have worked. Everybody had smiles on their faces, laughing and joking as they packed their plates with as much food as they could.

Once they'd all finished eating, George Luz clinked his fork on his canteen to get everyone's attention and stood on the bench so everyone could see him.

"I'd just like to say on this belated Thanksgiving day, excuse me," he paused, turning to Joe Toye with a wink, "on this belated Joe Toye day, that I am thankful to be in the best damn company, in the best damn division, of the best damn Army in the whole damn world."

There was an outbreak of raucous laughter, and as everyone, including the officers, clapped and hollered at George he took a dramatic bow before jumping down off the bench again.

"Jesus Luz, how long you been planning that speech eh?" Teased Hoobler.

"Been working on that one since I heard we were getting a feast," he laughed, grinning proudly at everyone at the table with him.

"Better watch out Luz," Tab chuckled, "keep giving speeches like that ole Ike himself will be hammerin' on your door to rally the troops."

"Better pay me well if he does," George mocked, rubbing his fingers together.

"So Joe," smirked Bill, elbowing his friend in the side, "How's that plan to make Thanksgiving Joe Toye day and get a big fat pay check goin' huh?"

"I'm still workin' on it wise-ass," he grumbled, elbowing Bill back.

"Wonder if we'll get dessert," wondered Perconte aloud across the table from them, "wouldn't mind a slice of pumpkin pie right about now."

"Oh yeah Perco," smirked Malarkey, "I'm sure they managed to whip up a pumpkin pie in the middle of war torn France. Bet they got some nice fat ones growin' out the back just waitin' for us."

"Alright alright I was just sayin'," grumbled Perconte, glaring at Malarkey who was only too delighted to rile him up. It turned out that Perconte hadn't been far off. They weren't getting pumpkin pie but they did get some apple crumble for dessert, and they were all happy and contented when they finished eating it.

"I couldn't eat another bite if I tried," moaned Babe, rubbing his bloated stomach in satisfaction.

"That's cause you barely left a bite for the rest of us," laughed Liebgott. Babe glared at him but it was half hearted at best, too content with himself and his feed to muster any real annoyance.

"There's no way this day could get any better," Skip sighed happily, putting his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his palm, a happy smile on his face.

"It could," George contemplated, "if they got Marlene Dietrich in here to sing for us."

"Well I don't quite have Marlene Dietrich," laughed Dick as he stood at the end of their table, hands behind his back, "but I do have some good news. You've all got passes for the night, and a free day tomorrow for some well earned rest."

The place erupted in excited cheers and chatter. Dick shook his head in amusement before holding his hand up to silence them again. "Have a good night guys," he started, and they all grinned back at him cheekily, "and try not to get arrested. Yes Guarnere, I'm talking to you."

"No promises sir, but I'll do my best," Bill laughed, Babe thumping him on the back as the whole table burst into laughter. Dick huffed out a laugh before waving to them all and leaving the mess hall with Welsh and Nixon. 

"Well boys," grinned Penkala, rubbing his hands together, "who's ready to show all those lovely French ladies what a good time really is?"

Taglist:  @tvserie-s-world @geniedocroe @generousdreamlanddestiny @sunsetmando @cagzzz107 @howunexpectedlyso @alejodi0nysus @sunflowerchuck @now-im-a-belieber @anderperrysupremacy @50svibes @eugene-emt-roe @pennyllane @televisionboy @scientistsinistral

[winterscaptain]

short notice.

Aaron Hotchner x Gender Neutral Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: thanks to @joanofarkansass for this little idea!! i was able to throw this together as kind of a surprise treat before i went to sleep tonight. i hope you all enjoy!

words: .9k warnings: none!

summary: “’welcome to the wonderful world of jealousy,’ he thought. ‘For the price of admission, you get a splitting headache, a nearly irresistible urge to commit murder, and an inferiority complex. yippee.’” ― j.r. ward, dark lover. au!november 2010

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | ajf faq | requests closed!

“Sorry to call all of you in on such short notice.” JJ tosses a file to you as you walk in. “We’ve got a last-minute request from the brass and we’re expected in Vermont within the next two hours.”

You sit with a sigh and start flipping through as the rest of the team files in. 

“You look nice,” Derek remarks. You almost have the good sense to feel offended by his surprise. 

“I had a date.”

Penelope drops her file. “Kevin and I were supposed to have our Firefly marathon tonight, but I guess it’ll have to wait. I can’t believe another serial killer ruined our night off.”

Your mouth screws up, a little rueful, but before you can reply - 

“A serial killer is about to ruin a lot more than our nights if we don’t get started.” Hotch steps in and sits beside you, looking up at the screen. He’s also out of his normal garb - wearing a polo shirt and jeans with a pair of sneakers. 

It’s not like you haven’t seen him in stuff like this before, but it’s still a little silly to see him dressed so casually in the office. 

After a moment of silence, he prompts, “JJ?”

“Yes, sir.” 

JJ starts the briefing, but you’re having some trouble focusing. It’s clear Hotch’s mind is somewhere else and his fidgeting draws your attention more than once. 

About halfway through, you catch Emily as she nudges Dave’s shoulder, pulling his attention to Aaron. They both squint in your general direction for a moment before little smirks appear on their faces. 

With that in mind, you bump Hotch with your elbow. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

Doesn’t sound fine. 

“You sure? Is Jack okay?” 

He doesn’t look at you as he replies, still curt. “Yeah. He’s good. I’m fine. Just tired.” 

Small alarm bells go off in your head. It seems Haley installed them upon her death. For now, though, you ignore them and let it go. 

He’ll get over it, whatever it is. 

+++

“I hope you have a change of clothes,” Hotch says, passing you on the jet. 

You glance up at him, trying not to feel too put off by the rebuke in his tone. “Of course.”

He takes a seat on the far side of the plane - much farther away from you than normal. Emily, uncharacteristically, plops down beside you with a little snort. 

“He’s about as subtle as a gun, don’t you think?” 

Your brow pinches. “What?” 

“Could he be more obvious?” 

Taking a minute to look over at Hotch again, you turn back to Emily. “Apparently?” 

“He’s jealous. I think he heard you had a date.” 

Why would he be jealous? 

The furrow between your brows only deepens. Jealous doesn’t seem to be in Hotch’s vocabulary - Aaron is, well, seemingly too much of a man for that. Jealousy seems childish, immature, even. Two things he decidedly isn’t. 

You take the bait. “What do you mean?” 

Emily snorts again. “You’re kidding, right? You look good -” 

“Thanks.” 

“Sure. You look good and it’s not for him and I think,” she sticks her tongue firmly in her cheek, “he’s a little huffy about it.” 

You heave a sigh and stuck your nose in the case file. “Has anyone ever told you you’re absolutely ridiculous?” 

“Pfft. Yeah. Rossi. All the time.” 

+++

“Doin’ alright, Aaron?” 

The man in question hardly looks up from his reading. “Hm?” 

Dave settles in beside him and watches you chat with Emily, eye-rolls in no short supply. “Oh, I only ask because you seem a little tense.” 

“Do I?” 

Dave goes on to point out how nice you look this evening and, “It’s a shame we had to interrupt everyone’s evening - I’m sure the person on the other end of that date,” he gestures to you again, “is none too happy - but of course, that’s exactly what you want -” 

“What?” 

That caught Aaron’s attention. 

Dave holds back a smirk. “You’re jealous, Aaron. Just admit it. This lack of self-awareness is unbecoming.” 

Hotch only rolls his eyes and burrows back into his work, only a little frustrated Dave was able to get after him so easily. “I don’t know what you're talking about.” 

“Alright,” Dave says, as if he doesn’t believe him at all (he doesn’t). “Up to you, but if I were you, I’d start getting a little more honest with yourself. Clearly, you don’t have forever.” 

Aaron grits his teeth but doesn’t reply. 

Why add fuel to the fire? 

He’s right. 

Shut up. 

+++

You change into your work clothes about a half-hour before final descent - just a regular pair of rip-stop pants and a tee-shirt - and step out of the bathroom. If you chose to acknowledge the tension between you and Aaron, you’d admit your strut was a bit of a punishment. 

That said, you’re not necessarily in the business of facing your feelings. Thus, your manner of walking is just a means to an end, as it usually is. 

When you sit back down, you glance over and try not to feel too much joy at the slight pull of disappointment around Aaron’s lips at seeing your wardrobe change. 

Maybe I did look good. 

And maybe it was a gift JJ called you in, after all. 

Not that you’d admit it, of course. The last thing you’d do is get dressed up for Aaron Hotchner, of all people. 

Yeah, like that’ll happen. 

Okay, even that is a little bit of a stretch for your self-denial. You shake it off, turning back to the police reports in your lap. 

Definitely a stretch. 

+++

tagging: @arganfics @quillvine @stxrryspencer @hurricanejjareau @ughitsbaby @rousethemouse @criminalsmarts @genevievedarcygranger @ssaic-jareau @davidrossi-ismydad @angelsbabey @hotchsflower @hotchslatte @risenfox @mrs-dr-reid @captain-christopher-pike @dwellingsofrosie @pan-pride-12 @sunshine-em @word-scribbless @jdougl-love @dreila03 @forgottenword @aaronhotchnerr @ssa-morgan @sana-li @tegggeeee @abschaffer2 @ssacandice-ray @ellyhotchner @lotties-journey-abroad @mrs-joel-pimentel-23-25 @mooneylupinblack @ssareidbby @bwbatta @wakatoshislover @capricorngf @missdowntonabbey @averyhotchner @mandylove1000 @qvid-pro-qvo @jeor @spencers-hoodrat @popped-weasels @evee87 @nuvoleincielo @this-broken-band-girl @reidtomestyles @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @winqhster @the-falling-in-the-danger @iconicc @mangoberry43 @andreasworlsboring101 @mac99martin @itsalwaysb33nyou @baumarvel @kerrswriting @messyhairday-me @ssworldofsw  @deagibs @crazyshannonigans @moonshinerbynight @jhiddles03 @teamhappyme @mendesmelodies @starsandasteroids @unicorn-bitch @ambicaos @bispences @thebivirgin

[skzsauce01]

Matters of the Head and Heart

Synopsis: Mechanical hatmaker Mr. Felix Lee finds himself being charmed by your flirtatious antics towards him. However, you being an upper class young lady means nothing will come out of it. Right? Steampunk-ish AU set in 1850s Victorian London. Historical accuracy not guaranteed.

Warning: none

Word Count: 13.1k

Pairing: fem!reader x hatmaker!Felix

Mr. Felix Lee, having been an apprentice and a hatmaker for several years, is no stranger to the odd request or so, but the one he receives today is by far the most peculiar.

“A tea party?” he repeats. He eyes the cream colored envelope you delicately hold out before him, still trying to comprehend the unusualness of it all. “And I’ve been invited?”

“Yes, Mr. Lee,” you say with a smile. “It’s a short notice, I understand, but the hostess would be delighted if you attended.”

He elects to stall for time while he makes sense of it. Why is he invited? Surely, it is unheard of for a hatmaker to partake in a ladies’ tea party. “If I might ask, who is the hostess?”

“A good friend of mine, Miss Shin. She is quite the hat enthusiast and has been inquiring about the designer of my mechanical blooming rose one.”

“That would be me, I suppose,” he dumbly says. He remembers the challenge of your headdress. The flower petals were meticulously arranged and joined together so that they would furl and unfurl. It was quite the endeavor to craft, so he can hardly blame Miss Shin for wanting to learn more. He takes the envelope from you and sets it down on the counter, accepting the invite. “Who else has been invited?”

“She would not tell me about the others, but I think she’s planning her debut ball soon.”

Felix sagely nods. A young lady’s coming out into society is a grand affair, and Felix has heard the stories from fellow craftsmen about the intricacies demanded. If he’s fortunate, maybe Miss Shin, apparent hat enthusiast, will order something from him. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Nothing else, I’m afraid. Good day.” You curtsy and turn to leave, your wide skirts brushing against the sides of a display table.

Felix is feeling rather bold after all that, so he asks the back of your dress, “Will I see you there?”

You look back, lips curled upward in a small smile. It’s different from your typical ones, more playful and less guarded. The downward tilt of your chin is almost seductive, and Felix is doing his best not to turn scarlet. Some of his customers have flirted with him before, but you have never done so so blatantly. He wonders why you are acting coquettish now. Perhaps he merely hopes you are.

“Of course. Who else would introduce you to her?”

The front door of his shop swings shut, leaving him alone again. It is then that Felix realizes how inappropriate the entire situation was. You, an unmarried young lady, had no chaperone with you.

Felix swiftly returns to his latest piece of work to distract himself. He will not say a word about what occurred, but it does not mean that he is not flustered by it. It does not help that the cornflower blue fabric of the silk ribbon he holds matches your skirt perfectly.

The next morning, Felix arrives at a predicament: what does one wear to a tea party if one has never been to such an event before? After much deliberation and a chat with his elderly neighbor, he decides on his Sunday best despite the day being Saturday. He hangs up a sign in the window of his shop stating that he is closed and begins the walk to Miss Shin’s residence.

