#or Thomas looks particularly dashing dressed like that?

[kiss-this]

[petvampire]

Maybe some Crowcat somnophilia? With a dash of intercrural sex? 🥺

Yes, absolutely yes!

Sound Sleeper, Crowcat somnophilia drabble. NSFW.

~

Monty still has nightmares, sometimes. Even though they’re long past any lingering remnant of Esther being able to threaten him, his memories are slow to fade. He’s had a particularly bad spate of them lately, three nights running, leaving him exhausted and drained. It’s bad enough that when his lover makes the offer to help him ensure a full night’s rest, he jumps at the chance. He tries not to resort to magic unless he has to, but he needs sleep, or he’s going to lose his mind.

The Cat King grins as he weaves the technicolor flickers of his power around his fingertips, mischievous even when he’s being helpful. “You’ll be completely out, little bird. Helpless. It might be hard to keep my hands off you.” The crow is a delicious morsel who appeals to all the feline’s predatory instincts as it is; having him fully vulnerable like this is going to be a test of will.

The bird just raises a brow, shakes his head with a tired laugh. “Do what you want, just don’t wake me up.” The cat’s eyes light up, but he just chuckles in retort, tracing his fingertip and a seed of that bright power over Monty’s forehead. It seeps into his skin, and the dark eyes close, breathing slowing to a steady, even rhythm. Thomas settles him back against the mattress, delicately tucking a strand of dark hair behind his ear.

He’s beautiful asleep, even without the usual animation of his features that makes him even more gorgeous awake. Thomas studies him for a long few moments, enjoying the view, thumb brushing lightly along the curve of his cheek. He rarely gets the chance to appreciate the crow like this, since he’s not often still, more frequently in motion. Besides, he gets twitchy when the Cat King stares too long, blushes and says he doesn’t know whether the other wants to kiss him or eat him.

It’s a little bit of both, most of the time.

He wasn’t entirely joking about Monty being an almost irresistible temptation like this. He looks soft and vulnerable and all too delicious, and Thomas can’t resist the urge to nuzzle into that soft hair, then down that pale, delicate throat. He breathes in his crow’s scent, savors it like a fine wine.

Maybe he’s tempting himself too much, because it’s hard to pull away. And he supposes he doesn’t have to. He was planning on staying next to Monty tonight and keeping an eye on him anyway, not willing to leave him alone while he’s completely knocked out with magic. Since the other has already said he can do what he likes…

He grins, tongue tracing up the length of the crow’s throat. Too, too delectable, and he can almost taste the other’s pulse where it thrums beneath his skin. It’s still steady, even, but Thomas feels it speed up a little as he fastens his teeth over that delicate spot, bites and sucks a mark into being there.

Monty makes a soft, murmuring little sound in his sleep, and the Cat King savors that, too. He can take his time, appreciate every part of the other, and it won’t rouse him from the sleep he so desperately needs. Perhaps this will even give him sweet dreams, he thinks with a flicker of amusement.

He lets his hands wander lazily, slipping the sheet down to Monty’s waist. He’s dressed the way he usually is for bed, no shirt, just a loose pair of pajama pants clinging low on his hips. It leaves all that fair, beautiful skin free to explore, and Thomas does just that: fingertips trace the contours of his chest, the curves of his ribs, the soft stretch of his stomach. He rearranges the other on his side, presses up against his back, mouth meandering over his neck and shoulders, leaving a trail of red marks. It’s too enticing not to ply the other’s nipples between his fingers, delicately pinching and tugging until they’re stiff and practically begging for more attention. Monty’s breathy little noises are more frequent now, his skin slightly flushed, heartbeat racing.

He’s beautiful. He’s always beautiful, but it pleases some dark, selfish part of the Cat King’s soul to have him like this, a gorgeous doll subject to his whims. Oh, he values giving Monty the freedom of choice the crow never had in his former life under the witch’s thumb. He likes knowing the other chooses him, over and over. But there are moments when he just wants to possess the bird utterly, wants to take him and use him like the perfect toy he is.

Thomas never claimed to be that good of a person, after all. There’s a dark streak that runs beneath his flirtatious exterior, a thing with fangs and claws below his skin. Every so often, he’s lucky enough to get to indulge it, that cruel, possessive animal in him.

He’s almost content just touching, just breathing in the other’s scent and marking up every inch of soft skin he can get his mouth on. Monty will wake up littered in hickeys and bite marks, shallow, perfect imprints of the Cat King’s teeth embedded in his flesh. Thomas knows he won’t mind, knows he flaunts his marks like the preening little bird he is. It’s almost enough, but it doesn’t quite sate that beast in his chest, the need coursing through his veins.

So his hands slip down the other’s hips, tug the loose fabric of Monty’s pajama bottoms down along his thighs. He doesn’t bother pulling them all the way off, just leaves them bunched around the other’s knees, pressing himself firmly against his backside.

The Cat King rarely, if ever, bothers to dress for bed, so there’s no barrier left between them. He’s hard as a fucking rock, rubs his cock against Monty’s ass with a low growl that’s muffled against the other’s neck. And he knows he could take the other just like this - spread him open, fuck him while he’s unresisting and utterly vulnerable for him. But there are some lines he won’t cross without clearer permission than the blanket generalization he was given tonight. He’s a fair and consensual Cat King, after all.

Still, the image lingers in his mind, and he finds himself rutting against the other, all mindless, feral need. He imagines pinning his pretty crow against the mattress, imagines sinking into the tight heat of him inch by inch. He flashes through half a hundred memories of Monty moaning in his ear, whimpering, trying and failing not to beg. It all just fans the fire in him, makes him crave more.

It’s not conscious thought that has him running a suddenly-slick hand down his own length, letting out another guttural groan. He shifts just enough to press his cock between the other’s pale thighs; it’s not precisely what he wants at the moment, but it’s friction, it’s hot and it’s good. One hand slips down, gripping Monty’s thigh, nails digging just slightly into the soft flesh there. He keeps the other’s legs pressed tightly together so he can buck into that slick hollow between, buries his face against the back of Monty’s neck.

It’s enough for now, for tonight; his teeth dig into delicate skin again as he fucks that tight space between the crow’s thighs. It’s enough to be able to mark the other like this, to touch him, to cover him in the Cat King’s scent. Probably the literal second he’s awake, Thomas will be buried inside him, savoring all those little sounds and reactions that are far more appealing than sensation alone. But for now, for tonight - it’s enough.

He comes with a sound like a snarl, drenching the other’s thighs, tasting the faintest copper trace of blood where his teeth bear down against Monty’s shoulder. The crow lets out a soft, breathy whine, and Thomas has to huff out a laugh against his skin. Even asleep, he’s needy. He’ll tend to that once he’s thinking like something human again, once those instincts that have risen in him are lulled back to sleep.

Slowly, softly, he draws himself back, licking over the marks he’s left on the other’s skin, breathing in his scent and letting it soothe this time, rather than excite. It’s mingled with his own now, as it always should be, he thinks. He nuzzles into Monty’s neck, and lets himself drift, still keeping an eye on the other, but dozing a little here and there. He’ll be awake in an instant if there’s trouble, but otherwise, he can rest now.

~

“Thomas.”

The Cat King cracks an eye open lazily, raises a brow and flashes a slow, teasing smile as he sees Monty turning to face him, nudging closer to him. He looks much better rested now, if still half-asleep, dark eyes bleary. There’s a hint of amusement in them, though. “Want to tell me why the fuck I woke up sticky?”

He laughs low in his throat, and rolls the crow onto his back, pinning him as a hint of predatory heat slides back into his gaze. “How about I just give you a replay…”

[doctorstethoscope]

Birthday Boy || Aaron Hotchner x Fem Reader

just a little something something for Thomas Gibson’s birthday and @ssahotchswife Soft Hotch Saturday! 

contains: food consumption, hiking, ocean/swimming

wc: 1.3k

You had always been big on birthdays, particularly for the people you cared about. You’d decided as a teenager that anything good was worth making great, and anything worth celebrating might as well be worth a parade. So when your boyfriend Aaron’s birthday was rolling around, you were prepared to pull out all the stops.

You’re sitting on the couch together, some baseball game on in the background while you toddle away on your laptop, about to buy tickets to a whiskey distillery tour for him, Rossi, Derek and Spencer when he stops you. 

“Sweetheart, I love that you want to plan all of this for me, but I don’t really do birthdays. I’d really rather treat it just like any other day if that’s alright with you.” he’d stopped you.

“What do you mean? You made brunch and winery reservations for me and the girls on my birthday. I came home to a candlelit dinner and you and Jack made me a cake.” You argued. 

“You love birthdays, and you deserved a special birthday, so I made sure you had one. I knew you’d want one.” He had explained as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

  “You deserve a special birthday too.” You countered. 

“And I’ll have one, with you, and Jack, and probably one of his soccer games and a trip through the McDonald’s drive through before he falls asleep afterwards. And it will be everything I wanted because I spent it with the people that I love.” He had told you simply, and you melted, even if it did go against everything you believed in not to plan every second of the day out to a tee. But of course, you couldn’t do nothing. 

Which is how you found yourself awake before Aaron on his birthday, wrapped in his arms and trying not to buzz with excitement so you could let him sleep. Eventually, he stirs, and you press a kiss to his lips before he can even open his eyes. 

“Happy birthday, my love.” you whispered as sunlight filtered in through the blinds.

“Good morning,” he responds, in that raspy voice he has right when he wakes up.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” You ask, and he shakes his head. 

“I just want to hold you for a little bit longer,” he requests. 

“Well I guess, since it’s your birthday,” you teased him with a smirk and he smiled as he pulled you into his side. You threw your leg over both of his, bringing a hand to his chest and stroking your thumb back and forth against his sternum. 

You stay that way for a long while, simply basking in the comfort of one another’s company, before you speak up. 

“So, I know you said you wanted to treat today just like any other day… but I did plan a few things, just in case. I couldn’t let the most amazing man’s birthday pass without doing anything. I kept it simple-- just the three of us, but it’s totally up to you.” You assured him. 

Aaron let out a little laugh at your statement. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to go without planning anything.” He sits up, pulling you into his lap and wrapping his arms around you. “What’s on the docket?” He asks with a smile.

“Well, I was looking into a hike on Chincoteague Island, and then I thought maybe we could check out the lighthouse and beach. I found a couple easy hikes that Jack should be able to make with pretty summits.” 

“That sounds perfect, sweetheart. Thank you,” he said, leaning down to kiss you. Your phone buzzed, and you hopped off of his lap. He looked at you, surprised and a little betrayed. 

“Also, I ordered your favorite donuts for breakfast. They’re here. Don’t move,” you explained, dashing to the front door to pay the delivery driver and coming back a few moments later with coffee, a donut, and Jack in tow. 

“Happy birthday daddy!” Jack exclaimed, climbing up towards his father. 

“Thank you, buddy,” he said, smoothing his hand through his son’s hair as you handed him his breakfast. “Did you hear about what we’re going to do today?” he asks.

Jack shakes his head and looks over at you, knowing that you are the master of all things party and celebration prep, and you laugh. 

“I thought we might take Daddy on a hike and then go to the beach, does that sound fun Jack?” 

He nods enthusiastically, and you lead him back to his bedroom to get dressed for the day.  It takes some time, but eventually, the three of you are all packed up and make it out the door towards Chincoteague. The day is thankfully, not too hot while still being warm and sunny. The hike you’d picked was the perfect length for Jack, long enough to have a beautiful view at the summit, but not so long that he was too tired to appreciate it. 

The three of you were sitting at the summit enjoying the view when Aaron spoke up. “I’m glad you suggested this.” 

“I thought you might be,” you smiled, leaning over and pecking his cheek with a smile. 

“Thanks for wanting to celebrate me even though I’m a grumpy old man,” he joked, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

You shook your head. “You’re not grumpy or old. You’re a compassionate, intelligent, loving father and boyfriend, and if I had it my way I’d celebrate you every day.” 

He leaned over and kissed the top of your head. “Well, you’re saying this before you have to ice my knees tomorrow. You might change your mind.” He jokes, and you give him a playful shove.

“Says the guy who still racks up more points than the twenty year old recruits during the FBI physical.” 

You sit for a little while longer, letting Jack take pictures with your cell phone to show his friends at school on Monday, and then you make your way back down the mountain, and back to the car so you can head to the beach. 

After the hike, you were more than ready to cool off, but you were shocked by how cold the water was when you ran with Jack and Aaron into the ocean. You tried to turn around and run back out, but Aaron wrapped both arms around your waist and lifted you up, much to Jack’s delight. 

“What do you think bud? Should I drop her?” Aaron teased his son. 

“Yes!!” He squealed.

“Jack!!” You pleaded, smiling. “You have to save me, not help daddy!!”

“Come on, Jack. It’s dad’s birthday. Don’t you think I should dunk her?”

“Yes, yes yes!” Jack exclaimed, already splashing you. 

Aaron, the smug bastard, winked at you before dropping you into the salty water. You gasped as you felt your skin form goosebumps from head to toe.

“You’re going to pay for that Hotchner!” You promised as you emerged from the water, jumping onto his back and dunking his head into the cold water. 

“Me next!” Jack requested, laughing uncontrollably. “Me! Me, me please!” he asked, and you obliged him, taking him in your arms and dunking his head in the water, careful to keep his face dry so he didn’t get water into his lungs. He squealed and you lifted him back up, mirroring his smile. 