Unfortunately, the journey is more arduous than he expects as her home is well outside the city. The vast, open countryside is a stark contrast to the cramped buildings Felix is used to, so he spends most of his time admiring the greens and browns of around him. The scenery is the only pleasant part of his day thus far. His newly polished black boots are dusty from the dirt path he walks on, and there is a thin layer of perspiration on his face.

Sometime in the midmorning, a horse-pulled wagon passes by him, and the occupant facing the back calls out to him in a decidedly ungentlemanly fashion when he sees Felix.

“Sir in the blue coat! Mr. Lee, is that you?” he shouts as he stands up while the wagon is still being driven. “It is! Mr. Yang, stop the cart.”

The wagon slows to a stop, and the loud gentleman waves Felix over. “Mr. Lee! It’s Mr. Han Jisung! Would you like a lift?”

Felix graciously accepts his offer and sits at the back with him. He then greets both men with a nod. Jeongin, the poor driver who looks like he is still half asleep, urges the horse forward.

“Are you heading to Miss Shin’s as well?” Felix asks. Mr. Han is a renowned dressmaker known for his use of mechanical moving elements in his designs, which now that Felix thinks about, is similar to his own specialty. If Miss Shin desires a grandiose debut dress, Mr. Han is the one to order from.

Mr. Han nods and pulls an envelope from his coat. It is the same cream colored one Felix has tucked away in his own, the only difference being the name of the individual being addressed on the front. “I’ve made a few things for her before, but this is the first time she’s invited me to her home. And for a tea party of all things! Have you been to her home before?”

“No. She has never ordered from me either. A friend of hers gave me the invite.” Mr. Han ponders over this for some time, and Felix adds, “Her friend believes that Miss Shin is planning her debut ball soon.”

Mr. Han snaps his fingers at the news and nods. “That must be it! She does enjoy extravagant gowns, and your hats would go well with my designs. The singing bird one in your window is astounding! I ought to make something to go with it.”

Felix, thrilled at such a compliment from a man renowned for his mechanical prowess, smiles proudly. For the rest of the way, they talk about other inconsequential things like the weather and the traveling play troupe.

Soon, they arrive at their destination. The conversation quickly dies away once they take in the estate. Miss Shin has no title, yet her family’s home is fit for a duke or even a king. The exterior paint is a blinding white, not a trace of soot anywhere despite there being a carefully hidden coal burner at the side of the mansion. The front door boasts of a large brass knocker and stained glass cutouts, while the front gardens have a large fountain as a centerpiece.

Mr. Han speaks, or rather whispers, first. “This is certainly a sight.”

“I would say so.”

The driver parks his wagon, dilapidated and shabby compared to the gleaming carriage by the entrance, a short distance behind the carriage. Felix and Mr. Han hop off the wagon while Mr. Yang drives the horse to the stables, also magnificent in their own right. As they walk to the front door, the carriage door opens and out steps another familiar face. Felix and Mr. Han raise their top hats and bow to you, and you curtsy once your footman has helped you down. Your chaperone, who was absent yesterday, follows, and Felix and Mr. Han greet her as well. Felix averts his eyes in an attempt to rid himself of the memory.

“Mr. Lee,” you say. “And you are Mr. Han, I believe? Miss Shin talks at great length about your designs. I’ve been meaning to buy one myself.”

Mr. Han beams at this and holds his arm out for you as your small group approaches the stairs. When you take it, Felix feels a twinge of envy. Instead, he offers his arm out to your chaperone, who also takes it.

A butler, an automaton of the latest model, guides the guests to the garden out back where the party is occuring. Felix cannot help but admire the clever design of the large clock in the foyer and decides he ought to make a clockwork hat soon. The garden, lush with more greenery and sweet scented flowers, has a round table topped with empty plates and pots of tea. The young lady wearing a large brimmed hat with dangling gemstones must be Miss Shin. A hat enthusiast indeed.

You let go of Mr. Han’s arm and head to embrace her. “Ryujin! It’s so nice to see you again!” You turn back and gesture at the two men who accompanied you inside her home. “You know Mr. Han of course, but this is Mr. Lee, the hatmaker you have been inquiring about.”

Felix bows to Miss Shin. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Shin.”

“And you, Mr. Lee. Come, have a seat.”

After the guests take their places — Felix happily notes that you take the seat across from his — Miss Shin signals the automaton waitstaff to begin bringing out the food and pours tea for everyone. There are small tea cakes, finger sandwiches, and other morsels of food that seem too delicate to eat. You make light conversation about how lovely everything is, and Mr. Han agrees. For the next few minutes, there is idle small talk about the garden while the craftsmen impatiently wait for Miss Shin to address why she has invited them to her party. Mr. Han, however, asks before she says anything.

Miss Shin is not perturbed by this. In fact, she smiles broadly at the opportunity. “My debut into society will occur in the upcoming season, and I intend to have a spectacular one. You two gentlemen design the most exquisite clothes, and I need something unlike anything the world has ever seen.”

Felix glances over to see your reaction about being correct, but your face is hidden by a porcelain tea cup. When he checks to see his Mr. Han’s reaction, it is similar to his — expectant and excited for a challenge.

“You will all be paid handsomely, of course,” she offhandedly adds. “No expense will be spared.”

“Did you have something in mind?” Mr. Han asks.

“A theme of royal blue and brass,” she dramatically says, waving her lace gloved hands in the air. “I confess, Mr. Han, I was so enamored with the evening gown you made last season that I decided I wanted something like it for my debut ball.”

Felix has nary an idea what she is referring to, but he assumes it is a work of art. On the other hand, you’re nodding your head in agreement.

“Oh, yes. Everyone at the party thought it was divine!”

Miss Shin picks up her tea cup and primly holds it to her lips. “Mr. Han, Mr. Lee: are you interested?”

“Yes,” Felix immediately replies, of which Mr. Han echoes.

“Perfect. I trust that you both will create something magnificent. But enough business talk. For now, please enjoy yourselves.”

The conversation about her debut’s details lasted less than five minutes. However, they defer to Miss Shin’s request. Felix awkwardly sips his Darjeeling tea while Mr. Han selects a pistachio tea cake.

More compliments to the garden and food are made, and it becomes apparent that there is not much else appropriate to chat about. Felix and Mr. Han are both already uncomfortable, and the chaperones and mechanical waitstaff surrounding the table only exacerbate their unease. Despite Felix’s feelings though, attending the tea party is not all terrible. Not only does Felix receive a commission from who he finally realizes is the daughter of the illustrious Shin Industries, he is allowed to spend some time with you. You are jovial and are able to elicit a few laughs from everyone with your humor. Felix adds upon your jokes and turns a pleasant shade of pink when you chortle at his pun.

By midafternoon, the party closes to an end. Felix graciously thanks Miss Shin for the invite and tells her that he will do his utmost best to create a stunning headdress for her. When the butler arrives to escort them to the front entrance, Felix purposely walks slower to be near you.

“I must thank you for your interest in my designs,” he says. “This is quite the opportunity. Without you, I do not think I would have been here today.”

You shake your head. “She would have found out about you anyway. She’s always on the lookout for latest fashions and innovations, so I was surprised that she hadn’t discovered you before I did.”

You are fast approaching the door; Felix remembers the large clock in the front room. Mr. Han is walking quicklier than Felix prefers, so Felix only has a few seconds to come up with something else to say.

“Will you be needing a new headdress for the ball?” he asks.

“Possibly. Of course, I will come to your shop if I find that I do.”

Felix holds out his arm for you to hold as you head down the stairs. Your hand is gloved, and his coat is thick, but it feels as if your bare skin is touching his.

“I look forward to it,” he says.

Right before you step into the carriage, you flash him yet another coquettish smile that makes him flush. “As do I.”

Your chaperone, an austere lady with a high necked dress, arches an eyebrow at this exchange but says nothing. The last Felix sees of you is the long skirt of your cornflower blue gown disappearing into the carriage.

“Mr. Lee, would like a ride back to the city?” Mr. Han asks, jolting Felix out of his thoughts.

“That would be wonderful.”

The journey back is filled with discussion about Miss Shin’s requests. Mr. Han describes the mysterious evening gown: a vision of royal blue silk, lace trimmings, and brass and phosphorus star-like ornaments. Felix realizes that you and Miss Shin share similar tastes for themed clothes. He tells Mr. Han of this, and Mr. Han gives him a sly look.

“If I may be so forward, do you fancy Miss L/N?”

Felix grows hot and directs his gaze to the countryside. “She is merely a customer of mine.”

“Of course, my mistake," he replies, though his tone implies it is anything but.

Fortunately, Mr. Han does not push the topic any further and mercifully changes the subject to decreasing prices of velvet. Felix inwardly sighs in relief.

Several days later, Felix is in the midst of his work when his shop swings open. When he hears the noise, he pushes his tools to the side and replaces the intense scowl with a pleasant smile.

"Welcome! How may I be of service?"

"Good afternoon, Mr. Lee," the young lady greets. She pushes the brim of her gemstone hat back. "I've just had the most wonderful idea for my hat, and I need you to bring it to life!"

Miss Shin has quite the eccentric style, and her grand idea exemplifies it. After a trip to the newfangled aquarium exhibit at the conservatory, she has decided on an oceanic theme for her debut ball and wants an “octopus” upon her head. Felix has no idea what that is.

"It’s a fascinating thing with eight arms. I hear they also call it the devil fish, though it is more devil than fish.”

Miss Shin’s chaperone nods in agreement and shudders at the mention of it. On the other hand, Miss Shin herself seems enamored with such a creature.

“I will do my best. Are your chosen colors the same?”

“Yes. The royal blue will nicely lend itself to the theme.” She sighs dreamily, and Felix wonders how deeply she has thought about this.

“It sounds marvellous. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Not today, but perhaps another time.” She glances back at the door momentarily. “I must go to Mr. Han about this. I’ll be sure to come with payment for it next time. Goodbye, Mr. Lee.”

“Goodbye, Miss Shin.”

The store is quiet again. Instead of picking up his tools, Felix grabs his stovepipe hat from its hook and heads to the local conservatory to get a glimpse of the octopus Miss Shin spoke so earnestly about.

It is indeed as fascinating as she made it out to be. The gears in his head begin to turn.

The following day, Felix spends the late afternoon at Mr. Han’s shop to discuss Miss Shin’s requests. Mr. Han is also amused by the prospect.

“She asked for an octopus-like gown as well,” he remarks. “Have you seen one before?”

“Just yesterday I visited the aquarium. It’s like a balloon with many strings.”

Mr. Han snorts the comment. “How accurate. Are odd creatures the fashion nowadays?”

Before Felix can answer — “I’m not sure, but Miss Shin seems to dictate trends than follow them” — the bell on the shop door rings, indicating someone has come in. Felix stops leaning against the wall and straightens up to greet the person. Upon doing so, he recognizes that said person is you.

You look just as surprised as he is. “Oh, Mr. Lee! Hello. I didn’t expect you to be here.”

“Good afternoon, Miss L/N,” he says, bowing. He adjusts his hat to better hide his warming ears.

Mr. Han stands up from behind the counter and smiles broadly. “Miss L/N, Miss Wang,” he says, referring to your chaperone, who seems pleased to be acknowledged. “Are you here for a dress?”

“Yes. I’ve been waiting all week to come here. But just something simple though.”

Mr. Han’s “simple” designs are still far more extravagant than the gowns sold by typical dressmakers, but they seem to be your taste. Felix pretends to be preoccupied by the mechanical doves flying about the skirt of an unfinished dress while you select something from Mr. Han’s inventory. Your constant humming and deliberation make it difficult for him not to be distracted. He sneaks a glance at you, and you are browsing through the dress forms with interest. A delighted smile appears on your face each time you discover the hidden mechanical details embedded in the fabric.

“I think this one will do,” you say, stopping at a lilac walking dress with small turning gears in place of buttons.

While Mr. Han carefully wraps and packages the gown for you, Felix hovers by the counter, wishing that he had something clever to say. The weather is dull and unimaginative, the current traveling play troupe in town has been discussed to death, and the tea party from last week is old news.

“Have you seen an octopus before?” he blurts out, forgoing a transition. He regrets his decision when he realizes how impolite it is. He thinks he hears Mr. Han stifle a laugh at his eagerness.

To his relief, you don’t seem to care. “Oh, yes! I visited the exhibit at the conservatory a few days ago and saw one up close. A frightening but intriguing beast.”

“It is.” He’s running out of words now. Mr. Han seems to be spending a lengthy amount of time tying twine.

“What did you think of it?” you ask, oblivious to Felix’s increasing internal panic. “I assume you have seen one by your words.”

If he didn’t fancy you before, he does now. “Intriguing as well. And inspiring. It’s unlike anything I have ever seen.”

“Should I expect an octopus hat for sale soon?” you teasingly say. “I imagine you would be able to make something spectacular. You are quite the inventor.”

Your chaperone makes a noise of disapproval at your blatant flattery and possible flirting. “Miss L/N, I believe it is time for us to go. Now.”

You take your parcel from Mr. Han and thank him. To Felix, you grin and say, “I look forward to the hat.”

“Miss L/N, that is enough.”

You bid the two men goodbye and follow your chaperone out the door. Felix hears you grumble, “Fei, you are not very fun.”

When the door shuts, Mr. Han turns to Felix with a satisfied expression. “You’re welcome, by the way. What a shame Miss Wang interrupted.”

“I haven’t a clue what you’re referring to,” Felix says, a pleased blush spreading across his cheeks. There’s no denying that he enjoys being on the receiving end of your advances, no matter how much he pretends he doesn’t notice them. “I think it is best that I go now as well. To start on the drafting process.”

“Oh, you have an idea? What is it?”

Felix describes it to him, detailing the waving tentacles he has envisioned and the way they could be coiled into Miss Shin’s hair if she wished. Mr. Han looks impressed by his ingenuity and ponders over the design like he’s considering something similar.

“I’ll let you take your leave,” Mr. Han says. He unrolls some more length of butcher paper onto the counter and picks up his pencil. “You’re not going to chase after her, are you?”

“I wouldn’t do such a thing!”

Mr. Han nods, clearly not believing him. “Alright then. I hope your plan goes well. Good day, Mr. Lee.”

“Good day.”

True to his word, Felix heads back to his shop and does not run after you. He leaves the ‘CLOSED’ sign hanging in the window and heads to his work surface to begin the calculations for Miss Shin’s headdress. However, even with such an important task at hand, his mind still drifts to you.

He wonders why he is so easily tempted by your flirting. Yes, you are pretty, but beauty alone has never made his heart beat nearly as quickly as it does when he is around you. Your natural charm borders on brazenness sometimes, but he doesn’t detest it. To be honest, it’s refreshing in an era where everyone’s advances are supposed to be reserved and ambiguous.

He realizes he has answered his own question.

With a soft sigh, he returns to his sketches, each curve of his drawings reminding him of your carefree smile. He fancies you. He fancies you a lot.

As midwinter approaches and the beginning of the season begins, Felix’s shop is flooded with customers wanting new hats. Somehow, word has gotten out among the upper class about the new hatmaker with fine craftsmanship and one-of-a-kind designs. Most of his finished products are snatched up, and several people ask about placing future orders. He takes a select few; after all, he has another very important project that needs to be done.

He asks Mr. Han if he has experienced this wave of new business as well, to which Mr. Han says something similar happens to him every season.

“You’re a new face, so it’s natural,” he assures. “I imagine Miss Shin’s upcoming ball has much to do with it as well.”

Felix does not fully understand Mr. Han’s remark until Miss Shin stops by with her payment days later. She gives him a little more than necessary, but when Felix tries to hand the remainder back, she waves it off, citing it as a gesture of her appreciation.

With more cheer than before, Felix shows Miss Shin the progress he has made on her headdress so far: tentacles that trail down the back, moving pieces that make it appear the arms are waving, and glowing phosphorus eyes. Miss Shin marvells over each element and declares it spectacular. Then she pulls an envelope from her reticule and presents it to Felix, who stares at it not unlike he did weeks ago to a similar piece of stationery.

His name is clearly written on the front, but he hesitantly asks, “It is for me?”

“Yes. An invitation to my debut.”

You will certainly be there as a member of Miss Shin’s court, and if he goes, then…

Perhaps a dance? A chat? His mind spins with possibilities. However, he’s more concerned about why he’s being invited to such a high-class affair as a hatmaker.

“Pardon me, but why am I invited?”

“In case of mechanical errors. I can’t have the day spoiled because of something like that. Not that I expect it to,” she hastily adds after seeing Felix’s affronted expression. “Mr. Han has been invited for the same reason. It’s simply a precaution.”

“I see.”

“A few of my friends are asking about you as well. Besides,” she slyly adds, “you’re a young, eligible gentleman. I’m sure someone will be delighted with your presence.”

Felix nods slowly as if he is thinking it over. Is she talking about you? He certainly hopes so. “Thank you for the invite. Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

“Just sure to attend my debut. Anyway, I must be on my way now. Good day, Mr. Lee.”

“Good day.”

She and her chaperone head for the door. Once they are out of sight, Felix breaks the seal on the envelope and notes the date of the party: nearly a fortnight away. No matter his previous apprehensions about it, he is going to attend. He would be a fool not to.

The ball is in a week’s time, and Felix has spent the past few days and nights putting the finishing touches to the octopus headdress. It is done now, nary a mechanical error or physical blemish in sight. He even has Mr. Han look it over, and the mechanical genius himself deems it to be perfect.

Felix sighs in relief and sinks into his chair, the cushion worn thin from so many hours of him sitting on it. “This was the most challenging design I have ever done.”

“You did a splendid job,” Mr. Han reassures. “Would you like me to mail it to her along with her dress? I’m nearly done with it.”

“That would be wonderful.” He doubts Miss Shin will return since he has not heard a word from her since she last visited a week ago. The pieces of gossip he overhears from customers corroborate his assumptions; they whisper about Miss Shin overseeing the planning of her extravagant ball by herself and how exhausting it must be.

He delicately places the hat into a velvet-lined hatbox and covers the top with tissue paper. Then he pops on the lid.

“Are you attending her debut?” he asks. “Miss Shin said she invited you.”

“Of course!” he replies, and Felix is glad that he won’t be the lone craftsman there. “It’s far too good of a business opportunity to pass up. I take it you will be there as well?”

“Like you said, it’s far too good of a business opportunity to pass up.”

“And other kinds of opportunities as well.” He glances at the clock hanging above Felix’s head. “Ah, I ought to get going. This was supposed to be a quick break. Goodbye, Mr. Lee.”

Mr. Han holds the box close to his chest when he leaves. Felix watches closely and relaxes when Mr. Han does not run down the street like he expected him to. He trusts that the hat will arrive in perfect condition, but if it does not, well, that is why Miss Shin invited him to attend the ball in the first place.

Despite knowing that he will be going to an upscale affair, he has not prepared himself in the slightest. After deliberating for a few minutes, Felix takes up his stovepipe hat and heads down the street as well. If he wants to impress you — potential future customers, he means — he should at least buy a new coat and cravat.

On the day of the highly anticipated ball, Felix rises before the sun. It’s an evening party, so he needn’t be up so early, but he cannot sleep. His body is tired and demands to rest, but his mind is buzzing. As such, he brews himself a cup of tea and begins searching through old design sketches to fix.  

Two redesigns and recalculations later, a gentle tap on the storefront’s window makes him look up. He has only had a half a cup of tea, so he is unsure if his eyes are truly working when he spots you standing outside. He isn’t even open for business yet. You cup the glass door and peer inside, presumably to see if he is awake yet. He blinks twice, and you are still there.

He walks over and unlocks the door, making you take a step back. When he sees you wearing in the purple walking dress you bought weeks ago, he feels disheveled in comparison. He pats down his uncombed hair. “Good morning, Miss L/N.”

“Good morning, Mr. Lee. I apologize for coming this hour, but it was urgent, and I wasn’t sure if there would be enough time if I came by later.”

Felix is wide awake now. “What is the matter?”

You hold out a bronze hatbox to him. “Do you remember the blooming rose headdress you made? Well, I was careless last night and accidentally dropped it. It’s broken, and I was planning to wear it tonight. Is there a chance it could be repaired by then?”

“May I…” He hovers his hand over the box, his fingers just a few centimeters above yours.

“Yes! Of course.”

Felix opens it, and to his relief, the damage is not as bad as he expects. There are a few petals askew, jamming the other flowers around it and causing the entire mechanical rose garden to stutter. The only other concern is the small grease stain on the silk ribbon, but that is a simple fix. He wonders where you dropped it. Certainly not on the ground since the damage seems to be minimal.

“I can repair it. Could you come back in a few hours? Around mid-morning?”

You sheepishly smile at him. “Would it be possible for you to give it to me at the party? I wasn’t actually given permission to leave the house today.”

It is then that Felix notices that, once again, you have no chaperone with you. Or does your carriage driver count as one, he flippantly thinks. It does not matter though. The sudden realization about the inappropriate situation makes him more shy.

He takes the box from you and steps back into the safety of his store. With the clear door threshold dividing the two of you, he feels much more at ease. You seem slightly saddened by this, but perhaps it is his wishful thinkings.

“Of course,” he says, trying to hide his reddening face by looking at the cobblestone pavement. “Where shall I wait for you?”

“By the fountain in the front gardens. I have to arrive at the Shin residence early, so it will likely be me waiting for you.”

Felix nods and takes one small step backwards. “I will see you tonight then, Miss L/N. Good day.”

“Good day, Mr. Lee. And thank you for your help.”

You walk back to your carriage and wave goodbye when you see that he is still standing by the door. He weakly waves back and scurries to his work table where he promptly sets the box down and whispers panicked mutterings to himself. He feels like he’s overheating.

He drinks the remainder of his tea to cool himself down before settling into his chair. He reaches for his tools and begins taking apart the mechanical flowers. It is a distraction from you but not a very good one.

When Mr. Han show up in an actual carriage in the evening, Felix’s nerves are not any better. He fumbled with the top buttons of his shirt while dressing, and it took him several attempts to tie his cravat correctly. Now, every bit of his body tremors as he steps inside the carriage.

“Well, don’t we look like dandies tonight?” Mr. Han remarks. He eyes the hatbox Felix has on his lap. “Did Miss Shin send it back?”

“Miss L/N needed an emergency repair,” Felix responds as he pretends to adjust his cravat, making it look worse than it did mere seconds ago. The evening air is warmer than he anticipated. “Are you excited?”

Mr. Han lets his poor attempt at steering the conversation away slide. “More or less. I would rather be at home, but parties can be fun.”

Felix is inclined to agree, though he is most excited and terrified at the prospect of seeing you again. The conversation devolves into silence as both gentlemen stare out the windows, observing the countryside at night. There is not a hint of light save for the moon and stars above. The wind blows in any direction uninterrupted, making the grass and wildflowers rustle.

It is a romantic picture.

Soon, the natural countryside begins to wane as they approach Shin residence, lit up in shades of blue with phosphorus lamps, comes into view. There is a line of carriages on the gravel path leading inside the estate. They are one of the last ones, and Felix is overwhelmed by guilt for being so late. How long did he make you wait? Mr. Han pokes his head out the window and mouths an exclamation at the sight.

“I don’t think I have seen or even heard of a debut ball of this size,” he says. “Well, she did that no expense would be spared.”

Felix, even more anxious about the party now, only nods in agreement. As their carriage nears the entrance, he scans the gardens for the designated meeting spot. There is a shadowy figure by the fountain, nearly hidden by the tall hedges. Although he cannot make out who it exactly is, it must be you.

When they finally reach the entrance, he opens the door and steps out with your hatbox tucked under your arm. He heads towards the fountain, the opposite from the main door of the house. The driver, the same one as last time, gives him a strange look but says nothing. Mr. Han seems to understand and says that he will see him inside.

Felix slows his pace, making sure that the few guests waiting to be let into the estate will be inside by the way he reaches you. There are curious glances in his direction, but they rapidly turn to the decorated main door as the line moves forward. Once there is no one left outside, he quickly strides over to the fountain. You are nowhere in sight, so he presumes that you are behind a hedge. Hopefully, you have not left.

“Miss L/N,” he softly calls, “are you here yet?”

Like he hopes, you walk out from behind a hedge, the hem of your dress showing up first. Felix has to suppress a gasp when you stop right in front of him. You are very close, and your evening gown and typical daywear are vastly different. Your bare shoulders, to put it mildly, are distracting.

“Hello, Mr. Lee. How are you tonight?”

“I am well, thank you.” It comes out a little strained, and to deflect from that, he holds out the hatbox. “Your headdress, as requested.”

“Thank you. The ball has started, so I should head back before they notice me missing.” You take it from him and hold it in your arms. “Shall we head in together?”

You really are brazen. As much as he would like to spend more time with you, he knows the social implications it has and the damage that will be done to your reputation. This very act of meeting you alone is illicit.

“I think I would like to wander the gardens some more,” he lies. He vaguely gestures at the plants. “They’re quite lovely.”

You give him a half smile. “They are. Ask me for a dance later, will you? I would very much like it. Until then. ”

Like nothing out of ordinary occurred, you merrily head back to the house, leaving Felix at a loss for words. He paces around the fountain and imagines the conversation over and over again. You were no doubt flirting with him. He is beyond delighted, but he has no idea what to do with this newfound development. He spent the last months admiring you from afar.

Ten minutes later, after he is certain that no one will connect your reappearance with his, he finds himself inside the bustling ballroom of the mansion. ‘No expense spared’ is correct.