You all romp around in the water for a little while longer, and then Jack decides to make a sandcastle while you and Aaron sit further back in beach chairs. 

“Jack’s having a ball,” you remark, seeing his face light up as he upends a bucket of sand to form a tower. 

“Me, too.” Aaron agrees, and you smile. 

“See, birthdays aren’t all that bad.” You tease him. 

“No, not when you’re around,” he agreed, taking your hand in his and kissing it. Now, he’d just have to buy a ring and get you to stick around for all of them.  

[rainbowvamp]

Alone Too Young

The first installment in my Princess Bride AU. Today we meet our first protagonists, Gwen and Elyan (playing the parts of Valerie and Inigo respectively). Wednesday, we get the rest of their origin story, and Friday we start with the Princess Bride Retelling Proper (Morgana/Lancelot for the main pairing).

Warnings for semi-graphic depictions of murder (Thomas's) and blood. Also semi graphic depiction of injury (Broken ankle), and mentions of death and burial rituals. Implied threat of sexual assault.

Teen and Up Audiences Advised.

Summary: It was supposed to be a day like any other day. Except the king came early for his commissioned sword, and slayed their father before left, leaving Gwen and Elyan orphans.

Word Count: 3,859

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32975395

For Protagonists: Albion Party 2021 (❤️Red Team Rulez💋)

---

It’s just like any other day, really. Father is in his smithy, creating a sword. Elyan is there, helping him, and Gwen is in the kitchen, preserving the ripe spring fruit for winter and fall. Her mother had taught her to do this, when she was still very young, and when mother had died, the kind woman down the road had helped her perfect the craft. Most of the household chores had fallen to Gwen in her mother’s absence, while Elyan had tried to apprentice under his father and her father had to work even harder at the forge to buy pre-made clothes, since Gwen couldn’t sew nearly as fast as her mother and she and Elyan were both at the age where they outgrew clothes quickly

Gwen had heard father telling Elyan that this sword will be his master work. That it is the most beautiful thing he has ever created, and it will fetch a good price, keep them fed through the winter when firewood is harder to find, and buy them both nice warm clothes that they won’t have time to grow out of.

The King himself has commissioned the sword, he hears them whisper in the quietest tones late at night, while Gwen attends to her sewing, trying desperately to make enough clothes, and patch and resize what she can salvage. King Uther will be there at the end of the week to pick it up, coming himself to inspect the craftsmanship. It’s a high honor. Tomorrow Gwen is meant to begin preparing the house for royalty.

Only… a very fancy looking party is coming down the road, past her house, towards her father’s smithy. The clatter of chainmail and swords, the clop of hooves and the creak of carriage wheels passes her by, and she is worried, because there was no word that anyone noble would be passing through their little village. And the knights are all dressed in an unmistakable Pendragon Red.

Gwen leaves her jam, covers the fruit with a towel so the flies and bugs can’t get to it, and she dresses hurriedly, not even putting her hair in a nice braid before donning her cap and making for her father’s forge, taking the shortcut that she knows by heart after years of being sent to give her father, and now Elyan lunch, dinner, and water.

“It’s not ready.” She mutters to herself as she goes as quickly as she dares in her nicest dress. “It’s not ready. Father will be so embarrassed.”

She slips into the forge through the back door, and can already hear the King’s party coming.

“Gwen,” her father says, voice high and mouth smiling. “What a lovely surprise. Is the jam-making going well?”

“No.” She shakes her head and tries to pull herself together, heart racing and breath weak from having come as fast as she had to try and outrun their horses. “No, father. The King! I saw his party coming this way. He passed by the house not long ago. Where is his sword?” She is quick, frantic as she speaks. Her heart is racing, her head turning side to side, looking for any sign of the sword her father has spent weeks and weeks making.

“The King? He’s not due till next week.” Father’s voice mirrors her now, as he looks toward Elyan. “Give my that sword, son. It’s not ready, but I can polish it up before he gets here.”

“Hurry, please.” Gwen says, frantic, as Tom is looking for his polishing materials. Maybe it’s the clopping of hooves she hears, or maybe it’s the racing of her own heart, getting louder and louder. King Uther is not known to be patient or forgiving. She is terrified of what might happen if he is displeased in any way. Could he take the forge? Kill her father?

No. No, she couldn’t think like that. She just couldn’t. It would only make things worse, to think like that.

“Elyan, take your sister home. I don’t want either of you here for this.”

“Father, no!” Elyan begins to protest, and Gwen goes to do the same, but Tom’s gaze becomes hard, his mouth set in a firm line that quiets them both.

“I said, take your sister home. I’ll see you both for dinner.”

No you won’t. Gwen’s terrible thought replies, but she pushes it down, pushes it back. Because she won’t believe it. She won’t. Her father will be fine. He crafts the finest swords in all of Camelot, and even if the sword isn’t finished, it is still beautiful, and sharp, and the king will not be disappointed in it. Of course he won’t be.

So then why does the thought feel so much like a lie.

Her brother takes her arm and leads her out with much more authority than he had any right to. He is smaller than her by an inch, though he will catch up to her soon. Guinevere is only fourteen, he only fifteen, sixteen come winter, but mother had predicted that she would grow faster than he would, leaving Elyan to catch up when he was older. Soon he would, she is sure of it.

They dash through the trees, but Elyan stops when he catches a glimpse of the King’s riding party. Gwen stops too, forboding and dread weighing her down to the spot.

“You go ahead. I’m going back with father.” Elyan tells her, and she glares.

“No, we both go home or we both go to the forge.” Gwen hardens her features, standing her ground like Mother always taught her to, and Elyan glared back at her, a battle of wits ensuing.

Eventually, Elyan sighs, defeated. “We’re wasting time. Come on. But you’re to stay outside and out of sight, and if you think they might start looking around, you run back home, do you understand? Men like that, they aren’t kind to women below their station.”

She swallows hard. She knows what he means, and what she is risking, but she will not leave her father alone, and neither will Elyan.

They race back, just barely making it to the forge as the King himself bursts through the door, loud and rude. They watch through the window, obscured by bushes and the curtain father uses to keep bugs out.

“Tom, smith, it is good to see you! I hope I am not too early.”

“Of course he’s too early.” Elyan muttered from their perch at the window, glaring at the king in a way that would be treasonous if he saw. Gwen doesn’t blame him. She’s sure her own gaze is not particularly favorable to the king just now.

“Of course not, your Majesty. I’m just finishing polishing it up, if you don’t mind waiting a moment.” Gwen can hear the tenseness in her father’s usually easy-going voice. The fear in it that the King is probably used to, maybe even delights in by the way his eyes light up.

“Excellent. I’ve heard nothing but good things this about your work. I expect the result to be excellent.”

“I endeavor to please, Sire.” Tom continues polishing the sword as the king looks around the smithy, walks casually, hands behind his back, and examines the walls lined with tools and swords and horse shoes.

“This is beautiful.” King Uther said, picking something up off a table that Gwen can’t see. “I should like it as well.”

“Thank you sire. I was actually making it for my daughter. Her coming of age is soon, but I would be happy to make another just like it, better even.” Tom is smiling, but Gwen can see the insincerity in it, the sweat beads forming at his temple are not just from the heat of the forge.

“No, I won’t be back this way for some time. I’d like this one. Make your daughter another.”

Elyan starts to stand and Gwen grabs his arm, clawing her nails into it and leveling her hardest glare at him. Their father was a competent man, and they would leave him to do what needed doing.

“The metal is from my late wife’s wedding ring, Sire. I would prefer not to part with it, if I could.” His voice is soft, pleading, begging the King to understand, but King Uther is heartless and the whole kingdom knows it.

“Hmm.” Uther carelessly drops whatever it is he is holding onto the table, the clatter making Gwen flinch even as Elyan grips the window seal like he would like to jump through it and give the King a piece of his mind. “Enough of that then. The sword.”

“Here, Sire.” Tom’s voice is soft with relief that Gwen can feel in her chest, a knot unwinding ever so slightly, that will not be fully undone until the whole thing is over and the King is gone.

“Excellent.” The King takes the sword an examines it, head and hand turning this way and that to admire the work her father had done. “That’s 100, isn’t it?”

Tom is quiet for a moment, eyes widening. “Um, Sire, I believe we agreed to 1000.”

“He can’t be serious. Father worked for months on that sword.” Elyan seethes beside her and Gwen finds her own anger is rising, even above the anxiety. She can’t see this ending well.

“1000?” The King scoffs, “What does a peasant need 1000 for all at once? 100. Take the money or you shall get nothing at all.”

“Sire, with all due respect, I can’t take less than 1000. The materials alone are worth more than 100. That handle is inlaid with real gold, precious stones. I have a family to feed, Your Majesty.” Tom’s tone is raising, higher pitched, pleading, not yet angry like Elyan so obviously is beside her. She keeps hold of his arm, not to keep him in line, but to keep herself grounded. This cannot end well for them. It will not.

“I don’t believe I asked about your family, smith.” King Uther adjusts his grip on the sword and places the tip at their father’s breast both, just beside his heart. “Be lucky I offer you 100.”

“Sire, please.” Tom is looking around frantically for anything he can use to defend himself, and his eyes catch on something just beside Gwen. When Gwen follows their path she realizes that he is looking at Elyan. Whether he has always known they were there or just discovered them is unclear, but Gwen read the words on Tom’s lips clear as words straight from a book. “Don’t.” Her father tells Elyan, and Gwen grips her brother’s arm, but it is too late. He is racing around the building, toward the door, and Gwen can’t stop him. She’s wary for her own safety, and her father had begged him not to.

Elyan doesn’t see their father’s death, because he is running around to the door, but Gwen sees it. She has to hold her hands to her mouth to keep a scream from escaping. She has never seen a sword pierce a human before. She’s never seen anything killed before today, so to have the first death she witnesses be her father’s is more than she can bear. She collapses into the bush outside the smithy window, the gurgling sound of her father’s final breaths creeping out the window, but soon covered by Elyan’s roaring yells of “father!”

Their father won’t survive. Elyan won’t survive. What will they do? What will she do? Her limbs are stiff and her lungs are empty, refusing to fill themselves. She hears the clashing of sword, and her brother’s grunts of pain. She is still crying, sobbing, even, but she holds her hands so hard to her face that she thinks maybe she’ll have bruises across her lips afterward. It hurts. Everything hurts.

She hates King Uther. Hates him with a fiery passion, but that is nothing compared to the sorrow welling inside her. Her father is dead. Her brother is dead.

She hears hooves on hard dirty road, the king giving orders to leave, and only then can she gather enough sense to crawl out of the bushes and around the smith to see what damage has been done.

Her eyes are so wet with tears that she can’t see anything but red. Red that turns deep black where there is too much blood pooled of the smithy’s dirt floor. She can hear her father’s choking, gurgling breaths and she collapses again, sobbing. She doesn’t know how to save a stabbed man. The nearest doctor is two villages away. She can’t help him. She can’t save.

“Guinevere.” Elyan’s croaking voice calls to her and she sobs harder, curling in on herself and holding her knees.

“Elyan!” She wails, “Father!” She hates King Uther. She hates him. She hopes he gets caught in a hideous fire, burns alive and has hot metal searing his flesh in his final moments. She hopes he suffers. She hopes he dies.

“Guinevere!” Elyan yells louder, though nowhere near his full strength. “Help me.”

She forces her shoulders to still and her sobs to quiet, wipes at her eyes with her sleeves. Her hand is wet, wetter and stickier than tears would leave it, and when she has cleared the tears from her eyes she sees that she has put her hand in blood. Elyan’s blood most likely. She’s enthralled by it, can’t move anymore, knowing that the king has spilt both her father’s and brother’s blood. She’s only able to move again when Elyan calls her name.

She crawls to him, ignoring the blood staining the worn blue fabric of her mother’s handed down dress, still the finest dress she owned. It was too big for her, and the fabric would have dragged through the blood even if she’d bad the strength to stand, which she didn’t.

She dropped again beside her brother, who laid in the dirt, too weak even to move his head. His foot lays at an odd angle, and his face is bleeding. There is so much blood Gwen thinks he might die too.

“I will-“ Elyan starts to say, but he winces with the pain of his injuries, “I will avenge our father, Guinevere. I will keep you safe.” He reaches up and touches the blood streak on Gwen’s face, brushes it away with the sleeve of his own shirt. She brings her hand up to hold his, tears still tracking down her cheeks and making both their sleeves wet. There father is silent beside them.

“You have to live.” She pleads. Looking over at their father, whose eyes are glassy, wide open, chest unmoving.

“I will. He laid no killing blows. He thought me younger than I am.” Elyan swallowed hard and Gwen squeezes his hand, walking on her knees to take the pitcher of water from the counter and bring it down to the ground with them. She has to help him sit up, and move him to rest against father’s work table before he can drink. He tries not to show how much he’s hurt, but Gwen can see it in the way he tries so hard not to move his left leg, and grits his teeth harder with every motion.

“Elyan, what are we to do?” She whispered once he’d drunk what little water was in the pitcher.

He doesn’t speak for a long while, and Gwen starts to cry silently again, her eyes settling on the wall farthest from where her father lay dead, unwilling to look upon his body again.