There is a full orchestra playing on a raised section and a quadrille underway. He must have missed the first dance. The automaton waitstaff are conducting their own dance through the crowd as they distribute drinks and collect empty plates. The oceanic theme, so earnestly described by Miss Shin, has come to life with the blue tinted lighting and sea creature motifs decorating the walls. Felix notes that although there are many species of fish, the devil fish is not among them. Against the west wall leans the refreshment table, draped with scalloped tablecloth reminiscent of the waves. Just a few steps away, to Felix’s amazement, is an enormous aquarium filled with exotic fishes and elegant aquatic plants. He suspects that the conservatory might have loaned them for the night. However, he would not be surprised if the Shins had their own aquarium.

“There you are.” Mr. Han emerges from the crowd, relief clear on his face. “Miss Shin has been wondering where you were. I didn’t say anything about your… plans, but I may have given her the impression that you got lost on the grounds somehow.”

Mr. Han leads Felix to wherever Miss Shin is. In the meantime, Felix hopes that she just wants to introduce him to a few of her friends and not that her headdress needs to be fixed. Imagine how mortifying that would be.

“Mr. Lee! You’ve arrived!” she exclaims. The surrounding guests all immediately turn to get a look at him, and he feels embarrassment coloring his face. “Everyone, this is the gentleman who created this extraordinary octopus upon my head.”

Just like that, Felix is inundated with questions.

“How long did it take?”

“What excellent craftsmanship! Are you taking commissions now?”

“How much for a hat?”

Felix politely answers them all, half bewildered and half pleased by the attention. Mr. Han watches from the sidelines with a proud expression and gives Felix encouraging nods when no one is looking. Several minutes later, Felix has earned himself a slew of new potential customers, all who are more than willing to pay a visit to his shop the next time they are in town.

“It has been in perfect working order ever since I received it,” Miss Shin reports. She reaches up to adjust one of the metal tentacles coiled into her hair. “You won’t be disappointed.”

Felix relaxes when he hears the good news. “Thank you for compliments. Pardon my manners, but I do not think I have mentioned how wonderful the evening has been so far. Your ball is a true success.”

“Thank you,” she says, the ever gracious hostess. “Do enjoy the rest of the party.”

One of her court members adds, “And do be a gentleman and ask a certain Miss Y/N L/N for a dance.”

“Yuna! Don’t be so—”

Felix does not get to hear what Miss Shin says next since Mr. Han pulls him away to the refreshment table, far away from where they were. Thank goodness for his perceptiveness. Felix is only a few shades lighter than crimson.

He does intend to ask you to dance, but the question is when? You were not with the other court members by Miss Shin, and at a party this large, he is unsure if he will even be able to find you.

“Having fun so far?” Mr. Han asks as he plucks a cream and jam roll in the shape of a fish off a serving tray. “It seems like everyone knows about your fancies.”

Felix ignores the last sentence. “It’s a magnificent party. It really does feel like we are all in the depths of the ocean here. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“More or less. The food is divine.” He punctuates the remark by grabbing another roll. “If I were less refined, I might just filch the entire tray.”

By the way Mr. Han is marvelling over the selection, Felix does not put it past him. He is not in any place to judge though; he, too, is considering taking a few treats home to eat.

“Mr. Han! And Mr. Lee as well! Good evening.”

Felix does not have to turn around to know who it is. Mr. Han’s sly face gives it all away, and your voice has become all too familiar to him.

Mr. Han greets, “Miss L/N! How lovely you look tonight.”

In the darkness, Felix was not able to see you clearly. Under the phosphorus lights and gas lamps, you are radiant.

He first notices the gold roses, slowly blossoming and then slowly wilting, adorning your head. Then his eyes travel downward to the ribbon choker around your throat and to your shoulders. He quickly averts his eyes to the evening gown you wear — sage green with an understated floral pattern, which perfectly matches your headdress. The fan in your hand is closed shut, the golden handle appearing bronze under the lights. He cannot bring himself to look at your face; he can already imagine the pretty smile you have, and that alone is making him grow warm.

“I do believe that is Miss Choi!” Mr. Han interjects. “Pardon me, I must speak to her immediately.”

You and Felix bid him goodbye, leaving the two of you alone. You wait for him to greet you, speak, something, but nothing comes to mind. He steadily shifts his gaze upwards and tries to lessen his blush when he sees the corner of your mouth quirked up.

“Did they miss you?” he says, breaking the silence. “Miss Shin and the rest of the court, I mean.”

“I don’t think so, being a very busy night and all. I think they were more concerned about dancing.”

Which reminds him…

With as much confidence as he can muster, he holds out his right hand to you. “Would you like to dance, Miss L/N? I recall you requested one.”

You place your left hand in his and let him guide you to the middle of the dance floor. “I must confess, I only came to ask you if you were going to ask me to dance.”

“I would not have forgotten.”

“Are you certain?” you tease. “It seems like you only remembered when mentioned dancing.”

“Believe me, Miss L/N, I would never be able to forget such a bold request.”

He knows exactly where the surge of genuine confidence came from. The second he felt your fingers on his palm, something inside him lit up. Your touch made the moment so much more real, his wishings no longer daydreams.

The quadrille finishes, and the orchestra starts playing a waltz. Though he is stunned by the change — he had been anticipating walking and turning about you, not twirling you around — you are not. While you curtsy as a formal greeting before the dance, you deftly switch your fan to your left hand. Before he can bow in return, you hold his left hand and smile demurely at him.

“I have another confession to make Mr. Lee: I have been waiting to dance with you for the longest time now.”

He cautiously presses his hand to the small of your back, pulling you a bit closer than social customs allows. He can blame it on the crowded ballroom. He can feel your warmth through the fabric, and it occurs to him that you are in his arms just like in all those outdated fairy tales.

“If we are making confessions, then I suppose I have one as well,” he says.

He hears the expectant note in your voice. “And what is it?”

“I wanted to dance with you too.”

It’s a simple statement, but you grin from ear to ear, so bright the rest of the room seems dark in comparison. His heart flutters. When he twirls you around again, you lean your head back and sigh.

“You are marvellous dancer,” you remark as you sweep back your skirts to make more room for him. “Did you take lessons? Or do you just have a natural talent for it?”

“A bit of both. I took some about four years ago during my apprenticeship. I guess I still remember the basics.”

“No time for anymore now, I presume, with the amount of business you have been getting. Ever since I bought the butterfly headdress — do you remember that? It was ages ago, but it was the first one I bought from you.”

Felix remembers that day very well. He had opened his shop just half a year ago, and you and your chaperone stumbled in to wait out the rain. While you were captivated by the beating wings of a butterfly, he was awestruck by your gaiety on such a gloomy day. The silk flowers of your bonnet were drooping, your jacket damp from the incoming storm, and your face flushed from running, but your eyes held wonder and your lips a song.

You sang so much praise for the headdress that he went to bed that night hearing it in his sleep.

“Anyway,” you continue, “from the first time I came to your shop, I just knew you were talented. How long have you been working as a hatmaker? Your age and expertise don’t seem to match up. You are quite young compared to the other mechanical and automaton designers.”

“A year and a half now. I took over the business when my mentor retired. I do not think I am much older than you.”

You ponder over this for a while. “Forgive my forwardness and my lack of regard for etiquette — being friends with Ryujin for so long has its flaws — but are you courting anyone?”

Felix stops breathing for a few seconds. “I am not. Why?”

“Just check— just curious. Well, perhaps you will find someone that interests you here. You could ask someone to dance and talk to them to see if they catch your fancy.” Your expression is innocent, but your words are laced with whimsy.

“Who do you think would be a good match for me?” he asks, playing along. “Surely you know a few of the guests here.”

You pretend to think it over, pursing your lips together in concentration. Felix thickly swallows and glances at the space between your brows instead. His heartbeat is even more erratic than before.

“I don’t like to gossip, but I did hear a rumor that a young lady on the debutante’s court is interested in being courted soon. Her coming-out will be happening this season.”

“Ah, interesting,” he replies in an overly thoughtful manner. “If only I could receive an invite to the event. I am afraid that I am rather unfamiliar with most of the people here.”

“I think I can help with that,” you say. “I will speak to her about it. I’m sure she would love for you to attend.”

He tries to keep an air of nonchalance but fails when he spots your lips twitching into a smile. “Thank you, Miss L/N. I greatly appreciate it.”

Like the scene has been rehearsed before, the waltz ends then. Felix shallowly dips you like the dance dictates and helps right you back up. In doing so, you wind up far closer to him than you were before. You are pressed up against his chest, and he can hear your breaths. With the bubble of intimacy gone and the reality of the situation settling in, Felix hurries backwards, confidence dissipating.

He is not alone though. You snap your fan open, drawing it across your cheeks and concealing your face. He does not think he has seen you this flustered before.

“Thank you for the dance,” you tell him behind the painted screen. “You were a wonderful partner.”

“You were as well.”

The two of you walk to the sidelines together, an appropriate distance apart. He glances over to you occasionally and notes that your usual cool composure has not returned yet. Before Felix can continue the conversation, the excitable young lady — Miss Yuna Whatever-Her-Surname-Is — emerges from the crowd and rushes to you.

“Y/N! Do tell us about it!” she exclaims, forgetting that Felix is right there. She sidles up to you, holds your arm, and waits expectantly for the details.

You duck a little lower behind your fan and hiss, “Yuna!”

“Good night, Miss L/N,” Felix says. “It was a pleasure to dance with you.”

He makes himself scarce but not before he overhears you laugh and sigh, “Yuna Shin, don’t ever do that again. But yes, it was all very lovely.” He swells with joy.

The orchestra has started another waltz, one that is uplifting and bright. Felix hums along to it as he heads to the refreshment table. Almost unsurprisingly, Mr. Han is still there as well with a miniature trifle in hand. The dessert looks unappetizing to Felix with its blue layers, but Mr. Han is enjoying it.

“You don’t like dancing?” Felix says as he inspects the table for a drink.

“The contrary. This is just replenishment for the night.” He spoons another bite into his mouth. “And all the ladies seem to be on the dance floor anyway.”

Felix finds a cup of punch and drinks it heartily. He has never attended a debut ball before, so he is not sure of what there is to do other than dance and mill around. He spends some time observing the creatures in the aquarium nearby. There is unfortunately not an octopus in the glass tanks, leading him to believe that this is the Shins’ own aquarium.

He returns back to Mr. Han, and the two spy a few of their creations in the crowd. They all seem to be garnering attention from other guests, which bodes well for their financial future. Mr. Han, who is much more knowledgeable about who is who, updates him on the latest news regarding each of the guests. Felix nods along, only partially paying attention to his words as he watches couples dance at the same time.

As much fun as it is to be an observer though, it gets dull quickly when Felix realizes how much he would rather be home than here. He has no idea where you currently are, but it would be impolite for him to monopolize your time with another dance. Not to mention, it would stir rumors, and he wants no part in them.

“Would it be rude to leave now?” he rhetorically asks.

Mr. Han ponders over this. “Considering it has only been an hour, I think so, but let’s leave anyway.” He picks up a napkin and starts surreptitiously piling rolls and tarts inside. “Keep watch for me.”

Felix complies by standing right in front of the napkin and thus obstructing the view from the rest of the room. “You just said it would be rude.”

“I have to open early tomorrow, and so do you. New commissions to work on and all that.”

The people in his life, Felix notes, have a tendency to disregard social customs. However, he does not mind in this case or your case. Mr. Han filches a few more desserts at the behest of Felix, and the two wait for Miss Shin to finish her waltz to say goodbye.

“So early? The ball has just begun! And what if a problem arises?”

Felix gives this comment pause, but Mr. Han bats it away as if it were merely a pesky bug. “Miss Shin, I assure you that all of my — and Mr. Lee’s as well — are in perfect working order. When has anything I made for you been otherwise?”

While the two of them discuss this, Felix stands by and adds whatever he can. Both Mr. Han and Miss Shin are quick with their replies, and there is hardly a break in between. However, Miss Shin eventually concedes after learning of the new work they have to start.

“Very well. Thank you for attending” — she taps one of the brass tentacles on her skirt with her matching fan — “and for this beautiful evening gown. And thank you for the wonderful headdress, Mr. Lee.”

“It was our pleasure,” Felix answers. “Good night, Miss Shin.”

Felix and Mr. Han make their way to the exit, sidestepping the people lingering around the windows. Felix glances around to find you. He wants to give you a proper goodbye, but you are nowhere to be seen. There are no gold roses in the sea of people. He resigns to his predicament and hopes that you will not be too disappointed that he danced and left.

The area outside the mansion, swarming with exhilarated guests not too long ago, is empty. The blue lamps illuminating the cobblestone path seem forlorn instead of lively, and the silence only emphasizes the feeling.

“I’ll get the carriage,” Mr. Han offers, already heading in that direction. “Just wait here.”

Felix sits on the last step of the stairs and listens to the crickets in the bushes. The moon is higher in the sky now, and the wind from earlier has died down to a breeze. He sighs and loosens his cravat leans backwards on his forearms, enjoying the cool air on his face. It is a pleasant contrast to the party inside.

“You could have said goodbye at least.”

When he turns around, fumbling about and trying to make himself presentable again, you are standing a few steps above him. You said the words jokingly, but he hears the hurt underneath.

“I apologize,” he whispers. The darkness hides his guilt well. “I couldn’t find you.”

You tilt your head to the side. “Not one for parties, I take it?”

“I only came to talk and dance with you,” he admits, growing more embarrassed by the second. “If things were different, I would stay all night, but once I used my chance, I didn’t know what else to do.”

“We could have still chatted after.” You walk down to his step and sit beside him, the silk of your gown brushing against his leg. The only thing separating the two of you is your wide skirt. You place your hand only a few centimeters away from his on the steps. “I know I was acting a bit silly earlier, so I want to ask you outright. Forgive my forwardness, but do you intend to court me, or am I just seeing things that are not there?”

Felix goes still. He had not thought about his feelings that way. He certainly likes you, but a courtship never even crossed his mind because of how far up the social ladder you were. He wanted to catch your eye, but he never thought you would pay genuine attention back to him.

“Because if you do,” you continue after he says nothing, “I want to be courted seriously. If you are merely teasing me, then tell me now.”

“Miss L/N, are you teasing me now? I am no one important, yet you pursue me.”

“I am not teasing, I swear,” you solemnly say, looking directly into his eyes. “I will not play with your heart like that. And to me, you are important. Never mind the wonderful things you have made for me, I like you. You and how industrious you are, how assured you are in yourself, how you play along with my jokes for my sake. You are nothing like all the rakes and fops around me.”

He can hardly believe his ears. After a tense silence, he says, “If you will let me, I will court you seriously.”

“Mr. Lee, I have always allowed it. Every joke, every smile — it was an invitation for you.” He glances over at you in shock, and you halfheartedly smile at him. “Perhaps I was not clear enough about my advances.”

“No. I was simply too afraid to act upon them. I did not realize your intentions were pure.”

“I assure you, Mr. Lee, you were the only gentleman I flirted with.”

The nearby sound of a horse trotting interrupts the moment. Felix glances down to where the stables are and spies a silhouetted carriage approaching. Mr. Han was quick with his task, and Felix wishes he had been less so.

Having seen the same thing, you stand up and fluff out your skirt, preparing to go back inside. The silk ripples in waves, and Felix stares in fascination. You catch him in the act and flash him a knowing smile. “Good night. I hope to see you soon.”

Felix bashfully replies, “Good night.”

You give him one last look and hurry away before company arrives. Your head bobs up and down as you take the stairs two by two, and Felix watches you disappear into the mansion. He is still staring at the door when the carriage drives up.

“Mr. Lee!”

“Coming!”

The journey back to the city is mostly silent since Mr. Han seems worn out by the night’s events already. Felix does not try to engage him in conversation, choosing instead to sink into the velvet seat and to admire the sky. If he looks at it long enough, he thinks he can see your face among the constellations.

The following days, all Felix hears about in the sparse amount of time he interacts with customers — his shop has been mostly devoid of hats and headdresses ever since Miss Shin introduced him to all her friends — is Miss Shin’s debut. Every piece of gossip he overhears while out revolves around it and the other upcoming debut balls in the season. On one of his outings to the market, your name is mentioned, and he stops in his tracks. He pretends to check his pocket watch and turns it over and over in his hands as if he has found a new scuff mark on the brass.

“I heard she sent out the invites already,” says the young lady with a pink bonnet. “Did you get one?”

“Of course! But Tzuyu Chou’s ball is on the same night, so which one do I go to?”

“Both, silly! Just leave one of them early and—”

Once the topic changes, Felix quits his act and continues onward to the market. He has not received an invitation to your ball yet, and surely that was what you were alluding to during the waltz. Perhaps you are going to hand-deliver it yourself. That is all he can hope for because the other reason is that you have changed your mind about him.

When he returns to his shop with new bronze sheets and copper wiring, he is disappointed. You are not waiting outside nor is there an envelope tucked underneath his door. Felix brews himself a cup of tea and settles at his work table chair. He pulls out his sketches for a hat decorated with swimming fish and starts on its construction. All he can do now is wait.

After several days and far too much time spent agonizing over the issue, you finally grace Felix’s shop with your presence. When the bell on the door chimes and he sees you at the threshold, he nearly leaps out from behind the counter, shoving away his tools in a weak attempt to appear well put together. He wipes a spot of grease from his brow with the back of his hand and bows at you in greeting.

“Welcome. How may I be of service?”

“Are you accepting custom orders right now?” you ask, walking closer to him. Your chaperone follows closely behind to ensure that you are not about to blatantly flirt with him again, though Felix has a sneaking feeling that you will anyway. “I heard you might be busy. It seems like everyone wants a hat from you now.”

“What did you have in mind?”

You glance at the current project is working on. “Actually, that one seems interesting. Or is it someone else’s?”

The clockwork hat is indeed someone else’s, Miss Lia Choi, to be precise. “It is.”

“Ah, I see.” You do not look the slightest bit dejected at the news. “Well, I think something with butterflies would be lovely. I have lots of good memories involving them, so I want them to be part of my debut ball.”

Felix cannot get a single sound out, so he elects to duck back behind the counter. He picks up his pencil and rolls out another sheet of butcher paper. The blank canvas stares back at him, and he hastily sketches the form of the headdress like he wants to show you an idea he has in mind. He has nothing in his mind. He cannot think after a statement like that. He puts the pencil down.

“I can have a rough draft of the headdress done in a few days,” he says. “Or do you have a design planned out?”

“Perhaps something like this?” You take the pencil from the counter, your fingers brushing against his in a manner that is not accidental.

While Felix does his best to maintain his composure in front of your chaperone — she seems to not have noticed your gesture, thankfully — you draw a cluster of butterflies on the side of the headdress and small flowers to fill in the gaps. You mindlessly hum a melody as you sketch, and it sounds awfully similar to a waltz he danced to sometime ago.

You push the paper towards him. “Here.”

He glances over it, lightly touching the lines and curves with his finger. It is a pretty design and very extravagant. He will likely have to make some adjustments so you can actually wear it without injuring your neck, but it is possible to make it into a reality. “I will get to work on it soon. When do you need it by?”

“As soon as possible.” You open your reticule and set down a sheaf of banknotes so large, Felix cannot see your hand at all. “I know you have a long line of customers, so I will pay double the regular price for it to be finished in two weeks’ time.”

He would have done it without the monetary incentive anyway. Nonetheless, he nods and assures you that it will be done by then. You audibly sigh and thank him in advance for his timeliness.

“Is that all for today?” he asks. He wants you to say no, to make up an excuse to stay.

To his disappointment and seemingly to your own as well, you reply, “Yes. I’ve got a busy day ahead of myself. Well, good day. It is always a pleasure coming to your shop.”

“Good day.”

He watches you leave. You do not turn around to give him one last look like he anticipates. Your chaperone is keeping a careful eye on you and your antics, and she is following close behind as you out the door anyway. However, you do smile at him through the window. Even though you will not be able to see it, he returns it.

Once you are out of view, he collects the banknotes on the counter to put away. As he does so, he notices a corner of an envelope peeking out from the pile.

Mr. Felix Lee, it says across the front in black ink.

Could this be the invitation he has been waiting so long for? He does not know what else it could be, but he is still nervous. With trembling fingers, he breaks open the glossy red seal and takes out the stiff cardstock inside.

You have been cordially invited to Miss Y/N L/N’s debut.

He laughs, one mixed with relief and pure joy, and it echoes throughout the shop. The sound bounces off the empty walls like a never-ending symphony of happiness.

Once the euphoria has waned a bit, he sets his previous project and begins refining your sketch. He traces over your butterfly wings, adding more dimension and adjusting angles as he does so. He can already see it coming to life, the wings beating in harmony to the music, the delicate twitches of the antennae as you move your head.

To think that you will be wearing this at your coming-out and that he will be there to see it. Though it is an inside joke between the two of you, it might as well be a public declaration of courtship to him.

He works on your headdress almost feverishly, neglecting his other projects for as long as he can afford. When Mr. Han comes by for tea and a chat a few days later — they have become friends after Miss Shin’s ball — Felix is frantically soldering the minute hand onto one of the many tiny clocks on this hat.

“Do you want any help?” Mr. Han asks, popping the last bite of his biscuit into his mouth. “I do have experience with metalworking, you know.”

“I’m alright,” he mutters. The client is supposed to be arriving within the hour, and he cannot imagine how damaged his reputation will be if someone else other than himself is found working on the hat. He shudders as he pictures the suspicion on his customers’ faces. “Sorry for not being better company.”

“Don’t fret. I only came because I had news regarding Miss L/N.”

Felix nearly misplaces the minute hand in his surprise. He feigns nonchalance at Mr. Han’s statement. “Oh?”

“Do you know Lord Seungmin Kim? Apparently, he is interested in courting her. I overheard someone say that he is to be her partner for the first dance.”

Felix says nothing, just grips his tool tighter and intently stares at the tiny Roman numerals in front of him. He did not expect to be chosen for the honor of the first dance, but it does not mean his pride goes unhurt. Lord Kim, a nobleman with wealth and connections, is well above him in terms of social status.

“That’s… that’s impressive,” he says.

“Yes, and I also heard that she does not want him to be her partner. Something about another gentleman in mind.”

Mr. Han looks pointedly at Felix, who pointedly pretends not to notice it. He affixes the hand to the remaining clock and checks everything once more for any careless errors. His heart thumps in his chest, twice the speed of the soft tick-tocking of the miniature clocks. If he is the alleged gentleman you have in mind, then the first dance would truly be a public declaration.

“Have you been invited?” Mr. Han asks, though it seems as if he already knows the answer.

“Yes. What about you?”

“No.”

As far as he can tell, there are no flaws with the hat, so he puts his tools away. “You seem content with that,” he remarks as he rummages around in his cabinets for an empty hatbox.

“Of course! I will only miss the food, so do filch some for me. I did it at Miss Shin’s.”

Felix makes a noise in acknowledgment. The gears in his head are working overtime as he plots out what your debut will be like. You and him, in each other’s arms, in front of everyone. What will they say? What will he do afterwards?

The sound of a ringing bell interrupts his thoughts, and in flies Miss Choi, another member of Miss Shin’s court and a friend of yours.

“Is it ready? Please tell me it is! I have been waiting all day for it!” she says, breathless from her bursting in. She spies it sitting on the counter and immediately sets it on her head. “It’s lovely! And not heavy at all.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Choi,” the two men chorus.

“Oh, yes. Good afternoon. I didn’t know you two knew each other this well,” she distractedly says. She turns to Felix, her hand reaching for her reticule. “I paid for this already, right?”

He nods. “Last week.”

“Perfect. Oh, goodness” — she glances at the wall-mounted clock behind Felix — “Y/N will be cross with me for being late. I will see you at the ball then, Mr. Lee. Thank you again. Goodbye!”

She leaves in the same frenzied manner as she came, and her worn out chaperone hurries after her.

“That was a confirmation if I ever heard one. She must know the details.”

“That was nothing.” Yet he desperately hopes that it was something.

“You keep pretending that as if no one knows of you and Miss L/N’s relationship. Everyone knows she fancies you, and you her, so there is no need to keep putting up this act.” Mr. Han sighs and crumples up his paper napkin. “I ought to get back to work now. Thank you for the tea.”

“Thank you for the company. Good day, Mr. Han.”

Mr. Han stands up from his seat, throwing his coat back, and heads for the door. “Good day. Do not forget about the food.”

Felix rolls his eyes, but a small smile forces its way onto his face anyway. “I won’t.”

Possibly the most important day of Felix’s day has arrived. He adjusts his cuffs, his cravat, his shirt — everything really —  mindlessly as he waits for the time to tick down. He is restless. His usually nimble fingers turn clumsy when he tries to work on a hat for a client, and he cannot focus on anything. He has not seen you since you dropped off the invitation all those days ago. Your chaperone came to pick up your headdress, and she gave him a cool onceover before advising that he come to the ball a tad earlier.

As such, he locks up his shop two hours before the starting time and makes the walk to the banquet hall where your debut is being held. He could have rented a carriage like Mr. Han did for that seemingly long ago ball, but the hall is not too far away. Being dressed in finery, he receives curious looks from passersby and more batting eyelashes from young girls than he likes.

By the time he arrives at the hall, dusk is darkening into night. The gas lamps on the streets have lit up. He is a little more than half an hour early, which is hopefully sufficient for whatever reason why he was suggested to do so. There are no signs of guests, and stricken by the fact that he has no idea what to do, Felix idles around the entrance. He cannot just barge in; that would be rude. He incessantly checks his pocket watch for the time, wishing that someone would come and save him for this predicament.

Fortunately, his wishes are soon answered. The main doors open, and out steps you in all of your radiance. Your eyes meet his, and all he can do is gaze at you.