“You have to go fetch the doctor, or my foot won’t heal right. I’ll be of no use to you if I can’t walk.” Elyan grit his teeth as he adjusted himself against the table, trying to get more comfortable. “Once he’s finished with me, I doubt we’ll have much money left. I’ll find some odd jobs in the villages, see if there’s a widow needs firewood or something of the like. I’ll keep the forge going at night, prove to people that I’m as competent as father.”

Gwen nods and swallows hard. “The fruit will be bad by the time I get back with the doctor.” It’s the only thing she can think.

“Damn the jam, Guinevere. We’ll make due without.” Elyan’s voice is dismissive, angry, but she knows it’s not aimed at her. Even so she feels herself shrink, frightened by him.

“I’m sorry.” Is all she can think to say. She is sorry that their father is dead. Sorry she can’t think of anything but the jam. Sorry that she didn’t… what, stab the King? If Elyan couldn’t lay a hand on him, what hope did she have? Guinevere was never trained with a sword. She would make Elyan train her now.

That thought centered her as she stumbled to her feet. “I’m going to get the Doctor. I’ll see if The Henricks will let me borrow their horse.”

“Don’t ask them. Their son has eyes for you. Ask the Tailors, down the way. The mother has a soft spot for you.”

Gwen nods, pulling her scarf closer around herself. “She’s always been good to us.” She had taught Gwen to make jam. And to sew, and all the best household remedies and cleaning tricks. Surely they’d spare her a horse.

“She has.” Elyan nods and his eyes focus once again on their father’s dead body. She knows that’s where he is looking, but she doesn’t dare look herself. She’s only just stopped crying and she can’t afford to lose it again. She has to bring a physician back, for Elyan.

“Hurry back,” Elyan says to her on her way out the door and she nods at him, eyes steely and determined. When she passes people and they see the blood on her knees and the tears still glistening her eyes, they put two and two together. None of them stop her or ask her questions, but they leave a trail of gossip in her wake.

She ignores them.

—

The physician sees to Elyan quickly, who’s been moved to their house by a neighbor with a cart and kindness in their heart. Elyan is laid up on their father’s bed, rather than the cot they usually shared, to try and keep some of the pressure off his ankle.

The physician had given her something to help his pain, and showed her how to change the dressings on his wounds. She had taken all the instructions in stride, committing them to memory and never once glancing towards the fruit still sitting on the kitchen table, waiting to be cooked and jellied.

“You’re a very lucky young man.” The physician says as he’s packing up his things. Gwen can’t fathom how anyone could apply the word “lucky” to their situation. “The King has killed boys younger than you for smaller slights. If he had, your sister might be left all alone, and where would she be then?”

Elyan bites his tongue, and Gwen does too. They both know how lucky they are Elyan isn’t dead, but their father is, and they are still too young to be alone like this. It’s cruel of him to torment Elyan so.

Gwen sees the physician out the door, and gives him most of their money as he goes. She doesn’t know what they’ll do when the few coins they have run out, but she will just have to think of something until Elyan is on his feet again.

“Father still needs to be buried.” Elyan said as the sun begins to set. Today had seemed so ordinary only hours ago, but now it feels upside down and there’s nothing she can do about it.

Gwen nods as she tries her best to save the fruit that was left. It would cost too much to waste it now. “The Tailor’s son has offered to come first thing in the morning and help me dig.”

Elyan nods as well, but doesn’t look at her. It must be weighing on him that he can’t dig the grave himself. Guinevere remembers how at just ten years old, Elyan had insisted on helping father dig mother’s grave. Guinevere had braided flowers into a crown for her. Father had told her not to touch mother, but Gwen had always been a stubborn child, and she had snuck over to her mother’s shrouded body, moved the shroud from her face, and placed the crown on her head.

Her mother was cold, stiff, like a doll made of corn husks, but more solid. It felt strange to touch the body and find it completely stiff. The neck wouldn’t give even an inch so she could put the crown all the way around her head, so Gwen had just rested the crown askew, and replaced the shroud. Her father had caught her, yelled at her to step back. Mother had been very sick for a long time. It wouldn’t do for Gwen die as well, now that all of Mother’s duties were hers.

Mother had told her once, that she’d run a home one day. This was probably not how she meant it.

After placing the crown, Gwen had gone inside to finish the day’s chores. It was all she could do. Playing didn’t feel right, and people kept coming to the door, saying how sorry they were and asking when they would bury mother. Gwen fielded these questions as best she could, and finds herself fielding the same ones late into the evening as word of Tom’s slaughter at the hands of the king, and Elyan’s injury, spread through the village. A few of the village men bring Tom’s body to the main house, to keep it safe for the night. Gwen tells them thank you, and when they offer to help during the burial tomorrow, Gwen gladly accepts it.

“You’re too young for this.” Elyan said, with a single candle burning down on the kitchen table and Gwen laid out on the cot by her brother’s side, unwilling to go more than a few feet from him.

In the dark of the night, Gwen feels another set of tears start, and she leaves them, lets them soak the hard pillow beneath her head. “We’re both too young for this. But we’ll make it.”

“Yes, we will.”

When Gwen looks up at Elyan, his eyes are focused over her, probably on the shrouded body of their father. There will be a stink in the house by morning. There was with mother. They will have to take they father outside as soon as someone comes by in the morning, and someone will have to guard his body from wild animals while they dig. Gwen thinks Elyan should do this. It would make him feel useful. Even when mother died, Elyan had tried to be jovial, but he is nothing by sad and serious now. She can’t say she expects him to smile, but they’ve barely spoken all day except to make plans. Gwen lets the tears keep flowing late into the night, and she barely sleeps for the grief.

[livia-dovehallow]

hi!! If you still take requests would you consider a lil fic of the young Lightwood cousins? Like that scene where Christopher mentions that Eugenia tied him to a tree :)

I loved this request so much that I wrote it immediately. Please enjoy!!

MINOR COI SPOILERS

The Lightwood Families - The Cousins, pt. 1/?? 

Characters: Eugenia Lightwood, Thomas Lightwood, Anna Lightwood, Christopher Lightwood, Gabriel Lightwood, Cecily Herondale-Lightwood, Gideon Lightwood, Barbara Lightwood (mentioned), Sophie Collins-Lightwood (mentioned), Will Herondale (mentioned), Tessa Gray-Herondale (mentioned)

Ages: Barbara (10), Eugenia (8), Anna (6), Thomas (5), Christopher (3)

Time and Place: 1890, Alicante, Idris

Eugenia Lightwood marched into the park eager to spend her energy.

Her house was in a hurry with Barbara’s First Runing ceremony happening later that day and she wanted no part in the work. When her Uncle Gabriel and Aunt Cecily offered to take all the children to the park, Eugenia was the first one waiting at the door, her red dress and matching slippers tidy, her hair perfectly styled. She hollered at her brother and cousins to move faster.

Anna came barreling down the steps, her expression just as eager and excited as Eugenia’s. Eugenia knew that the moment they stepped foot in the park that Anna would try to sabotage her own red dress and slippers in the mud puddles that formed in the grass after it rained. 

Her papa appeared next on the steps with Tom. He’d bundled her brother up in several jackets and a knitted cap over his head. Tom gets sick easily, her mama had told her. “Be sure he stays away from the water,” Papa told Uncle Gabriel. “It would be dreadful.”

“I know,” chided Uncle Gabriel, taking Tom from her papa’s arms. “I know the protocol, Gideon. He is my nephew and I do have children myself, you know.”

“Your children always come back filthy and sopping wet,” Papa sighed. “Just be back in time for Barbara’s ceremony. She will be upset if you and Cecily are not there.”

Uncle Gabriel and Aunt Cecily were Barbara’s godparents. They were the ones who would take care of Barbara if Mama and Papa had to go away for a while. At least that was how it was explained to her. Eugenia didn’t particularly care to listen very much. If they went away, Uncle Will and Aunt Tessa were to take care of her and that was all she needed to know.

Aunt Cecily was the next down the steps, holding Eugenia’s youngest cousin, Christopher, in her arms. He was squirming, as he did regularly, to grab hold onto the stele tucked into Aunt Cecily’s coat. “Is everyone here?” she asked, holding Kit’s small arm back effortlessly.

“Yes,” Eugenia exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “Let’s go!”

.

.

No more than a few seconds after arriving did Eugenia follow Anna down to the edge of the stream and watch as Anna jumped into the largest mud pile, sending splatters of wet soil all across the bottom of her dress and submerged her shoes. Behind them, Eugenia could hear the defeated sighs of Anna’s parents. 

Eugenia turned to look back. Tom and Christopher were set down along the fresh patch of green grass beside the bench Aunt Cecily sat on. Uncle Gabriel stood behind her, his hand on her shoulder. They both watched the boys carefully, but let them move about with freedom. They were there to prevent injury—not ruin the fun. Eugenia very much liked her uncle Gabriel and aunt Cecily.

Tom was wobbling after Christopher, who had alternated between running and crawling across the grass eagerly. He stopped at each new location with wonder in his expression. First he admired a beetle that had crawled onto his hand (which was promptly swatted away by Tom). Then he moved toward a patch of wildflowers that had begun to grow from the ground. It was nearing the end of winter and the flowers would bloom soon.

“Genie!” Aunt Cecily called. Eugenia glanced up toward her aunt. She gestured at Tom and Kit and shouted, “Keep an eye on them, will you? Make sure they don’t wander too far. If they do, you must come get us, all right?”

Eugenia scowled. She did not like to be a babysitter. If Barbara had been there, she would have gladly run over to Tom and Kit and stayed with them. Barbara was kind like that. Eugenia, on the other hand, did not have time nor patience for such a job. “If I must,” she answered her aunt with a long sigh. Aunt Cecily only smiled.

Eugenia resumed strolling along the quiet stream. The trees rustled faintly with the breeze above. It was peaceful here, far away from the constant noise and rush of her home in the center of the city. Alicante was pretty and safe. Eugenia liked living there but she missed her papa often when he had to go see Aunt Charlotte for work. She detested work. 

She turned back toward her brother and cousin, impatiently fulfulling her duties as an elder cousin. She let out a sound of frustration and marched over to them. Christopher had wandered into a patch of lilypads and was steps away from taking a swim. She thrust out her arms and yanked him back, plopping him on the solid grass a few metres from the stream’s edge. “Don’t go into the water,” she scolded him. Tom had stayed on the grass, heeding his father’s warnings about the water. “If Tom can’t go somewhere, you can’t go there. Got it?”

Christopher blinked at her. He did not answer, but he glanced between her and Tom before crawling back toward the patch of wildflowers he had admired earlier. Tom waddled after him and Eugenia huffed. “Hate work,” she muttered.

Not long after having to pull a toddler out of the stream did Eugenia find Christopher chasing a bunny through the trees, heading straight for a hill. Tom struggled to run after him in his many layers. Eugenia turned to spot her aunt and uncle, who were standing and peering after them with watchful gazes. She considered leaving him be—after all, her aunt and uncle could run much fast than she could, and they could wear runes to make them faster. She was not old enough yet.

Help your cousin, a voice nagged in her head. Her own voice—her conscious. He’s only little. He doesn’t know any better.

“Ugh,” Eugenia exclaimed and dashed after him. At the top of the hill she grabbed him and pulled him back with her. She ignored his small cry of protest and stepped right up to the closest tree she could find. She turned to her brother, who watched her warily.

“What are you doing?” he asked her. 

“Give me your jackets,” she said to him, holding out her hand. 

Tom’s eyes widened. “Why?” he asked with a gasp. “I need them! Papa will be mad.”

“Kit needs them more,” she explained, already unbuttoning her brother’s outermost jacket. Then she undid the ribbon around her waist—she hated it anyway— and tied them together. “I’m going to make sure he does not run off anymore.”

“You’re tying him up?” Thomas looked even more wary now, gripping his second jacket in his fists when Eugenia reached out to take it. “Aunt Cecy will not be happy.”

“Well I don’t want to run after him anymore,” Eugenia said firmly. “Give me the coat.”

He handed it over slowly, fear in his eyes at the idea of getting into trouble. “Don’t worry, Tom,” she said with a sigh as she tied the coat to the other end of her ribbon and began to tie their cousin to the tree. “Only I will get in trouble, okay? And I won’t let you get cold. I’ll protect you.”

Eugenia took a step back and admired her work. The three pieces of fabric were just enough to secure Christopher to the small tree. He didn’t cry—instead, he looked perplexed, as if he did not understand why he could not stand up or how he had gotten there. He looked up at Eugenia, eyes big, and laughed. Eugenia only shook her head. “He’s going to be a troublemaker just like Anna,” Eugenia declared. She turned to her brother. “Mark my words.”

Tom only nodded and kept his mouth closed.

.

.

I may add more sections to this since we don’t get a lot of Lightwood content in TLH, which is tragic. Would love to see more of their childhoods and also our queen Eugenia Lightwood. Let me know what you think! My ask is open for more requests as well :) @tsccreatorsnet

[aver-no]

Real to Me (Princess and the Frog AU) Chapter 1

First | Next

AO3

Summary: Virgil’s closer than ever to getting his dream, Pat’s prince is finally coming, and the Creativitwins are here, queer, and- shit.