Your dress is reminiscent of what you wore at Miss Shin’s debut: a green evening gown dotted with tiny pink blossoms, and gold trim around the shoulders that complements the gilded butterflies that swarm around your head. Green and gold appear to be your signature colors, and you wear them well. Even the lighting seems to be in your favor; warm light spills behind you, highlighting the wisps of your hair.

“Oh, Mr. Lee! I was just coming out to see if you were here yet. Fei said she told you to come early.”

He thickly swallows before greeting, “Good evening, Miss L/N. You look… stunning.”

“Thank you. You look very handsome yourself. Do come in. I have something to discuss with you.”

He follows you to the main hall where the ball is to be held. The entire room is decorated like a greenhouse with vines tumbling down the walls and perfumed flowers on every surface. It is bright inside, as if the banquet hall has been bathed in sunlight. Stationary butterflies hang down from the ceiling, while steel dragonflies are strung like lights across the room. Your court members and some chaperones linger around the refreshment table, no doubt taste testing the morsels you have decided upon. Felix spots a tray of small tea cakes in the shape of leaves and makes a mental note to take a few for Mr. Han.

Upon seeing the two of you walking nearby each other, Miss Wang, your usual chaperone, lets out a theatrical gasp. “Miss L/N! Why did you not ask me to accompany you? You should know better. And on this day as well!”

“Miss Wang, no one is fooled by you. Besides, if it were to be on any day, today is the best choice,” interjects Miss Ryujin Shin, who holds a cup of punch in her hand. “After all, this is the gentleman she desires to court anyway.”

The other chaperones do not seem shocked by this revelation, presumably because they all knew already. Miss Choi and Miss Yuna Shin even clink their glasses against Miss Ryujin Shin’s in a mock toast.

“Ryujin’s right,” you agree. You turn your attention to Felix, and the room goes quiet. “I thought it would be best to ask you in person, and I know I don’t give you much time to think about it, but will you be my partner for the first dance? I meant to ask you the last time I visited, but there were a few things that had to be sorted out before I could.”

The orchestra begins rehearsing then, and the triumphant music perfectly matches how he feels. “I would be honored.”

The ball begins precisely at the hour, but guests begin allowing themselves inside a few minutes before. While you flitter about, greeting guests of importance and smiling at compliments, Felix mills around the sidelines in anticipation of the dance. He recognizes some of his customers, a couple of which say hello and show off the hats and headdresses he has designed for them. He politely engages in conversation with them before looking back at you. He does not know when the dance will begin, and he wants to be prepared for the moment.

Once he is alone again, you approach him with a secretive smile. “Are you ready?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Of course. Let the ball begin.”

He holds out his hand for you, and you lead him to the center of the dance floor. The crowd takes note of this, and their chatter dies down to murmurs. Felix overhears some of the whispers, most of which are confused questions of who exactly he is, where Lord Kim is, and why you have selected him of all people. They take in his second-rate coat and the way you gaze at him in wonder. It has to be a jest, someone nearby mumbles.

However, you are unfazed by it all. You look over to the orchestra and give them a slight nod. They stop their light, airy opening number and begin a waltz piece. The butterfly wings of your headdress beat at the same tempo, and he suppresses a chuckle at the sight.

This time, Felix holds you at a respectable distance away, not wanting to exacerbate the growing rumors. More couples join in on the floor, but most of the attention is focused on the two of you.

“Everyone is watching,” he whispers as he twirls you around.

“I am the debutante,” you reply. “And it is only natural people stare at such a handsome gentleman.”

You flirt even more shamelessly than before, not even bothering to hide your flattery behind sly words. He has still not gotten used to it, which means his burning red ears are on display for everyone. Still, he smiles. “You will be alright with this when we court?”

“Of course. Will you?”

“Of course,” he repeats. “And will you be alright with your beau being more attractive than you?”

He has never teased you before, and you laugh at his overly serious demeanor as he says it. “Mr. Lee! Well, how could I be upset with having such a striking beau, especially one with charms like yours.”

He twirls you around again and pulls you a fraction closer. “I suppose this is as good as a time as any to ask: will you, Miss L/N, allow me to court you officially?”

You completely close the gap, earning several gasps from onlookers and Felix himself as your chest presses against his. With a wide grin on your face, you say, “Mr. Lee, I will.”

It is all anyone can talk about the following day: Miss Y/N L/N of a wealthy, upper class family is set to be courted by Mr. Felix Lee, the popular mechanical hatmaker. Through the shop window, Felix can see passersby trying to get a glimpse of him inside as he works. He has to close his store for the day because of the sheer amount of people visiting and treating him like an animal at an aquarium.

By the time the sun sets, less and less people pass by. By the time the gas lamps light up the street, your carriage drives up the street and stops in front of the store. You step out in a cornflower blue gown and knock on the door. Felix has been ready for you for hours now.

“Hello, Mr. Lee,” you greet. Your excitement is palpable as you say, “Shall we go on our first walk together?”

“Good evening, Miss L/N. And to you as well, Miss Wang.”

Your chaperone follows behind the two of you, ensuring that the two of you — well, mostly you — will be proper.

“Where shall we go? Around the block for tonight?” he suggests.

“My dear Mr. Lee, I will go anywhere you wish.”

Miss Wang halfheartedly reprimands you for the term of endearment, but Felix does not mind. You share a glance with him, and he already knows you will be calling him ‘dear’ until the end of time.

He could get used to that.

~ ad.gray

[whimperwoods]

Part 9 of Gozukk and Anna

Anna has a doctor’s appointment. Gozukk turns down an offer to join the church. Jak helps out.

[Note: One of the d&d canon things I particularly don’t like is that the ‘evil races’ have their own separate evil gods particular to their race. I’m aware that there are halfling and elf and dwarf pantheons also, but the thing is that those generally have deities of multiple alignments (rather than only evil ones) and those communities seem to be allowed to serve any gods they want, in practice. In my d&d world, orcs can too, and this particular tribe, to the extent to which they’re religious, is affiliated with Kelemvor. Not everyone worships him, and there are some individuals with other faiths, but he’s the god they have a shrine and a cleric for/from. (I’m not sure it matters that much from a worldbuilding standpoint, but I’ve taken an overall position of “no-race-specific deities,” which does also throw Moradin and the like out with the bathwater, but that’s probably alright.)]

The masterpost is here and includes a cheat sheet with character names, since the list of people she’s met in the community just keeps getting bigger.

tw: slavery (past), tw: PTSD, tw: past rape/noncon (barely referenced), tw: past abuse, tw: fantasy religion (no religious trauma), tw: panic attack, tw: drug reference (past), tw: date rape drug (past)

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

Tag list: @redwingedwhump, @nine-tailed-whump, @thehurtsandthecomfurts @kixngiggles, @bluebadgerwhump, @dragonheart905, @carolinethedragon, @whumpzone, @newbornwhumperfly, @cupcakes-and-pain, @much-ado-about-whumping

****

Anna’s legs shook faintly as the healer shouted for her and her master to enter, but she tried to keep her face steady as she ducked under Gozukk’s arm and in through the flap of the tent.

The space was small but comfortable, the furnishings generally not quite as nice as Gozukk’s, with the exception of a smallish but very fine altar, richly carved from solid wood. A set of heavy brass scales sat on it, held up by a skeletal hand, the same image that was carved along its sides, and that she recognized from the box in Gozukk’s room, and a small collection of candles sat around it.

Gozukk knelt briefly in front of the altar, going down on one knee with a quick bow and then rising to his feet again before turning to the healer, Mukzod. “I’m sure you’ve heard plenty about our newest guest,” he said calmly, as if he hadn’t paused at all. Anna felt certain she should kneel, too, but somehow she found herself frozen, unable to move farther into the tent, or to do anything at all.

Mukzod was dressed in dark grey robes, well-made and clean, with the same skeleton-arm scales embroidered carefully across his chest, but looked fresh-faced, too young for such serious, formal vestments. He was a half head shorter than Gozukk but just as wide, with dark messy hair that flopped into his eyes as he nodded toward her and made her shudder and freeze up. He looked almost nothing like Master Kir, but that hair, the length of it, the little flick of his head to get it out of his eyes - her chest tightened with fear, her breath shortening.

The healer’s smile was warm, but she couldn’t slow her racing heart.

“Hello, guest. Anna, is it? Did I hear correctly?”

Her mouth was dry and she couldn’t answer. Gozukk reached a hand halfway toward her, but then stopped and she suddenly, desperately wished he hadn’t, wished she could bury her face in his chest and not see this new stranger, with his new hair, and his new tent. But that was a foolish thing to wish, wasn’t it?

“Yes,” Gozukk answered, his voice softer now, as if to put her at ease even though he was talking to the healer. “You’ve heard right. I already know she’s wounded, but I want to make sure she isn’t also cursed or marked or being tracked.”

“You know, if you just gave a little bit more of yourself to Kelemvor, you could do it yourself,” Mukzod said jovially. “We all know your piety is genuine.”

Gozukk laughed. “For the last time, cleric, a paladin oath is out of the question. The tribe has to come first. You know that. A holy life is not in my cards.”

Mukzod held his hands up, “I know, I know! I only ask because I know you’d be good at it.”

Anna watched the exchange, trying to follow. Kelemvor was - was a god of - of something. Scales. Justice? But no, that was Tyr, everybody knew that. The skeleton, though - the skeleton - her eyes widened, and her body began to shake.

“I - I didn’t realize you worshipped - umm -” Her voice was thin, tense, and surely one of them would bark at her to speak up. She tensed, awaiting a slap for interrupting, or for doing it poorly, or both. Instead, both men turned slowly to look at her, their posture open, hands away from her.

“It’s alright, Anna,” Gozukk said, “He’s not a god of death. He’s a god of the dead, which is something else.”

Mukzod had his hands up, the palms out toward her. “The chief is right. We don’t kill, not unless we have to. Not unless we’re fighting undead things. I’m more about healing. And curing diseases. And burying bodies we find unattended in the desert, which happens a little more often than one would hope.”

She shivered. She’d seen a body like that, had watched the men in the caravan dragging another man’s corpse away from the hooves and wheels that had crushed him to death, only to leave him lying in a heap alongside their caravan route and keep moving at Master Kir’s orders.

She opened her mouth to ask if they’d found the man from the caravan, if they’d buried him properly, but then she couldn’t. What if they thought she’d had something to do with it? She still remembered the beating she’d gotten after they stopped that night, how unsure she’d been whether her master thought she’d done something to distract the dead man, or whether he was just frustrated. She’d known her place. She hadn’t needed to be reminded. She didn’t need to be reminded now.

She sank onto her knees and felt both safer and less safe, in over her head and drowning in uncertainty.

Gozukk knelt beside her again, taking her hands gently in his own, so gently she could have pulled away, but she knew her place, and maybe soon he would realize she knew it and she wouldn’t have to be so scared.

“It’s alright, Anna,” he said, running his thumb gently over her knuckles. “You don’t have to worship him. Plenty of folks don’t. But I do, and Mukzod does, and he’s got some magic that can help you, if that man did anything that’s lingering.” He scowled, but over her shoulder, not at her. “Anything magical, anyway.”

The cleric placed one hand on her shoulder and the other on Gozukk’s and she flinched heavily before she could stop herself.

“Is it alright if I do a quick magic detection spell? If all is well, I’ll won’t see anything, and we’ll know the human doesn’t have any magical hooks into you. If there is something, I’ll have to do some tests, but we can fix that, too.”

His voice was soothing, but she couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look at the hair falling into his eyes, scraping his shoulders around the back of his neck. She was shaking, and she couldn’t stop. She gripped Gozukk’s hands tighter, hoping he would allow her nearer. He squeezed back gently and she scooted forward on her knees until she was close enough to whisper into his ear.

“Please, Sir -” she flinched, but decided not to correct herself and maybe he wouldn’t notice, “I - can I -” He let go of one of her hands and then reached up and brushed her hair behind her ear, a gesture that was increasingly becoming a familiar one. She steeled herself and caught her breath. “May I put my head on your shoulder again, please? Like yesterday, when I was -” she didn’t have a word for what she was, “Please, Gozukk, I’m sorry I’m weak, I just - I can - I can do this. I can be good, please, I just - I need - please.” Her breath gave out, her body shaking even harder.

Yesterday, she’d leaned into him with both of their hands between them, his pressing hers to his chest. Now, he wrapped one arm around her carefully, keeping hold of her hand with his other one and drawing her just slightly closer. “Is this alright?” he whispered into the space between them, “Does this help?”

She shook, and wasn’t sure how to answer, but she knew what she’d wanted at first, knew what she’d wanted, and thought she still wanted it. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder, her breath coming in deep gasps, and he removed his arm from the small of her back as she kept fighting for air, tracing his fingers through her hair at the temple instead.

“It’s alright,” he said, “I’m here to help.”

After a moment of his arm hovering beside her, he let it fall to his side, not touching her as she knelt up against him, watching him breathe and trying to time her breaths to his.

“Are you ready for the spell?” he asked.

She nodded against his shoulder.

“We’re ready, Mukzod.”

Nothing happened. The cleric said a few words in a language she didn’t understand, and then he fell silent, the air in the room unchanged.

“Nope, all clear,” he said after a moment. “Your pendant’s lighting up like a candle, Chief, and the altar, and some of my stuff, so the spell’s working, but she’s not got any magic on her. Not that lingers, anyway. I can try a dispulsion anyway, but as far as I can tell, there’s nothing there to dispel.”

Gozukk leaned his cheek against her temple, sighing in relief. “There we go. You’re safe. Now we know it for sure.”

“I -” Mukzod cleared his throat. “Can I be of any other service? I’d thought you might have come for healing. Or perhaps a calming spell?”

A calming spell? Anna had never heard of that, but as soon as she thought too hard about it, she found herself remembering the times Master Kir had - what had that been - he’d put something in the wine, she’d known there was something in the wine, but he’d made her drink it anyway, made her drink it, made her choke trying to swallow as he forced it down her throat and then he’d - and then he’d -”

She sobbed, her head suddenly spinning, her entire body tingling like there were bees buzzing just inside her skin, and her head on Gozukk’s shoulder wasn’t enough to keep it at bay, wasn’t enough to keep anything at bay, wasn’t - wasn’t -

She grabbed desperately for the front of his shirt, closing her hand into a fist around the fabric and forcing herself to keep breathing. His free hand came up alongside her head, but he didn’t quite touch her, just kept it hovering there, like he was shielding her from the sun. As another wrenching sob tore itself from her throat, she pulled herself closer to him, into that protection, and everything else be damned.

“We’re done for the day,” Gozukk said, his voice rough-edged with anger, like it never was when he talked to her, and she flinched but didn’t dare pull away, couldn’t afford it when he was the only thing steadying her spinning head, couldn’t afford it when it might make him angry, couldn’t - couldn’t - she couldn’t breathe. She gasped for air.

"She’s allowed to feel what she feels,” he snapped at the cleric, “She’s doing fine.”

His own breathing wasn’t quite as steady as she knew it could be, deepening as if he were holding himself together, holding back the snarl she could hear at the edge of his voice.

But then the snarl was gone, and his voice was velvet-gentle again, his hand stroking carefully through her hair. “It’s alright, Anna. You did well. It’s been a stressful day. You don’t have to do anything more. Mukzod just wants you safe, same as me.”

The gentleness was for her. It was just for her, and she was a fool, and she believed it, and she knew she was a fool, but she could feel herself starting to shake apart, could feel the way the buzz under her skin threatened to become the way she felt in the dark, at night, like a fire burning itself out, like she was dying a piece at a time, reducing herself to ash as she went, and she couldn’t. She couldn’t die now, not while she was in a place she was fool enough to half-believe might be better.

“Do you want me to carry you back home?” he asked, his voice still soft, rumbling through his chest and under her cheek, and when had she twisted her head sideways like this, resting more fully on his shoulder? “Or do you want to wait it out here and then we can walk back together? I think you need some quiet for a little bit. You can take another nap, like yesterday. You’re still healing.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, letting go of the front of his shirt, and he took it as an answer, rearranging immediately to gather her up in his arms and cradle her against his chest.

When he rose to his feet still holding her, she didn’t shudder this time, but she wondered if that was only because to shake any more than she was already shaking might be to shake herself to pieces.

The softness in his voice was gone as he looked up at the cleric and ordered, “Open the flap for me,” all of a sudden in control again, the chief whose feet she had been thrown down in front of. But then he was bending his neck to speak softly in her ear again, the gentleness returned to his voice. “Squeeze my neck when you’re ready for me to walk, and we’ll go. Just tell me when you’re steady.”

She squeezed his neck, desperate to be away from here, as if the bees in her skin would leave her alone out in the sun.

They didn’t, but Gozukk let her bury her face in the side of his neck and kept holding her, his arms solid around her and his breath steady, now, soothing.

Halfway back to the tent, small footsteps joined them, a voice she didn’t recognize piping up from below. “Whoa, Uncle Gozukk, is something wrong?”

“Get the flap when we get to my tent, Jak,” he said, the imperiousness gone again, as if it had never been, his voice warm and normal, but without the particular softness he seemed to save for her, and what did that mean? She sobbed in spite of herself, about nothing, or maybe about everything, but her head was full of bees and her skin was full of bees and she couldn’t think.

“She’ll be alright once she has a little peace and quiet,” Gozukk explained, tone patient, “She’s just a little overwhelmed.”

A small hand patted her dangling ankle and she pulled away instinctively before she realized the boy was no threat.

“Oh,” he said, “That makes sense. Does she need a calm down cloth?”

She could feel Gozukk’s chuckle, deep in his chest. “Yeah, that might not be a bad idea. Why don’t you go get one after you help me inside? And then you can go back to whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing.”

“Got it!” The footsteps sped up, then stopped again, waiting for them to catch up.

Anna clung to Gozukk the rest of the way to the tent, relieved when Jak’s footsteps pattered away as soon as she and Gozukk were inside.

The fine chair he’d been seated in to meet the caravan was inside, now, set behind the table in the front room, and Gozukk settled her into it. She grabbed at its arms, surprised, and squeezed them tighter when Gozukk squatted down in front of her to look in her eyes. She couldn’t get out of the chair and down to his level. He didn’t want that. She had to stay. She had to stay.

Her breathing was still ragged, too fast, and she knew it, but she couldn’t do anything about it.

“Anna, can you hear me?”

Everything was still too much, his words clear enough to make sense, but then immediately gone to her, as if they had never been. She nodded, trying to keep hold of the question.

“Alright. You did a good job this morning. I want to make sure you know that. It’s alright if you need to stay in here the rest of the day. I’ll try to come check on you when it’s time for lunch, but if you get hungry before I come back, you can go find Djaana or one of the twins, and they’ll look after you.”

She was breathing. That, she was sure of. His voice was soothing, reassuring, and the things he was saying were reassuring, and she couldn’t make them mean anything. She nodded. Reassuring. He was being reassuring. She could be reassured. She kept breathing.

Gozukk nodded back. Her breathing eased a little. Good. He was pleased.

Jak came running in, and she got a good look at him for the first time. He had the same dark hair as Djaana and Gozukk, but his eyes were a lighter color, a green she hadn’t expected, and even with some lingering baby roundness to his face, she could tell there was something about his cheekbones that must be like his father. Gozukk stuck a hand out to slow the boy before he could run all the way to her, and he blushed, looking bashful.

“Oh. Sorry. I forgot about the quiet.” He held out a damp, white cloth, in her direction, and she wasn’t sure what to do but take it.

The boy’s green eyes stared at her, his arm drifting behind his back so he could wrap his hand around his elbow, still staring. “Thank you,” she said quietly, aware that her breathing was loud and her voice wasn’t.

“Why don’t you explain to Anna how it works, just in case her mama and grandmother didn’t teach her?” Gozukk asked, something of the softness he always aimed at her in his voice as he addressed the boy.

“Yeah!” Jak said, his face brightening! “It’s easy, Miss Anna! You just put it on the back of your neck, and it’s nice and cool so it feels good, and then you just breathe real steady and think about cooling down and noticing that it feels good, and then when it gets dry, you can go back outside and play or try what you were doing again. Or I guess you can - I dunno. What do you like doing?”

She had no answer, but there wasn’t enough time for it to become awkward. Gozukk laid a hand on Jak’s shoulder. “Why don’t you wait and ask her that in a couple of days? You wouldn’t like it if somebody asked you a bunch of questions while you were trying to calm down, would you?”

“Oh! No!” He mimed locking his mouth closed with a key and tucking it into his pocket, and Anna found herself smiling in spite of everything. She put the cloth against the back of her neck to prove she’d been trying to listen, though there was a lot he said that she hadn’t been able to keep ahold of, the words slipping through her fingers as half of her kept getting wrapped up in her own breath.

He was right. It felt lovely, cool and soft. She closed her eyes, half instinctively, and managed a deeper breath.

She could hear a smile in Gozukk’s voice as he said, “Take all the time you need. We’ll be back to check on you at lunch time.”

Then both sets of footsteps walked away, out the door, and she was alone.

She slid out of the chair and onto her knees, where she felt more herself, but kept the cloth where it was, steadying her breathing as much as she could and thinking about the coolness, the dry air pulling water from the cloth, the dampness sitting against her skin, and nobody touching her.

When the cloth dried, she wasn’t calm, but she was close.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

HASO “Evidence.”

Still working on the trial arc, and sorry I am late in posting. I had to go to work at seven and am trying to write in between helping guests. 

CREDIT and a THANK YOU to one of my amazing discord community members Eddi, who has been working for the last few months on the audio visual and transcript logs seen here. I did not write them, Eddi wrote them an was kind enough to let me use them in this story. I loved it and thought it brought a lot of authenticity to the story by bringing in an outside voice. 

WARNING: GRAPHIC blood, gore, and bodily mutilation. The Steel eye project development is VERY horrible, so don’t read if that is something that bothers you. 

It was a beautiful day.

The sky was a bright eggshell blue stratified with only the occasional cirrus cloud highlighting the sky with a touch of distant white. The sun was bright though the temperature was moderate only in the mid eighties.

Swimmers could be seen as distant pinpoints of light and froth on the surface of lake Geneva. Voices echoed up from the city coerced mostly by the purring of hover-car engines.

Towering white buildings rose high into the sky adding height instead of width to a city that had not grown outside its own borders for the past thousand years other than to go up.

Itw as a more environmentally efficient way to build, and left the countryside untouched by the scars of infrastructure and humanity.

Adam stared out the window for a long moment wishing for the peaceful embrace of the skies and the roaring of a jet engine. A soft whimper at his leg, and he looked down to see Waffles sitting at his heel, her head tilted back to look up at him. WHen he didn’t immediately respond to her she whined again and scooted closer, her paws making soft clicking sounds on the wood flooring below.

Finally he reached down and scratched her behind the ears.

She could sense his agitation, and it was clear that she didn’t much like it.

He couldn’t blame her.

He didn’t like it either. He sighed and turned his head away from the do and he window, back to the mirror in front of which he now stood. He didn’t see himself.

The man in the mirror was tall, straight backed with sharply trimmed and styled hair, jaw squared and raised. Both eyes were green though one expanded and contracted like the appriture of a camera. The expression on the man’s face was stern and unyielding.

He looked…. Like his father.

He had never seen much of a resemblance between them, but now he could certainly see it.

It didn’t help that the stars on his uniform seemed to add an extra ten years to his age.

With a soft sigh, he pulled his captain’s cap down snuggly onto his head and whistled low for his dog.

She fell into a perfect heel at his side, and he clipped the leash onto her colla.

Her black service vest was strapped on tight with a pair of doggie saddlebags on either side carrying water bottles. Waffles always liked having a job to do, and a little extra work would help to keep her relaxed during the trial rather than antsy.

She was going to have to stay very still for a very long time for the next few days.

“Ready girl.”

Her tail thumped against the floor at his voice.

“At least that makes one of us.”

He transferred her elash to his left end, though he didn’t technically need it, and led her out of the bedroom and into the large living room. It was a lot of hotel room for just one man. He would have been fine enough with a double queen personally, but he supposed if the UNSC was paying there was no reason to argue otherwise.

It felt strange, going to a hotel on the UNSC’s Dime to testify against the UNSC in one of the biggest trials of the century.

His stomach churned.

Waffles nosed his hand.

Dr Krill floated down from his examination of the chandelier, “I admire human artistry, but pragmatism is still my preferred way of living.” he motioned around the room, “A bit opulent.”

Adam nodded his agreement, “You can say that again. I haven’t slept on a bed that big in my life.” In all honesty, he was trying to keep his mind off of what was to come. He didn’t really care about the bed and certainly didn’t know if he had ever slept in a bed that large.

He sort of doubted it, he was in the UNSC after all.

A knock came on the door and he turned reaching for the handle and pulling it open. The driver from yesterday was waiting for him, his suit pristine. He bowed slightly, “The car is waiting for you, sir.”

He nodded, and motioned the other man to lead the way.

The man nodded and thanked him, stepping down the hall and leading them down into the lobby. They got a lot of looks as they made their way down, most likely because of krill, though his uniform might have caught some attention.

He was led out towards the car and slid into the back seat, suddenly surprised to find that he wasn’t alone.

“Admiral Kelly!”

“Good morning, Adam.”

“What are you doing here.”

“I am here to witness the trial. UNSC representatives thought it would be best if some of the newer brass came to oversee proceedings.”

He quickly looked out the window, suddenly remembering which side of the conflict this was on.

A hand rested on his arm, “I’m not here to make you feel bad about your decision, Admiral. You’re doing what needs to be done.”

He sighed and nodded, “I… thank you ma’am.”

“You sure this is something you are ready for.”

He paused and then shook his head, “No… I’m not ready, and I never will be.” She went to open her mouth but he stopped her, “But I’m the only one we have, so I will do what it takes.”

The car went silent as it slowly accelerated into the early morning traffic.

It was going to be a very long day.