Relationships: Platonic moxiety, familial creativitwins, eventual prinxiety

Characters: Virgil, Patton, Roman, Remus, and Janus (eventually Logan and C!Thomas)

Warnings: Unsympathetic Janus (I promise he gets a redemption arc) and like. one very minor swear word (lmk if I need to add anything else)

Word count:  4343

A/N: Heyyyy... so this chapter. Was NOT meant to be this long lmao, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!! I worked really hard on it, and as always reblogs are very much appreciated :) (Also feel free to drop by my ask box if you have any questions!!)

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

Virgil groaned as he fumbled for the off button on his alarm clock. Another day. He rolled out of bed, narrowly avoiding the beat-up nightstand, working the kinks out of his neck. He quickly straightened out his sheets and stepped over to the old (“it’s vintage”) mirror his mama’d given him. Virgil wanted to make sure he was presentable, if only so he’d be stared at as little as possible. He tugged at his tight curls and grimaced. He’d slept in his work clothes to save time in the morning (lord knows he needed all the sleep he could get) but it left him looking a little rumpled. Virgil could see bags under his eyes too, and there was no time to put on makeup. He sighed. The outsides are just gonna have to match the insides today. 

Virgil shuffled over to his closet to grab his coat. He rubbed his eyes and smiled at the sight of his dad’s picture, right next to the illustration he’d given Virgil so many years ago. Working three jobs suddenly didn’t seem as soul-crushing as before. He grabbed the black coat, quickly shrugged it on, and dashed out the door, snatching his hat at the last minute – it might rain later.

Virgil got to the corner just as the tram was pulling up, green paint and white stripes as dull as ever. The door opened and Virgil was eternally grateful someone he knew was at the wheel. He didn’t think he could handle the stress of wondering if they were going to go off the tracks. He gave a small smile to the portly man driving. “Hi, Charlie.”

“Hey Virgil!” Charlie looked him over sympathetically. “You’re lookin’ a bit roughed up today, son. Didn’t get much sleep?”

Virgil internally grimaced, knowing he’d probably be getting comments like that all day. He just forced a laugh as he reached the top of the steps and replied “Gotta pay the bills. You know how it is.” He wasn’t going to mention he could pay the bills just fine with one job. Or that he was probably chasing a pipe dream.

“Ha, yeah,” and a sympathetic look were the only responses Virgil got. That was fine. Uncomfortable people didn’t ask you questions.

Virgil walked down the dirty aisle of the tram. There were some empty seats, the hard plastic kind that public transport always has, but he just grabbed hold of one of the metal poles in the middle of the aisle. 

Every once in a while, Virgil felt his eyes close for a few milliseconds longer than he’d normally let them. He didn’t want to let his guard down, lest he be pickpocketed or trampled or find himself in any other scenario anyone else might call “unlikely,” but it took an astounding amount of effort to pry his lids open every time. Virgil tried to fight it by staring at the people and cars passing by. New Orleans was as lively as ever. Even at 5:30 in the morning, there were jazz musicians playing on street corners and people dancing beside them, looking like there was nowhere else they’d rather be. 

Virgil unfortunately became quite familiar with that fact as he stepped off the tram, almost running into a line of musicians as they paraded down the street. He started to get increasingly impatient as the trumpet, then the trombone, then the drummer danced by. Just as there was a break in the line and Virgil could see the street he needed to take to Duke’s Cafe, a large man with a handkerchief grabbed his hand and swung Virgil around in a circle. Affronted, Virge pushed the man’s hand away and quickly walked in the direction of the restaurant. Some people need to learn personal space.

一

“Wait Remus, I’m going to- ! Oof!”

Cackling could be heard as a fancifully dressed man with loose, dark curls piled on his head slammed into the railing of the ship. 

“But Roman,” Remus said innocently, “I thought you said you were excited to get on land.” He waltzed up to the man pushing himself away from the edge of the boat.

“That doesn’t mean push me off the ship!!” Roman playfully shoved Remus.

“Eh, you didn’t fall or anything,” Remus shrugged.

The other rolled his eyes as the boat slowly pulled up to the docks, allowing the men aboard to see the photographers and reporters waiting to catch a glimpse. As soon as the ship pulled in view, flashes started to go off, capturing its gleaming white hull and a man standing behind the railing. As Roman flashed a practiced grin, Remus stepped away from the railing, as if hoping to prolong the time he had before stepping off the boat. When the ship began to pull to a stop though, the twins walked over to where the stairs led down to the dock, one with excitement in his eyes, the other with distaste. Roman struck a pose, hands on his hips (easy access for elbowing Remus), and flung off his crown to dash down the steps. Remus chased after him, determined not to be left on the boat (again), only pausing when he physically ran into Roman at the bottom of the stairway.

“Ro, what th-?!”

“Prince Roman! Over here!! Did you see you were declared most eligible bachelor by the Times-Picayune?” 

Remus squinted at the reporter that called out to them. To Roman, anyway. Most eligible bachelor? Really?? That’s the dumbest question I’ve ever heard.

Roman, however, grinned and drifted to the center of the crowd. “Well no, you see, I just arrived, but to say I’m surprised would be-”

“Prince Roman! What do you think of New Orleans? Have you received your invitation to Eli La Bouff’s masquerade?” 

Remus’ expression soured. Masquerades were lame anyway. He tried to push his way toward his brother. “Roman, come on-”

“I’ve found this city quite welcoming so far,” Roman didn’t acknowledge Remus, he just paused to beam around at the crowd, “and I’m looking forward to seeing more of it. In fact-”

“In fact,” Remus cut in, finally reaching that asshole, “we’d enjoy it more if we did some sightseeing.” He shoved Roman away from the crowd without waiting for a response. He hated reporters. He wasn’t even allowed to talk around them because apparently what the press hears is “important to our reputation” and if he doesn’t watch his language, “rumors might spread.” It was one time! And who would actually believe that Roman uses cacti as dildos? The whole thing’s all shit on a stick if you ask him.

“Oh, yes! Sightseeing!!” Roman clapped his hands excitedly and followed Remus off into the city.

一

Roman couldn’t remember when, but at some point he had lost Remus in the busy streets. It was definitely after he’d changed into street clothes, but before he passed the place grilling shrimp… The prince wasn’t too worried about his brother, but having a loose Remus on the town probably wasn’t great for the people of New Orleans. 

Ro’s train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a trumpet blaring a couple blocks down. His head shot up and he took off down the road, drinking in all the sights around him. Every once in a while, he’d wink at a stranger, or maybe strum his ukulele in tune with the sounds of the city. 

As the prince reached the end of the block, he saw a line of musicians dancing down the street. Roman’s face lit up and he chased after them. When he caught up he strummed along with the group and called, “Mind if I join?”

“Hey, we can always use another!” a dancing man with a handkerchief shouted back.

“Ashidanza!” Roman danced off after the band. These guys’ll probably show me all around the city. 

They walked down several streets, each as exciting as the next. There were so many people milling about, so many smells and sounds, so many lights strung up between balconies, and restaurants on every corner. He flashed his most heart-stopping grins at the people they passed, drawing blushes left and right. His eyes only lingered on a few, before he danced on.

The group of musicians passed by a diner that smelled particularly good, and a tall man with a strong jaw caught Roman’s eye. He spun around, strumming louder to catch the man’s attention all while eyeing him up and down. Tight curls, glowing skin, dark eyes? Looked a little tired, but handsome nonetheless. Yeah, that deserves a wink. But as soon as the man turned away from the table he was cleaning, he just rolled his eyes at Roman’s antics and walked back inside the diner. Roman simply shrugged and lost himself to the music. 

The group continued for a few blocks until they found a fairly empty road and started to really play off each other. Now this is what I signed up for. Roman cheered and whooped along with the others, and slowly a crowd formed.

It’d already been a few hours since he’d seen Remus but… what’s a few minutes longer?

一

“Order up!” Virgil held back a grimace at Buford’s gruff voice and the dinging of the bell. He turned to walk towards the back counter with his tray and pushed imaginary flyaways away from his forehead.

“Another coffee over here, Cher!” The man at a nearby table called.

“Gotcha, Eddie.” Virgil internally sighed and poured the coffee into the cup, eyeing Buford every once in a while to make sure he wasn’t gonna start slamming the bell again.

“Hey Virgil!”

He threw out a quick “Mornin’ Georgia” while placing a woman’s plate down.

“Hey, how you doin’ Virgil?” another voice called.

Virgil finally looked up to find a whole group of people sitting around a table, and hoisted the coffee pitcher off his tray to serve them. “Hey y’all.”

Georgia grabbed the mug he just filled for her. “We’re all goin’ out dancin’ tonight, care to join us?” 

There were some words of assent amongst the group, but Virgil just protested, “You know I don’t dance. Besides, I’m-” he handed a napkin to a dirty four year old he wouldn’t have even come near if it wasn’t his job. “Need a napkin? I’m gonna work a double shift tonight.” Virgil strode over to a well-dressed man putting a napkin around his collar. “Here’s your hotcakes.” He folded his empty tray to his side and turned back to Georgia’s group. “I’m just really busy right now-”

“Again?” Georgia interrupted. “All you ever do is work.” She looked so disappointed Virgil almost felt bad. Almost.

Buford’s bell dinged. “Order up!”

“Maybe next time,” Virgil called over his shoulder, knowing full well it was a lie. He thought he might’ve heard someone say “I told y’all he wouldn’t come.” But that was probably just his imagination.

Buford cut him out of his thoughts, “You daydreaming ‘bout that damn restaurant again?”

Virgil deadpanned. “Buford. Your eggs are burning.”

He scrambled to get them off the griddle, but kept going off on Virgil. “You ain’t never gonna get enough for the down payment.”

“I’m gettin’ close,” the waiter scowled indignantly.

“Yeah? How close?” Buford was just mocking him now.

Virgil pushed down his frustration to demand, “Where are my flapjacks?”

The chef didn’t seem to notice Virgil’s impending anger, just laughing out, “You got about as much chance of getting that restaurant as I do of winning the Kentucky Derby!” Virgil’s lip curled into a snarl, but Buford kept going. “Saddle me up, y’all! It’s post time! Giddyup!” Virgil heard the worst trumpet imitation he’d ever had the displeasure to witness coming from behind him as he stormed off with the food piled on his tray. Just ignore him. Just… just ignore them. You’re getting there. 

The bell dinged and Virgil looked up to welcome the customer, brightening a little when he saw who it was. Thank god. An easy customer. “Morning, Mr. La Bouff.”

“Morning, Virgil,” Eli rumbled as he pulled the chair out from his usual table and opened the morning paper.

Virgil placed the eggs and flapjacks on an old woman’s table. “Congratulations on being voted King of the Mardi Gras parade.”

“Caught me completely by surprise! For the fifth year in a row,” Eli joked. Virgil smiled good-naturedly at Mr. La Bouff’s hearty laugh. “Now, how ‘bout I celebrate with some-”

“Beignets?” the waiter placed a plate in front of the large man. “Got a fresh batch waiting for you.”

“Well keep ‘em comin’ till I pass out,” Mr. La Bouff laughed gleefully. 

Virgil had just given his most indulgent customer service smile and turned toward the kitchen when the door slammed open and left a blond boy with a light blue jacket and a cream waistcoat beaming in the doorway. He stood there for only a split second before jumping up to Virgil, shouting, “Vee!!! Virgil Virgil Virgil, did you hear the news??” He plopped down into the chair across from Mr. La Bouff to say “Tell him Daddy!!”

Mr. La Bouff slowly swallowed and held up his paper to show the front cover displaying a handsome man with loose curls and a dimpled smile. “Oh yes,” Eli started, “Prince Roman-”

“Prince Roman is coming to New Orleans!!” Patton interjected, giggling excitedly. “Isn’t he amazing?” His face got all dreamy before continuing, “Tell Vee what you did, Daddy!”

“Well, I invited-”

“Daddy invited the prince to our masquerade ball tonight!!” Pat jumped up excitedly, then seemed to realize he was making a scene and sat down to continue a little quieter, “Tell him what else you did!” Mr. La Bouff paused to look at Patton for a minute, expecting him to interject again, but Pat stayed silent. He looked to his daddy and beamed, “Go on.”

“And he’s staying-”

“He-” Pat started, but then caught himself, deciding to shove a beignet in his mouth instead.

“...And he’s staying in our house as my personal guest,” Eli finished proudly.

Patton nodded excitedly, and Virgil looked at them both with wide eyes. “Pat, that’s amazing! It’s a lot, but… amazing.” He walked back to the kitchen to grab another batch of beignets, and when he got back he placed the treats in front of them and rested his hand on Pat’s shoulder. “A little word of advice: My mama always said, ‘The quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.’”

“Don’t I know it,” Pat laughed, taking a big bite of his pastry before gasping, “Wait, that’s it! Virge, you are a genius!!” Virgil gave him a look of confusion from where he was placing dishes in the sink. “I’m gonna need about 500 of your beignets for the ball tonight!” Virgil looked up in alarm. 500?? Patton darted over to where his daddy was sitting and grabbed a large wad of cash from his wallet. “Will this about cover it?”

The waiter stood there speechless for a few moments before forcing himself to reach out to take the money Pat was shoving at him. “I- yeah. Yes, this- this should cover it just fine, Pat.” A rare smile slowly grew on his face and he looked up at the La Bouffs gratefully. “This- this is it... I’m actually getting my restaurant!”

Patton hugged Virgil tight and bounced him around, squealing, “It’s gonna be amazing Virge!” Suddenly, he let go, gasping, “I’d better get ready.” He grabbed his daddy and shoved him towards the door. “Tonight my prince is coming!!”

~

“Everything looks good to me, Mr. Fenner.” Virgil looked away from the building (his building!) as the man in question began to get up to haul the “For Sale” sign away. Another, much shorter man with the same nose and mustache walked by where Virgil stood. “.....And Mr. Fenner.”

“We’ll have all the paperwork ready to sign first thing after Mardi Gras,” the taller of the brothers announced.

“I’ll be at the La Bouff’s masquerade ball, how ‘bout I sign them then?” He wanted his ownership confirmed as soon as possible – there was no way something this good could actually be happening to him.

“You drive a hard bargain boy,” the shorter Fenner called from the car. “We’ll see ya there!”

Virgil finally let himself take a breath once the real estate agents drove off, and stood back to take in the view of what would be his restaurant. He felt truly hopeful for the first time in a long time. He was really gonna get his restaurant. Wow.

He was startled out of his reverie by a woman sneaking behind him to say, “Table for one please.”

Virge turned to see a woman with graying hair and deep smile lines holding out a beaten up pot with a bow tied around it. “Mama!”

“Here’s a little something to help you get started,” she smiled.

Virgil’s face went soft, a little nostalgic. “Dad’s gumbo pot…” He hesitantly reached out to take it from her.

“I know,” Eudora comforted, “I miss him too.” They both stood there for a moment before his mama urged, “Well now, hurry up and open the door!”

Virgil went and unlocked the doors, and as soon as they were wide enough to walk through, said wistfully, “Look at it mama... Doesn’t it just make you wanna cry?”

Eudora took in the cobwebbed rafters and the creaky walls. “Yes…”

Virge seemed to notice her skepticism, turning to look at her after placing the pot on a lone stool. “It’s a little rickety, it’ll definitely need some sprucing up to be safe, but can’t you see it? The maitre’d is gonna be right where you’re standing, and over there’s gonna be the gourmet kitchen.” Virgil gestured to the left end of the room. “And hanging from the ceiling, a crystal chandelier! I’ve been thinking about the weight of it to make sure it doesn’t fall down, and so long as it’s not too big, I can save on the structuring of it. Of course I won’t pinch pennies too much, I want it to be safe, but-” 

“You certainly have this all figured out, don’t you,” his mama laughed. “I’m sure this place is gonna be wonderful baby. It’s just…”

Virgil looked at her nervously. “What?”

“It’s a shame you’re workin’ so hard. It’s all you do,” Eudora smiled gently.

“How can I let up now that I’m so close? I’ve gotta make sure all Dad’s work means something.” I’ve gotta make him proud.

“Virgil, your daddy might not have gotten his restaurant, but he had somethin’ better,” Eudora squeezed his arm gently. “He had love.” Virgil snorted lightly. “Laugh all you want baby, but that’s all I want for you. Pat’s got his own dreams of happily ever after.” Virge’s eyebrows scrunched. “I don’t want you to be lonely. I wanna see you dance off into happily ever after too.”

Virgil stepped away from her. “Mama, I don’t have the time right now. I’m so close. Maybe when I get up and running, but right now… it’s just not an option for me.”

Eudora sighed and patted Virgil’s hand. “Alright sweetheart. I trust you.”

一

Roman stood amongst a crowd of people, all dancing and cheering. The trumpeter blared his horn, and the rest of the band energetically played along, the whole atmosphere charged with the infectious energy. A short news boy danced along with Roman, trading moves back and forth and smiling wide. After a few trades, the prince stepped to the edge of the circle to let the boy have his moment. With the space to himself, the kid dropped into a split and popped right back up.

“Ashidanza!” Roman laughed, tilting his head to some swooning admirers and immediately spinning back into the fray.

“Ro!” a familiar voice called. Roman looked up and smiled brilliantly, having caught the eye of his black-clad brother. “There you are. I should’ve been following the shrieking earlier.”

“Excuse me?” Roman dramatically placed his hand on his chest. “That is the sound of joy.”

“Sure, and you’re a heartthrob.” Roman squawked indignantly as Remus shoved him away from the crowd. “Come on, I found a restaurant that sells frog legs!!”

“What?? Ew, no. I’m staying here,” Roman dug his feet in.

“But Rooooo, they have five different sauces!! Five!!!”

“Yeah, for frog legs!”

“You got to play your jazz,” Remus argued, “so now we’re gonna eat some goddamn frog legs.”

“But I haven’t gotten to show all of my moves yet!” Roman protested. “And I’ve almost gotten enough admirers to form a fan club!”

“We should leave then, so my roguish good looks and entrancing humor don’t steal their hearts.”

“You mean your worm of a mustache and your freakish flirting?” Roman teased.

Remus glared and opened his mouth to argue, when a smooth voice came from the wall behind them. “Gentlemen!” The twins spun around to find a tall, masked man with a hooked cane and a black hat leaning casually against the wall. “Enchanté. A tip of the hat from Dr. Côté.” Roman noted that he didn’t actually tip his hat. The man – Dr. Côté – pulled a business card out of seemingly nowhere and held it out to them. “How y’all doin’?”

Remus swiped the card away before Roman could even lift his hand. “’Tarot readings, charms, potions.’” Re’s eyes shone brighter with each word. “’Dreams made real.’” 

Ok, now Roman’s attention was piqued. 

Remus looked up with a wild grin on his face. “You can really do that stuff?”

“Well… normally I do it for a price but… I suspect I’m in the presence of some very important people,” Dr. Côté grinned charmingly, canines glinting. The twins’ heads whipped around to share a look.

“...What other things can you do?” Roman inquired.

Dr. Côté seemed to really notice Roman for the first time. “Why don’t we take a little trip to my office and I’ll show you.”

The twins gave each other a look. Then Remus jumped up, shouting, “Come on, let’s just go already!”

~

First thing Roman noticed was that the “office” was not an office. Honestly, it was more of an urban cave – a nook in an alleyway off a street that was more dirt than anything else. It was filled with all sorts of things Roman never imagined would make for desirable décor. There were herbs dangling from one corner, and large masks with strange markings hanging on almost every available surface. Roman was pretty sure he saw some bones in the corner. The rugs on the floor didn’t match each other at all, but all were made of what was once probably very expensive fabric. Now it was just musty, matted, and muddled. The furniture was limited to a small, circular table in the center of the room, sitting directly beneath a chandelier that gave off an orange light, which didn’t seem to help much in the way of seeing. Roman silently vowed not to go within three feet of any of these… decorations.

“WOAH, cool bones!” Remus, on the other hand, seemed to have no qualms.

“Don’t touch those!” Dr. Côté hissed. He took a deep breath and grinned, gesturing to the table Roman noticed earlier. “Why don’t you come have a seat?” 

The men settled themselves around the table, Roman carefully examining his chair before sitting, just to make sure he wasn’t about to sit on anything… distasteful. 

Then, Dr. Côté pulled a deck of cards seemingly out of nowhere. They didn’t seem particularly special, simply decorated with a symbol of a hand that had an eye in the center, but the voodoo man held them with reverence. 

“Are you gonna do a card trick?” Remus snickered. Roman buried his smirk and elbowed his brother’s side. He did not want to make a magic man angry.

Dr. Côté simply looked up, though, giving an oily smile. “They’re tarot cards. I can tell you your past, your present… your future.” He gave a knowing look and fanned the cards out to the twins. “Go ahead. Take three.”

The princes reached out to the deck, holding their chosen cards close to their chest as if it were a card game. 

The Shadow Man stared at them for a moment, as if expecting them to do something before prompting, “How ‘bout I take a look at those cards now?”

Roman grinned sheepishly and placed his cards on the table. 

“Ah… now you, young man, are quite a prince,” Dr. Côté began. “A prince of fairy tales, really.” Roman thought he heard Remus huff beside him. “Your world is truly… perfect.” Something retreated inside Roman a little at the words, but he looked up when the Shadow Man asked, “But will it ever be anything else? Nothing is quite so disheartening as playing the same role all your life, huh? But when I look forward… I can see you’ll be more… very soon.”

The prince felt an anticipation swell inside him. Very soon.

Dr. Côté grinned down at Roman, then turned to Remus, peering at his cards. “Ah, yes. You’ve always been ambitious, hm?” Roman was shaken from his reverie and just barely kept from snorting. (Judging from the glare his brother aimed at him, he didn’t do a very good job.) Remus was ambitious if you considered chaotic enthusiasm to be ambition. But Dr. Côté just continued, “You could do more, be more, than they’d ever imagined. I know it. What are you going to do about it?”

Roman looked to Remus, and Remus looked down at his palms. A hand was outstretched for each of them to shake. “Well, boys?” 

The world was still for a moment. And then the black-clad prince’s hand shot out and shook the voodoo man’s, the other prince soon following suit.

“Very nice.” Dr. Côté’s smile grew leering. 

Then an orange smoke crept up Roman’s arm and into his mouth, and the world went dark.

A/N: Sorry, the ending came kinda fast 😅 I hope you enjoyed it anyway!! Please feel free to point out any mistakes you see, and keysmashes are VERY appreciated :D

Taglist: @midnightstorm-underthe-moon @meowthefluffy

[in-command-of-the-unsc]

Day 5: Date Night, Missiles, Mutiny

Captain Thomas James Lasky straightened his collar and cleared his throat, running a hand over his hair.

Turning to the holo-pad on the edge of his desk, he asked: “How do I look Roland?”

The little A.I. smiled, crossing his yellow holographic arms. “Like a factory issue MA5D, Sir. Sharp.”

Lasky chuckled slightly. “Thanks Roland. You always know how to make me feel better.”

“What ever would I do without my dashing captain, Sir?” Roland teased, uncrossing his arms and resting his fists on his hips.

“You’re hilarious.” Tom smiled, pocketing his wallet and stuffing his dog-tags down his collar.

“Go knock Commander Palmer dead, Captain.”

“Roland, she’s a Spartan. She could snap me in half if she sneezed too hard.”

“Affirmative, Sir.”

—————————

Sarah Palmer rolled her shoulders slightly and looked in the mirror, raising her eyebrows in hesitant approval. Much as she despised dresses with a passion, she wanted to do this for Tom. He had always talked about how much he’d love to see her in a dress, so she decided to indulge him.

Not that she particularly cared how she looked. Tom’s opinion notwithstanding. She certainly remembered the days of endless flirting when she was an ODST and he a Naval Aviator, but about a week ago the now-Captain had apparently worked up the courage to ask her out. Having been friends for years, Sarah had accepted. And they wouldn’t get court-martialed for breaking Frat Regs either; Different chain of command an all that. Admittedly it was a technicality on a warship, but hey, they had a defense. As if the brass actually gave a shit about Frat Regs anyway.

Random thoughts aside, Sarah stepped out of her quarters and....

“You’ll cause a mutiny if you hurt him.”

..... Roland.

“I know, Roland.”

“Just checking, Commander.” He paused, then spoke with a teasing tone. “You know, most women wear heels with a dress, not boots.”

“I put a dress on. Do not push it.”

“Yes, Sir.”

—————————

“Well? How do I look?”

Tom couldn’t seem to get his mouth to work. Sure, he’d always thought Sarah would look good in a dress but shit.

“Earth to Toooom.”

Lasky blinked. “Like a volley of missiles. In other words, deadly. Beautiful. Need I go on?”

The Spartan raised an amused eyebrow. “Nice save, swabbie. You even managed to eight-six the stutter.”

The Captain flushed, even as he smirked. “Very funny. Go on then, how about me?”

Sarah chuckled softly. “Would you prefer the romamticized novel description, or the Marine description?”

“How about the Sarah description?”

And the teasing aura sizzled into tension.

—————————

Yes, I do consider at least mentioning the prompts to be using them. They did inspire certain scenes after all.

Late Day 5 of @infinity-week !

Friends tag list: @soclonely , @bomboclaaty , @sw-maddie

[post-itpenny]

❝ A tale befitting any opera. ❞

One Being Ruth.

Decided to do some DBD with our Survivor and Killer OCs. I apologize if this seemed like to ran too long. Irene likes to talk.

Ten trials.

That’s how many it took for Irene to come to her senses on just what had become of her.

She would later learn at the Killer’s Campfire that there were some that had taken much longer. Perhaps The Entity no longer saw the need to keep a ruse with her, or perhaps it never tried to begin with. Perhaps Irene had created the delusion that this was meerly a series of shows all on her own.

But she had to admit it was far easier to process the trials as merely a performance. None of the supporting cast really stayed dead and was not their director/ producer also their audience?

Before, the times between trials felt like a strange dreaming state. Sleepwalking through the theater as her mind tumbled through jumbled bits of memory and feeling. All of it was painful, she suspected that part was her new director’s doing. Her hurts and frustrations from a lifetime of being so close but never close enough, of never being good enough for too long.

And then there was her costume… it had to be Ruth didn’t it?

Irene found even after coming to her senses she did not care much for the Killer’s Campfire. Visiting when needed then going off to whatever performance she was slated for in one trial ground or another. There was no script, though like many an actor Irene appreciated the chance at improv. After she would spend her time in the theater. Acting out scenes from old scripts, reorganizing the prop room, or like today she was singing to the empty rafters. Anyone who heard her may or may not have been surprised to find the diva actually had a very lovely singing voice.