Admiral Kelly turned to look at Krill speaking with him quietly while Adam looked out the window.

He wasn’t in the mood for talking right now though he knew how odd that was.

His stomach continued to churn as they drove through the streets heading towards the outskirts of the city where the Geneva court had been built just over 200 years ago.

The last buildings on the outskirts of town  went by and their first view of the court appeared in the car window. It was made in the classic greco-roman style with large white pillars and sloped rooftop and carvings on the top that depicted all the deities of justice ever conceived by historial religion, all cast and depicted in marble.

The thoroughfare up to the building was long and wide with a decorative reflecting pool at the center and a set of daunting steps leading up to the ornate front doors.

The grounds were meticulously kept with hedges shrub and flowering bushes, with what must have been miles and miles of water features and fountains off to the side.

It was a beautiful location, and it seemed that visitors found it a nice spot to rest while they enjoyed touring the sites.

He didn’t see much in the beauty today.

This was the UN supreme court, and the history of Geneva made this place hallowed in ways that made the court case for today all the more poignant.

The car pulled to a stop before the doors and a few gloved attendants stepped forward sharply dressed and opened the doors with almost militaristic precision as Admiral Vir and Admiral Kelly stepped out.

Waffles followed at his heels

He knew as soon as he stepped onto the marble steps that he wanted to leave, an the only thing that kept him there was the memory of those faces…. All the people counting on him back at the house, all the people who had never been given a chance to recover like he had.

He took a deep breath and ford himself up the steps and towards the front doos where a group of people were already congregating.

There were a few reporters there, without cameras, waiting to attend in the audience and record the proceedings for their news stories and daytime television. A few of them snapped discrete photos of him as he passed and was led through the wide double doors into the expansive inner hallway with a beautifully muraled ceiling and a line of decorative plants down the side.

Voices echoed inside the building, rising up around him to bounce off the marble.

The voices themselves were indistinct and difficult to understand as he made his way further into the room.

Men in suits lined the walls.

He eyed them critically wondering if any of them happened to be the defence.

A hand was placed on his shoulder, and he quickly turned to eye another attendant, who had evidently been trying to get his attention, “Right this way sir.”

He nodded and was led through the halls and into a nearby antichamber.

A wand was passed over his body.

“Please hold out your arm , sir.”

He did as ordered and watched as his forearm implant was temporarily deactivated. 

“The room is completely radio proof, sir. No signals go in or out. If you must make a call, I urge you to take it during the court recess.”

“Understood.”

“Please step inside and sit on the second row on the right side behind the prosecution.

He did as ordered, and stepped into another wide curving room.

It was much bigger than he would have thought, two stories high with amphitheater seats, and a massive curving desk at the front where nine Geneva court judges would be seated on their entrance.

There was no jury.

The Geneva court judges would be the jury for trial at this time.

Law practices had changed a lot since world war III but there was still some semblance of the old ways that still lingered on.

He took his seat, waffles grumbling softly as he slid onto the ground beside him.

Two people in suits followed him inside one in a dark blue suit and brown shoes, the other in pinstriped balck.

The one in blue was a woman, dressed sharply, her hair pulled back into a bun so tight you could have strummed out a tune on the hairs. She paused next to Adam and held out a hand, “Admiral Vir, we spoke over the phone.”

“Ms. Trevor.”

She nodded and motioned to the man, “And my partner Mr. Jackson. I trust you understand your purpose here today?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

Jackson lifted his head, “Our case here is solid, admiral. This case isn’t about who is going to be punished for what happened, but about how long they will be punished, not to mention it is likely to set up some new legislation for the ethical creation and use of military hardware. Once we are done, something like this is unlikely to ever happen again.”

He wasn’t entirely sure he believed that, but he nodded and let them take their seats in the desk before him.

Waffles whimpered and prodded at his hands with her nose.

He stroked a hand over her big pointed ears.

The courtroom filled up within the next hour, and, Looking across the room, he saw a line of men and women sitting on the second row of the defence. Something about them put him on edge.

He had a feeling they were the scientists.

They were the ones who had developed the steel eye armor.

“All rise! For the honorable Geneva court judges!”

The entire room took to their feet as the nine judges filed out of a back chamber and stepped onto the floor. All of them wore traditional black robes with white collars as had been tradition for nearly thousand of years. They took their seats with a mass shuffling.

“Please be seated.”

The room shuffled back into place.

The head judge,at the center of the table leaned forward.

“On this day June 24, 4024 we open the Geneva Court case of The People VS UNSC Biomechanics Division. the court will begin by hearing opening statements from the council.”

Council for the prosecution stood, shuffling her papers once before stepping up to the lectern.

“Honorable judges and members of the court, today we are here to present evidence against a faction of the UNSC scientific division for gross ethical violations, torture, and pruposeful endangerment of human life. Evidence suggests over 29 killed, over 21 critically injured, maimed, or permanently crippled, and over 61 with lasting mental trauma. This is not counting over 50 Steel eye soldiers coerced without prior knowledge, into participation in the program, 30 of which are now deceased 15 of which have lasting mental trauma, and five that, while functional, still feel the effects today. Today we will be presenting, written documents, video recordings, and audio files from prior testing as well as first hand witnesses of both the testing and the war as well as expert witness from the scientist who read and compiled the files before trial. What was done to these men and women constitute as war crimes and their victims deserve compensation and closure for what was done to them.”

She stepped back from the podium and nodded.

The defence stood and made their way to the podium in turn, “Your honors, and members of the court, while it is true that some unfortunate incidents happened during testing and development of the steel eye project, there is ample evidence to prove that none of these men or women were coerced against their will into participation. All subjects were volunteer and duly informed before proceedings began. Furthermore, scientific ethics had not advanced far enough at the time to cover weather or not what they were doing was an ethical violation. The Defence is not asking for complete vindication for the accused, but the sum of what happens is surely less than war crimes.” 

They took their seat.

Adam wasn’t a lawyer, but he knew which opening statement he liked more. Now maybe he was biased, but certainly he felt that one presented greater amounts of evidence than the other. Of course it was up to the prosecution to show evidence that would convince the judges, beyond a reasonable doubt, that these men and women were guilty.

He listened to some more speaking, half falling asleep and assuming maybe this would be as bad as he thought it would when one of the prosecution stepped back up to the podium.

“The prosecution presents time stamped dated and logged evidence to the court for consideration. The first testing log we wish to present is from the eighteenth of October 4016 and overseen by Dr. Tato Nkosi written as log number 23.” 

Experimental Log #023:

So far we have not experimented with a human subject, All the sample tests and simulations indicate that there should be no interference with normal function nor create any feedback loops that could induce seizures. This is the first human testing that we will be doing. We have noticed that the animal testing resulted in significant irritation and irrational behavour from the subjects, We however suspect this was because they were unawares of the reason for the implantations.

The subject is unconscious for the process of implantation to prevent movement. 

-recording break-

The subject reacted violently to the implant, removing it in a highly violent manner while screaming and trying to injure any nearby scientists. We expected some level of resistance, but this indicates far more sensitivity than expected. Further testing will be required.

“The council for the prosecution wishes to present the audio/visual log.” A light flickers on as a video clip begins reeling.

Audiovisual Log Transcript:

The subject wakes suddenly, seeming to be woken by extreme pain. Screaming almost instantly and scrabbling at implant on their hand and wrist. Subject seems to be attempting to remove the implant. One of the scientists attempts to calm the subject only to be beaten by the subject who continues screaming. The scientist retreats from the subject just as the subject finally removes the test implant by ripping it from the subjects skin, tearing with it the subjects local nervous system along with large sections of the subjects musculature and ligaments. Seeming relieved at the lack of contact with the implant, the subject sinks to its knees. The subject is losing significant amount of blood, though we suspect the subject is unaware of this as large sections of the nervous system is still attached to the implant. The subject appears to be in shock as it observes its ruined lower arm and hand. The subject has resumed screaming and is now trying to get the scientists attention to fix its ruined lower arm and hand. The subject is sedated and arm treated. The recording ends here. 

Adam throws a hand up over his face feeling bile rise into his mouth at the image seared into his brain. Muscle and ligament dangling uselessly against a steel eye prototype. He felt a bit lightheaded but takes a deep breath in and out to calm his breathing. All around the room there are gasps of shock and disgust. A few people stand to leave the room unable to witness any more.”

The council steps forward, “This was the first log in a recorded series of proceeding logs with similar effects. We know in experimentation that accidents happen all the time, and we might have considered forgiveness if the experimentation had stopped here. Clearly implementation on human test subjects was not ready, as evidenced by the animal’s discomfort. Perhaps if they had stopped here, some measure of understanding might have been allowed. But they continued past this point with full knowledge that this sort of catastrophic event could happen. This test subject will never regain full use of his hand. Instead of stopping the experiment like hey should, the scientists determined that the use of painkillers was in order to make the subject operational. For this the prosecution calls expert witness Dr. Alexander Gladstone to the witness stand.”

On the bench to his side, a man stands slicking back his salt and pepper hair as he moves to sit in the witness stand and is sworn in.

“Dr. Gladstone, tell us a little of your credentials.”

“Of course, I received my PHD in Biomechanical interface and Engineering as well as an additional PHD in Mechanised robotics. I have worked as the head scientist for the UNSC testing division for nearly five years now after my predecessor quit. I helped to re-engineer this project under Iron eye as a step forward from the Steel eye project in a more controlled and ethical environment. I am also the scientists who reviewed these logs and compiled them for analysis today.”

“Thank you Dr. Now, may I ask why these scientists would have chosen to implement a drug dosage?”

“To understand why they had to do this, you must also understand the steel eye project itself. Steel eye was designed to enhance the strength, speed and durability of the wearer. We already have exo suits designed for use in factory and industrial settings, however the main issue we run into in a combat setting is that the machine responds too slow. The nodes detect electrical impulses from the muscles and then have to fire following that meaning the subject has already begun moving almost seconds in advance of the machine. Steel eye was created to integrate the machine directly into the body to intercept nerve impulses before the muscles even fire, thus making the wearer faster, and the augment making them stronger. To do this you have to make a direct interface with the nervous system. They first implemented small microfivers which would wrap themselves around the nerves in question to detect electrical signals. These were designed to cluster primarily along the spine but have additional nodes in the major muscle groups. However, direct stimulation of a nerve or nerve cluster sends signals to the brai nthat are interpreted as…. Unbelievable agony, which is likely the agitation that they were seeing in the animal test subjects. However, with a high enough drug dosage, you can mitigate these effects, or distract the brain enough to keep the wearer functional for some time.”

He sat back in his seat.

“And in iron eye, how did you get around this problem?”

“Subdermal implants that do not require direct contact with the nerve endings themselves.”

“And does Iron eye cause any significant damage to the wearer?”

“No sir, the only danger is an infection of the implants, but that is with almost any implanted medical devise.”

“The subjects have no pain.”

“A general soreness that goes away within two to three days.”

“So in my understanding it is clear that there were alternatives to their original course of action. They could have pulled back and tried to implement a way to mitigate the pain rather than mask it with drug dosages?”

“Certainly.”

“But that isn’t what they did.”

“No.”

“The prosecution presents Transcript 27 to the court for viewing.” 

Experimental log #27:

We have begun testing various drugs to suppress the pain, this test is with acetaminophen, commonly referred to as Codeine. 

As per usual the subject was implanted while unconscious and atop this it was given a high dose of codeine prior to it awaking. 

-recording break-

It appears that while the subject was capable of withstanding the pain from the implant for a longer period of time than our previous subjects However the subject clearly seemed to suffer increasing mental instability as the sensations returned, culminating in the subject violently trying to destroy the implant. Learning from prior experiments and in an attempt to reduce harm to the scientists, the subject was left alone while it was in this state and no attempt was made to aid the subject.

Adam turned his head away unable to stomach what was coming next. His hands were sweating terribly. He felt cold and weak. He had seen horrible things in war and in his time, but watching this… .watching steel eye. It was just too much.

His mouth had gone dry, and his skin was hot as if he had a fever.

The dog nosed his hand but he barely acknowledged her.

Audio-visual log transcript:

The transcript begins once the Codeine begins to wear off. 

The subject begins by itching at the area around the implant, the reaction is far less violent than the prior subjects. After several minutes of ever more irritated scratching and aggressive tugging at the implant and plaintive noises the subject began to violently bash the implant against the wall. Growing ever more violent with the abuse of the implant. This continues till the test implant is mangled and ruined with the subject pulling the mangled chunks of metal off their skin, this however seems not to alleviate the subjects pain and irritation. This is likely due to the destruction of the implant not removing the interfacing needles The subject continued to scratch and pull at its skin, the plaintive noises slowly becoming screams of pain. This action continued without interruption from the scientists till the subject had torn most of the skin of its arm and taken chunks out of its musculature, the subject finally passed out from pain or blood loss after several minutes of self mutilation. 

The room spun around him, and he took a few long, deep breaths hoping that it would stop.

He wast sure he could survive another few hours of this.

He wasn’t sure at all