Irene was working her way through the aria of Puccini’s Madame Butterfly when the rushing sigh of her director’s presence filled the hall. It seemed, much to her delight, this trial would be coming to her.

There was a slight pull, the tiniest tug as someone else entered the theater. Ah, so her sound technician was here today? Well good, what's a performer without a decent set of stage hands? Though she supposed he was more of a fellow actor these days.

Irene smirked and skulked off to her dressing room where her rapier sat waiting and... perhaps something else a bit of a treat for today maybe? Around her the place shifted, generators, pallets, and hooks appearing.

A deadly game of cat and mouse. Such drama, such suspense. A tale befitting any opera…

Irene adored it.

Accept of course a few members of her supporting cast-

“Hey you hag!”

Irene growled as she turned to spy a grin and mass of curly hair.

Mary shot Irene the middle finger “come and get it bitch!”

Irene sighed, it was so hard to find good talent these days.

This one enjoyed a good chase and much to Irene’s dismay, lead her around the map. The sharp clicks of her boots interrupted as a pallet came crashing down on her head. Irene let out a shriek as stars flashed before her eyes.

The impertinent girl let out a trill of laughter as she zoomed off. Irene had already learned that the girl would only grow faster if she could not follow, and it drove her mad. The others called this kind of survivor and Obsession. Another of their director’s tricks, you needed to kill this one, the thrill of the chase too powerful. Irene hated it.

Which was why she left the little imp alone.

The adrenaline of a trial felt akin to the one she would feel in auditions in her younger years. A desperate but thrilling pursuit. Her first role in New York had been one of the sisters in The Pirates of Penzance, a comedic opera. A somewhat smaller role in the production but she still had to fight tooth and nail for it. She remembered how lovely the leading lady Maryanne had been, but it was Ruth that fascinated her.

Ruth was a multifaceted role, comedic in being an older lady who was hard of hearing yet roped into a band of pirates. However, act two showed how calculating and manipulative she was. Arguably one of the actual main antagonists of the opera. A very young Irene had been fascinated with the duality and of course, an older woman dressed as a pirate. It reminded her of all the times she and her siblings played pirates as children. The middle of eight siblings normally left Irene with little chance as captain and almost always being sent to walk the plank for insubordination or mutiny. The sea being a particularly deep puddle outside her family's home after it rained.

A young Irene had mused that Ruth would be an enjoyable role to play one day, teaming up with the Pirate King and dressed in such a fun costume. Then, it was just two seasons ago that she was casted as Ruth and Irene could not help but think about how this meant she had the appearance to match a foolish old woman.

She was wearing the Ruth costume now, of course The Entity picked it.

Irene rubbed the back of her head as her feet left the ground and she floated down the hall opposite of where the girl had ran, but it seemed the little imp wasn’t ready to let Irene go just yet.

“Where ya going huh?” Mary teased as she ran past Irene and ducked behind the rubble of a row of theater seats. “Is it time for your afternoon nap?”

“It seems to me you just can’t keep away darling. Not that I blame you.” Irene sneered, a wicked glint in her eye as the fingers of her left hand twitched.

Foolish.

The girl popped up to dash off when Irene lashed out. The strings tied to her fingers tightening as they wrapped around the joints of Mary’s arms and legs. The survivor gave a yelp as all feeling left her body save for the burning sensation where the strings connected.

Irene chucked, “I’m not one for heavy lifting. How about instead we take a walk?”

Survivors had dubbed her The Muse since she had once been an actress, they also all agreed her “special” ability was terrible.

Mary stuck her tongue out at Irene as her arms reached up to haul her own body onto the hook.

“My now don’t you look just picture perfect right where you are.” Irene sneered, “but this is what separates someone like you from me. You’re only fitted to be a piece of the background, a small part of a trial in which I have the starring role. Why else would there be four of you? Why else so many chances to keep the show running but for my benefit? Why else-“

“Lady! Do you ever shut up?” Mary groaned as she wiggled on the hook. “If you’re gonna just stand there and drone one like that I’m going to let the damn spider god-thing to come and get me before I die of boredom.”

Irene rolled her eyes and stalked off, trying her hardest to keep her composure. She could be patient just a little longer.

She became aware not long after that someone had rescued her but Irene could only laugh, she had decided to treat herself today after all. Something special she had brought to the trial.

In the basement she had at last found Thomas fishing a rather fancy looking med kit from a chest.

He wasn’t one for taunting, instead locking eyes with Irene for a moment and dodging the slash of her rapier. Up the stairs and backstage they went. Irene grinning like mad as she chased him room to room. Irene reached out with her puppet strings only to snag the ankle of someone else.

Thomas looked over his shoulder to see Mary tangled up in the attack. He spun on his toes, grabbing her arm and in the process felt the sting of something fusing into his elbow.

Irene seemed to almost glitch for a moment, as if overwhelmed by having two people on her strings at the same time. She doubled over, hands clamped over her head as she cried out in pain. Thomas wasting no time in pulling Mary free and shoving the med kit he had found into her arms. She gave him a quick salute of thanks as they ran in opposite directions.

When Irene recovered she was seething with fury, tearing across the stage and through the halls, downing anyone she could find.

Soon a young man wearing broken glasses found himself on his last hook. Irene noted the sounds of only three generators completed. Such strange things, loud and reminding her just slightly of the engine in her father’s Model T.

Irene found a redhead sprinting across the mezzanine when again the imp was back and jumping in the way to take the slash of Irene’s rapier.

“Didn’t your mom teach you not to run with sharp objects?” Mary taunted as she dogged another attack and looped Irene around a row of seats.  

Mary leaped over the railing only to be caught again by the swipe of the thin sword. She gave a yelp before crashing down on the stage below. Irene wasting no time in following suit.

She stood over the girl with a mad grin, listening to the whispers of the entity who had been watching the performance so far. The Muse hummed in delight as Mary’s eyes wided for just a moment, they both knew what was coming.

But then she smirked, “eh… still worth it.”

The strings lashed out again. Suspending the survivor in the air. The Muse stood before her, so much fury built up over the trial, over a lot of things. She shrieked as she slashed at her victim over and over before driving the weapon through Mary’s chest. Her dead body collapsing to the floor in a heap as The Muse turned towards the empty audience seats and took a bow.

[hollywooduniversityalumnus]

4. nothings and somethings

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Margot was never a fan of dark rides. It was quite understandable, considering her past, that she would hate twisting tracks in near-darkness, swallowed up in dimly lit scenery, and carried along in jerky carts past fantasy backdrops and jolting creature animatronics, as if the glossy-painted bunnies and bears would distract her from what lurked just beyond the backdrops. On her first and only trip to Disneyland, she’d staunchly refused to squeeze into a Peter Pan flight carriage. Instead, Miss Peaches paid for an overpriced ice cream that melted quickly under the sweltering sun that Margot refused to take refuge from. After all that time waiting in the dark for someone who would never return, she made a point to surround herself with light.

So, of course, Bianca lured her into the Riding Hood ride at Fairy Kingdom. The formal was well underway, and Lisa’s concert was due to begin at any moment, but the celebutante - and daughter of the most manipulative man Margot had ever met – knew how to get her away from the spotlight.

Without one of her borrowed designer heels to complete her outfit, Margot had no other choice but to retrieve it. Even if it meant doing what she couldn’t bring herself to do before.

“See you never,” Bianca said saccharinely, slapping the ‘start’ button at the operator’s booth with a flourish.

A garishly painted car with Squeaky the Squirrel – and her very expensive, borrowed-from-the-designer pure white G. Lass shoe – lurched forward, slipping through the large archway into darkness. Margot squinted, but couldn’t make out any shapes through the arch.

Bianca blew a sarcastic kiss as she flounced away.

A red-and-white checkered car flanking a particularly terrifying bust of Madame Wolfe on the hood appeared on the tracks, squealing to a stop by the booth. Margot slipped into the final seat of the car, just as it too lurched forward and made its way through the archway.

She was quickly engulfed in the pitch-black. She stilled, her hands gripping the safety bar in front of her. No sound at all; Bianca must’ve done the bare minimum to get the ride moving, and so the music and whatever else that had to be activated separately were not in operation.

Or something like that. Margot wasn’t well versed in . . . well, many things, but certainly not amusement park ride operations.

Margot took a deep breath, then another, trying her hardest not to simply sink down into the seat and begin her panic-chant. That would do her no good right now, especially since she wouldn’t believe it anyway.

No one was here. She was all alone. All alone in the dark, in this stupid ride designed for children that brought her right back to that barren hovel, that bare mattress scratchy against her cheek-

The ride dropped, and Margot leaned forward to wrap most of her arms around the safety bar as she waited for the car to level.

This, she thought, this is why I stayed outside all those years ago.

The car squealed beneath her as it continued moving through the dark. She felt the car ride a large turn, and then squeezed her eyes shut in preparation as an archway with a world bursting with light and sound and colours beyond it came into view.

Through the fake forest filled with candy colours and whirring Woodland Warriors with glassy eyes and jerky motions, she saw up ahead the car with Squeaky and the shoe. Despite her eyes watering from the sudden shift into light, she leapt out of the car and dashed through the fake forest, dodging branches and tiny animatronics donning “wooden” armor and weaponry. Cutting through a curve, Margot made it to the other side of the track just as the car with the shoe maneuvered around a nearby curve.

Stepping onto the car, she maneuvered her way through the rows. Finding the G. Lass heel, she slipped her foot back into it before collapsing into the seat behind her, exhausted from the effort of the chase.

It would take two other rooms – an admittedly riveting battle scene and the resulting Woodland Warrior celebration – before the car reappeared before the gaudy castle backdrop and operator’s booth at the loading dock. In that time, Margot conceded; the critters had kind-of realistic fur, and the backdrops were detailed enough to distract her through the rest of the ride.

But the cheesy nursery rhyme-y celebratory song the animatronics twisted to? Yeah, that was going to be stuck in her head forever now.

Yet another reason to despise Bianca.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Margot emerged from the Riding Hood ride sweaty and messy-haired. She prayed silently that the paparazzi snapping photos all evening had gotten distracted by another attendee, so the chances of May Gordon or another vulture reporter getting a shot of her looking disheveled were very low. She was a Penn Cattrall-approved actress now. Negative press might make him change his mind before they’d even sent her the script, and she didn’t want to lose such an amazing opportunity.

She followed a narrow stone-paved pathway that seemed to head towards the castle. In the distance, she could hear Lisa’s concert raging, the head-thrashing song she’d helped write threatening to shake the leaves off the surrounding trees. What had started as light rain quickly gained heft and speed, and Margot hugged herself as she took step by shivering step towards the brightly lit castle that seemed to glow beneath the star-speckled sky.

“S-so c-cold-”

Margot stopped short. A turn in the path had revealed that she wasn’t alone on it; a dark-haired man in a suit stood beneath an umbrella, gripping the handle with one hand while lazily scrolling on his phone with the other.

Thunder crashes across the sky, like a shout from the heavens, and he glanced up, starting when he saw her staring back at him.

She reckoned she must’ve been a sight to him: inky hair plastered to the sides of her face, makeup running down her face, her silver-blue dress dampened by the rapid rainfall. Of course, she assumed she looked awful. No setting spray in the world could withstand such a downpour, or at least not the one she used.

Meanwhile, he looked as put together as usual. His all-black suit was pristine, and if it weren’t for the furrowed brow and ever-present scowl on his face, she might’ve assumed he worked at the amusement park, or at least for the event that night.

“P-Professor,” she said.

His voice was hesitant, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Is - Are you all right, Miss Schuyler?”

She shrugged.

Thunder rolled over them again, making her jump.

Professor Hunt quickly made his way over to her and held his umbrella above them, offering reprieve from the sheets of rain that somehow wasn’t dampening the energy of Lisa’s concert crowd, if the shouts and screaming to the thumping music were anything to go by.

When her heart stopped pounding so loudly, and she started to feel a little less like a drowned rat, she chanced a look at him. His focus was back on his phone, though he was not scrolling, and appeared to be frowning at the screen.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice barely audible above the rain.

He didn’t take his eyes off his screen. “It’s nothing.”

She shook her head indignantly, dispelling drops of rainwater onto his suit. He wisely didn’t say anything about it, choosing instead to focus on her face as she replied.

“It’s not nothing. It’s you being nice. Maybe that means nothing to you, but it means something to me.”

“I would do this for any student caught in the rain,” he said blandly.\

“But I’m not just ‘any student.’” She dared to look him right in the eye. “You’ve driven me back to my dorm before. You’ve been stuck with me on a movie set. You’ve danced with me publicly-”

“-While disguised,” he hissed.

Margot rolled her eyes. “There’s something here, between us. Please don’t tell me you don’t know what it is.”

His voice was flat. “An umbrella.”

“Thomas.”

“Miss Schuyler-”

Another boom of thunder, and that one seemed to do the trick; from their position on the pathway, they could feel the rumble of running feet hurrying towards the shelter of the castle, the chatter of the crowd carrying over the bushes and trees that separated them from the pair huddled beneath an umbrella.

“My shoes!”

“Ugh, it took me two hours to get my hair done.”

“That Lisa Mermaid girl better not win the ‘One to Watch’ tonight. We’ve already watched her! She can’t possibly qualify.”

“I bet it’ll be that girl dressed up like a Neopets faerie. Niche much?”

“I thought she was Thumbelina.”

From beside her, Margot felt more than heard his deep sigh.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

It was a safer topic than what they were just discussing, and she could tell he was grateful for the switch. He stood a little taller, lifting the umbrella slightly so he can take a better look at the bustling crowd from their hiding spot.

“Despite, or perhaps because of, the University’s best efforts, this Fairy Kingdom Formal is quite possibly the most ridiculous event of the year. The media circus is out in full-force, and even students who’ve yet to make a name for themselves are acting like fools to catch their attention. Look around. Who among them deserves to be named someone to watch in the industry? Queen Titania? Ursula? Jack the Giant Slayer?” He squinted, perplexed, at one of the costumes. “Is that . . . the old woman who lived in the shoe? Who – or what – is that?”

Margot suppressed a giggle. “But look, you’re here too, right? Doesn’t that make you part of the problem?”

He peered down at her, thick eyebrows knitting together. “I . . . fair point.”

They stood in silence for another minute before she nudged him with her elbow and gestured for him to lean down.

Cupping a hand around his ear, she whispered, “You want to know what I think?”

Despite himself, he nodded.

Her voice was airy, reminiscent. “Everyone here wants to be something, but not everyone here will succeed.”

As she pulled away from him, he reached up to her cupped hand and took a surprisingly gentle hold of her wrist. She froze, eyes stuck on where his skin touched hers, and she wondered if he felt the same shockwave she did.

“Is that right?” he drawled.

She nodded.

“Aren’t you part of that problem, then? You clearly want to be seen as something by being here, all dressed up and looking every bit the damsel in distress. Though the shoes definitely are a . . . statement.”

He nodded at her shoes, and she felt herself blush at the realization that he’d noticed the G. Lass heels that hugged her feet like a second skin.

“You know I’m no damsel in distress.”

“So you were walking in the rain for fun?”

She shook her head at him, ready to retort, when she heard the chimes of the castle clock. Looking down at her shoes once more, she silently counted the chimes in her head.

Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . . oh, no!

Margot’s eyes widened as the chimes for midnight began. Feeling her pulse quicken beneath his fingertips, Hunt dropped the wrist he had forgotten he was holding and raised an eyebrow.

“What’s wrong, Margot?” he asked.

She was embarrassed to be on the verge of tears. “I’m too late. I’m supposed to have these shoes back to Ethan before midnight. I’m not even sure where Ethan is right now, and the shoes are all covered in mud, and I can’t get negative press right now-”

“Hey.” He moved to stand in front of her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Breathe.”

Though she took a deep breath, she still rattled on. “But Ethan will get in trouble with the G. Lass! They told him that the shoes had to be back by midnight or else, and I don’t even know what ‘or else’ means to them!”

“G. Lass?” Hunt cocked his head to the side, as if listening intently. “The shoe designer?”

“No, the baker,” Margot snapped. “Of course, the shoe designer.”

And, in one perfectly fluid motion that startled Margot, Hunt reached up and pulled the umbrella closed before stepping to her side and offering his arm to her. Shocked at both the disappearance of the pounding rainfall and his sudden gesture, she hesitated to make a move.

“I’m certain Mister Blake will be waiting at the front entrance for you,” Hunt said calmly. “Furthermore, it’s getting late. I’d like to make sure you get there without any further delays.”

And, though she was confused by the sudden shift in topic and demeanor, she placed a hand upon his offered arm and matched his pace on the pathway to the castle.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

For a moment, Margot saw Ethan waiting by the limousine, forehead creased in worry and visible from far away.

And then her line of sight was overtaken by flashing lights and shouts that sounded both right beside her ear and far off in the distance. Blinking rapidly, she turned her head to look up at her professor, who steadfastly directed her to her agent and idling limo with a tense jaw and determined stare forward. More lights flashed; she squinted towards them to find that they were slowly being mobbed by paparazzi.

“Looks like they found you,” she said quietly.

Though his face was practically set in stone, his voice was sardonic. “Actually, it looks like they’ve found you. I overheard a few of them earlier . . . you’ve been the ‘One to Watch’ the moment you showed up.”

Startled, she glanced around them, her expression seemingly opening her up to the descending vultures. Reporters began to shout at her, from compliments to questions about the inspiration behind her costume, but she simply stared forward and strained her ears to hear Hunt mutter beside her.

“Even though that means literally nothing.”

And though the reporters and the camera flashes felt overwhelming, and the wrinkles on Ethan’s forehead seemed to deepen as she and Hunt reached the limo with the horde tailing after them, she felt a genuine smile play at her lips.

Ethan admonished, “Margot, the shoes-”

Hunt cleared his throat. “Mister Blake. Tell G. Lass upon returning the shoes that they never specified which midnight they were to be returned by.” At the young agent’s confused stare, he added, “I don’t question the idiosyncrasies of such an eclectic designer. But I do know how to work with them, and I have before. It’s an easy loophole to exploit. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got my own car to get to, and these photographers are tap-dancing on my last nerve.”

Ethan ushered Margot into the limo, sliding in to sit beside Addison and a shockingly sleepy Lisa. And then, just before Hunt closed the door for them, Margot caught his gaze.

“Thank you, Professor.” She hoped the small smile she gave him conveyed her gratitude. She punctuated it with a small wave, instantly feeling dorky at the gesture.

A corner of his mouth pulled up as he gave her a short nod in acknowledgement.

Then he was gone.

As the limo headed back to the school dorms, Margot leaned back into the buttery leather of the seats, her mind replaying that short nod and smile while her friends gossiped beside her.

[fanatic1997]

Agent 6 [1]

Summary: You wanted out of the CIA. The only thing, or better yet, person standing between you and your freedom was the CIA’s most wanted man and London’s youngest business mongrel. All of your colleagues had stayed clear of this mission but you had no choice, you had to kill Tom Holland.

Pairings: Tom Holland x Reader

Warnings: some adult language

Word Count: 3,265

Part 1 out 2 maybe 3

I promised this weeks ago. I’m sorry about the late upload but I’ve been experiencing a bit of a block. Also pics are not mine. 

Part 1

“Mum, really. I have enough on my plate tonight,” Tom ran a hand through his hair frustrated. He looked down at the list his mother had drawn up of eligible women that would be in attendance tonight.  

Nicola Holland was persistent. “Promise me you will at least make an attempt at a conversation with some of these women,” Nicola’s tone was final. She wasn’t asking. “I want grandkids Thomas, maybe they won’t ignore me like my children like to do.” The matron shuttered and Tom rolled his eyes. His mother could be quiet dramatic sometimes but he had no other option but to agree to his mother’s requests.

Tom nodded reluctantly at his mother and his mother smiled hugely. “You look dashing tonight Thomas, I’m sure I’ll have my grandbabies by the end of the year.” Nicola adjusted Tom’s tie before kissing him on the cheek and leaving his study. She still had some preparations left for the gala tonight.

Tom looked down at the list of names. He recognized one of your alias’ immediately and he grimaced. So the anonymous tip he had received was right. He hadn’t mentioned it to anybody else. All he had done was tighten up his security.

His growing anticipation made him wonder if that would be enough. But it wouldn’t be the first attempt on his life and he couldn’t bring himself to worry his mother, not when she was finally returning to her old self from before his father had passed away.

_____________

You bit your cheek slightly watching the guard at the gate run your invite. It was almost cynical how nervous you were now on your last mission when you had trained countlessly to wipe out all emotions.

You knew it was going to be a stiff price to pay for you to get out. But you would never have expected for your boss to ask for the impossible.

Your ticket out was Tom Holland, London’s youngest CEO and the CIA’s most wanted.

You weren’t even sure what had secured the young tycoon the lucrative spot. That had been classified, even to his assassin.

Your agency had secured an invite to the Holland’s annual auction on behalf of Tom’s birthday. It was to be a ball for England’s upper crust.

Your months of training, of preparing and running through different scenarios had all come down to a single night, a small, three-hour window.

After the guard at the gate handed your chauffer back the invite, the massive gates to the Holland estate opened to allow your limo entrance. You counted the minutes that it took for the chauffer to drive up the large mansion, estimating a rough mile from the gates to the oversized home. You should be able run that in about 6 minutes, factoring in the night’s crisp air into your calculations. You stored that information away, adding to your plan B if things went south.

When your chauffer pulled up to the entrance, you waited for him to walk around and open your door. Meanwhile, you scanned the building in front of you, taking in the security measures that had been put in place. You internally groaned at the sheer amount of guards positioned 10 meters apart from each other around the building and on the rooftop. “Lets hope we don’t have fireworks tonight,” you grumble under your breath.

When your chauffer reached your door and slid it open, youquickly wipe away any emotion on your face. You took your chauffer’s hand and allowed him to help you out. It was a particularly cool night and the fur coat you had on was more for show than for actual warmth. You looked around seeing more people getting out limos, all dressed in top dollar outfits no doubt. The dress you wore was from evidence, no doubt seized from an asset forfeiture from an heiress in a CIA raid.

By the time you entered the ballroom, the party was in full swing. Waiters passed with hors d’oeuvres and wine.

You could feel quiet a few pair of eyes staring in your direction as you floated throughout the party to count the exits and the amount of guards. It wasn’t unusual at lucrative events like these for people to stare at any new comer; they were all trying to figure out what heiress you were or what millionaire you were accompanying.

As far as you could tell, the guard posted at the western exit was new. He was shifty and looked all too paranoid, keeping a hand on his gun at all times. He was smaller too so he would make a good exit strategy for Plan C.

You grimaced when you noticed a familiar KGB agent in the making her rounds of the room as well. She hadn’t seen you but you would recognize her anywhere. You weren’t surprised, Tom was sure to be a wanted man in multiple countries seeing how he was already a wanted man in the US, foreign soil to London. This was also the exact reason nobody at the compound had wanted to take on this particular mission.

You noticed a blonde head chatting up a pretty girl in a corner of the ballroom. You had studied Tom’s best mate for months now and you could spot him in a crowd. Harrison Osterfield would bring you close enough to Tom to lay your poison.

You adjusted your wig. Your contacts irritated your eyes but you needed them. Your whole appearance mocked all the women that Harrison loved to carry on his arm. The color of your dress, the risqué cut of your dress and even the very perfume you wore was all to lure in Harrison.

You had done your homework right because after you brushed past Harrison and his bird to get to the bar, his eyes had landed on you. You had recognized the pretty face of the Czech agent and you bit your cheek hard seeing her recognize your face as well. She was a B level spy with hardly enough experience to really pose as a threat to you. So you ignored her and continued on your path to the bar, sashaying your hips a little more to ensure Harrison’s attention.

Through the reflection of your wine glass, you spotted Harrison approaching you slowly. You smiled to yourself, he had taken the bait.  

“I make it my personal mission to know all the pretty girls attending the party. And you happen to be the only one I don’t know,” Harrison’s voice was flirtatious and would have probably made any other girl swoon on her feet.

You laid on your most charming smile. You unabashedly roamed your eyes over Harrison’s fit physique. When your eyes landed back on him, Harrison threw you a wide smirk. “Like what you see darling?” he asked.

“Maybe, but I might be more willing to share my opinion after a drink,” you raised an eyebrow and Harrison only smiled. He turned to grab the bartender’s attention. Of course the bar was an open bar, the Holland’s would never charge their guests. However, they would reduce the selection of wines to certain guests.

“She’s with me, please get the lady a glass of our top shelf selection,” Harrison nodded to the bartender that immediately filled your glass with a much pricier wine. You felt Harrison slide a hand to the small of your back that happened to be bare thanks to the cut of your dress. You resisted your urge to grimace.

Don’t get me wrong, Harrison was definitely handsome, and under any other circumstance, you would take advantage of this perk of the job but you tried to not make it habit to mix business with pleasure.

“Thank you Mr. …” you smiled, taking a sip of your drink, gesturing for him to introduce himself.

“Osterfield, Harrison Osterfield. You can call me Haz. It’s a pleasure to meet you Ms. …” Harrison took a hold of your hand and placed a chaste kiss on your fingers before looking up expectantly waiting for you to reply.

You gave Harrison your alias for the night and he smiled brightly at you. He was quiet the charmer.

Unbeknownst to you, a pair of brown orbs followed your and Harrison’s movements. You had caught his attention the moment you had walked in. He had read your file and he had memorized your face already. He knew you were going to be attending the ball tonight, he had been warned. You were pretty in the pictures but they hadn’t quiet captured how breathtaking you really were. What a shame.

He had nudged Harrison in your direction when you had first strutted into the ballroom. He had meant for Harrison to keep an eye on you, willingly or not. A single person was slippery but a couple would be easily spotted. And Harrison was doing a bang up job chatting you up. Harrison, of course, thought you and Tom would be lovely together.

The last couple of months he had set up Tom with multiple women of his own choosing. All in the name of Nicola Holland who had tasked Harrison with the job of getting her son hitched; well not hitched per se, but settled down and producing babies for her to spoil. Nicola was an open minded woman, grandkids didn’t necessarily have to be paired with marriage and Harrison had only chuckled when she had stated this modern opinion.

Harrison loved Nicola like a mother and when she had asked him to help her son, he couldn’t exactly say no. No matter how annoyed his best mate would become.

Harrison had offered you his arm after your drink and he had every intention of sliding you up with Tom and returning to his date that waited for him in the corner of the room. In the process, he made a show of showing you around the room, introducing you to guests in order for you to not be suspicious when he introduced you to his single mate, Tom.

However, he didn’t anticipate to be pleasantly surprised by your wit or your impeccable knowledge of artwork and artifacts that littered the Holland ballroom. Nor did he anticipate for you to hit it off so well with some of his diplomatic friends. He had slid his arm around your waist almost possessively when some of the business men gawked at you or made lewd comments. And all he could think about now was forgetting his promise to Nicola and instead, dancing with you because he wanted you for himself. He had never thought to settle down but he couldn’t think of you as one of his many one night stands either.

Harrison was in trouble and you recognized the emotion swirling in his eyes and you planned on absolutely exploiting it.

Before he could ask you to dance with him, a voice interrupted the both of you. “Mind if I ask your charming date for a dance?” You didn’t miss the slight tensing of Harrison’s jaw before you turned to meet the chocolate orbs of the all too familiar face.

The same face you’ve been researching for months. The reason for this mission. Your ticket out.

Tom Holland was asking to dance with you.

“Sadly, she’s not my date,” Harrison took a sip of his drink and as much as he wanted to hide his disappointment for the interruption, you recognized the emotion in his eyes.

It was your job to read people after all. He was basically leaving it up to you if you wanted to accept Tom’s proposal.

You turned to look at the handsome brunette. His expensive suit fit him like a glove which accentuated his fit physique much like Harrison’s.

You accepted Tom’s outstretched hand and smiled, “How can I say no to the birthday boy,” you smiled, not missing the grimace on Harrison’s face.

Tom hadn’t paid much attention to his best mate’s reaction. In actuality, he wanted to get his assigned assassin far away from his best friend as possible.  

Tom lead you to the middle of the ballroom. He then wrapped his arm around your waist and laid his hand between your shoulder’s, much higher than where Harrison had placed his hand earlier. It was still skin to skin contact much to your chagrin. He took your other hand in his while you rested your free hand on his shoulder.

“I think a Happy Birthday is in order,” you looked up to Tom, trying to string up a conversation.

Tom’s eyes sparkled, “thank you. I think I’m spending my birthday pretty well, dancing with a beautiful woman that has already charmed my best mate,” Tom whispered into your ear. You smiled tight lipped, not really understanding where this was going.

Tom spun you effortlessly and that’s when you recognized a familiar face across the room. And the German assassin was staring back at you. You tried to keep your surprise at bay but your mind was firing thoughts a mile of a minute. You had only met with this particular BND agent a few times before and they were never pleasant experiences. If the bullet wound in your shoulder was any indication. Of course, she had a bullet wound on her hip to rival yours.

There was only one reason she was here and you swallowed thickly. This was going to complicate your mission.

“So tell me, how did you manage to get your hands on The Macallan,” Tom raised an eyebrow questioningly.

The gift you had brought to auction off on behalf of Tom’s birthday was definitely a lucrative item. You had meant to get his attention and you had researched Tom’s fascination of whiskeys and bourbons. Stealing the bottle was street level work, nothing too difficult to attain from a museum with basic level security measures.

“It was willed to me by my grandfather,” you say simply and you shiver as you feel Tom’s chest vibrate with laughter.

“I’ve seen a bottle identical to it in a museum in Scotland, so tell me again how you managed to attain it,” Tom raised an eyebrow challengingly before pulling you in closer.

You felt your heart pick up for a second but you only smiled. “I can promise you that I am the rightful owner, if the museum wants to honor that or not, that’s not my problem. Maybe they should tighten up security,” you smile coyly and you can see an impressed smile form on Tom’s lips with your answer. It’s not exactly a lie, you were the rightful owner, just not this alias.

“Well I don’t think we will be auctioning off stolen merchandise but it will make a great addition to my personal malt collection,” Tom smirked.

“And maybe I should tighten security here as well,” he added as an after thought. He had whispered this into your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

“Trust me Mr. Holland, I’m not here to steal anything,” you say honestly and Tom’s eyes flash with an emotion you recognize as suspicion.

Your gut rushes with paranoia. It was a bit odd how smoothly things were heading. In all your missions, you had never tried to make direct contact with the target. You were being brazen and you weren’t sure yet if this was going to bite you in the ass later.

The music picked up to a melody you recognized as a tango. You were just about to step away from Tom, your one dance was over but he tightened his hold on you more firmly, “I would think a woman of your pedigree would know how to tango,” Tom raised an eyebrow challengingly.

He had seen his mother eyeing the two of you from across the room. And he was not surprised in the least when the music started to play. It was his mother meddling by requesting the obvious change in genre of music.

Nicola Holland would be damned if she missed the only opportunity she had to pair off her eldest son. She had seen how close the two of you were and you were the only woman he had asked to dance all night.  

You took the challenge and slid your arm to around his neck and straightened your arm to fit the dance.

Tom was a great dancer and you matched his moves perfectly. You two weren’t the only ones on the dance floor but nobody had tried the challenging moves the two of you were expertly pulling off. The sensual dance had aroused lots of attention and you knew this meant this alias was burned. But this was your in and you knew it.

Tom roamed his hands expertly down the curve of your bare back and dipped you smoothly. You hitched a leg over his back to catch yourself even though Tom’s strong hold supported you, it was just insurance.

You didn’t miss the pair of blue eyes that stared intently at you and Tom, seeing them from your dipped position. Harrison had watched you and Tom flirt shamelessly during the whole dance.  

You weren’t his date but he still had to fight the raging jealousy that had pitted into his gut.  

“I’m impressed Mrs. y/l/n” Tom breathed heavily after finishing the dance. He held you close and you heard an applause erupt from the crowd, (no doubt initiated by the Matriarch of the Holland’s). Tom only smiled, holding eye contact with you.

“I don’t remember telling you my name,” you quirked your head to the side, giving Tom a smirk.

“Harrison isn’t the only one who keeps track of all the beautiful women attending the auction,” Tom smiled cheekily before leaning into you.

“Meet me in my study, I would like a moment alone away from all the staring eyes,” Tom whispers into your ear. You see Tom looking in Harrison’s direction who had yet to take his eyes off the pair of you.

You only nodded and Tom called for a guard to show you to his study. This was your chance. You looked over your shoulder to see the German assassin make a bee line for the door. You tracked her movements before looking around the rest of the room and you noticed a few more competitors from across the world eyeing you back. You bit your cheek. You weren’t the only one here for Tom and you would be damned if they got to him before you cashed in your ticket to freedom.

___________

You knew you should have ran after pouring the poison into Tom’s bourbon. Nothing would have prepared you for this.

You were currently staring down at a list of all your alias’ from across the world. All alias’ you had employed since you first started at the CIA.

You were burned. And the list sat completely open on Tom Holland’s desktop. He knew you were coming and now you could distinctly here the rapid footsteps of bodyguards approaching Tom’s study where you were currently standing in. You had wasted too much time scrolling through all the CIA files on you.

This whole mission was a set up. You should have seen all the red flags; things had gone too smoothly.

You unstrapped the gun from the inside of your thigh. You had one more thing you could leverage.

Call it a wild hunch, but the number of assassins waiting for you to fail, biting their time to kill Tom was your leverage.

They wouldn’t try anything with you, which was also the reason they hadn’t interfered yet.

____________________

@imnotuglyimjustpredebut @fandom-princess-stuff @casualprincess77 @mayakblack

[writingsbychlo]

Can we talk about tommy's look? The way it changes instantly when he sees you in his favorite red dress, when you tease him or when you softly whisper his name. How his eyes change from the sweet brown honeycomb color to a darker brown eye color like a shade of dark cholocate and has this smirk that changes the way he looks from an innocent boy to a bad/fuck boy.

Thomas has the softest face. especially when he’s happy, and how can he not always be happy now? the relief of not having to run for his life every minute of every day? but when he shifts from his normally happy self to the version of him that wants to pin you to the nearest surface and fuck you until you’re shaking, you can literally see the change. 

you first noticed when Brenda came rushing up to you one day, at lunch. she was clutching a handful of red floral material and had a wide smile on her face as she skidded to a halt at the table you had all been sat at. she said she’d found a sundress that had reminded her of you, and she knew you’d love it, so she’d brought it back for you. she was absolutely right, you fucking loved it. and so did thomas. you weren’t quite sure what it was about the dress, but it drove him insane.

you had offered to change into it then and there, dashing off to slip it on as she waited excitedly to see, as did everyone else. maybe it was the fact that it was slightly low cut, and so you’d opted to go braless. maybe it was that the material was thin and floaty, so when it got colder at night, he could see your nipples through the material, or maybe it was the shorter material that hung around your thighs delicately. his smile had dropped almost instantly as you had rounded the corner to show them all, and for a second you had worried it didn’t look good, but when the cheekiest smirk you had ever seen took its place, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at you through his lashes, you could practically see the though spinning through his mind.

after that, you couldn’t help but notice the look. he’d get it anytime you sat in his lap, or when you teased him, which you particularly liked to do. the way his eyes would darken as he unashamedly watched you bend over to grab things from shelves, or stretched to reach things above your head as your skirt or shorts rode up your thighs. he got that look anytime you kissed his jaw or his neck, even if it was innocent. if you whispered his ear, or looked at him a certain way, his eyes would darken and sparkle, his lips twisting into that same smirk. 

that look was tommy’s “you’re going to get fucked so good later that you wont walk for a week” look.

[hamilton-one-shots]

Hamilton High School AU 25

Once they arrived at the shop, they found that all of the lights were still on, though the sign said closed, and music was blaring from the inside.

"She's home, alright," Hercules chuckled. He lead Lafayette to the door and opened it, the music blasting out of the door.

His parents were dancing along through the clothing racks, spinning and bouncing. They may not have been the most skilled dancers, but it was sweet watching the pair act like lovestruck teens.

"Hey!" Hercules shouted multiple times, trying to get their attention. Eventually, he simply resorted to shutting off their music.

"You're no fun," Hugh grumbled, though Sarah was more than happy to stop the fun if it meant seeing her son again.

She dashed over and pulled him into a bone crushing hug. "My baby boy! I've missed you so much!"

"I've missed you too, ma!" Herc wheezed out as she let him go.

She took his face and inspected it from very angle while bombarding him with questions. "Have you been eating well? Changing your clothes everyday? Changing your under-"

"Yes! Ma, I've progressed into adulthood. I can make sure I don't die," he interrupted, though the smile on his face said that he didn't mind the embarrassment. Yet.

Sarah nodded and turned to Lafayette with a wide grin, pulling him into a similar hug. "And you, Laffy Taffy, it's been too long!" She let go and held his shoulders, taking him in. "You have not changed a bit! You look lovely in a skirt! Is Herky treating you well? Is he making sure you're spoiled?"

Lafayette chuckled and nodded. "Don't worry, he's spoiling me. He won't let me stop him."

"I'm so glad to hear that! Now you keep him in line, now. If he gets out of line, you have my permission to hi-"

"Mom! Please! I'm doing my best to be a good boyfriend, I swear!"

Of course, Sarah didn't mean everything she said, she was just going out of her way to embarrass her son, and succeeding. "That I don't doubt."

"I'll hit him, if you want," Hugh piped up, pulling his son into a headlock.

"Hush, Hugh. Leave the poor boy alone." She turned back to Lafayette. "You two must be starving. The table's already set up. I'll join you two in a bit."

He nodded and pulled Herc out of his father's grip and into the kitchen. "I forgot how much I love your mom."

Hercules sighed and sat with Lafayette. "I'll always be five in her eyes. But, I was right, she adores you." He kissed Lafayette's cheek and held his hand. "You know, back in Ireland, nobody used to believe she was my mom until parents' night. It was fun watching their reactions when they realized I wasn't lying," he chuckled. The shop may have been small there, but in Ireland, the name "'Baire Mulligan ❤️'" was common in Ireland, particularly among teen girls and younger women.

Sarah danced into the kitchen, Hugh following close behind with a bright red face.

"Miss ma, dad?"

"Hush, you." He sat at the table as Sarah placed their plates before sitting at her own seat.

"Oh, you boys," she rolled her eyes. "Now, I want to hear everything. How's your brother, Taffy?"

Lafayette smiled. "He's doing great. He just started dating John last week. They're more than happy together."

"Is that so? I was going to ask how little Jackie was. Lord knows he needs a reason to smile more."

"Mom," Hercules chided softly. "John's fine..."

"Oh, hush. The poor boy hardly smiled last time I saw him. He needs something positive in his life. And Ally's no doubt a good force for him," she smiled warmly. She meant well, but the fact that Hercules and Lafayette knew exactly why he needed that change made things a bit awkward. Thankfully, she dropped the topic. "You know, Taffy, I brought a few new designs home from Belfast, if you'd like to try them on."

That helped Hercules perk up a bit. "You know Laf looks good in everything he wears."

"Your designs look good on him, Herc. You know, you don't give yourself enough credit, especially when it comes to Laf," Hugh piped in.

"Oh, come on.. You know I'm not meant for the stage," he chuckled awkwardly.

"Oh, hush, Herky. The designer is just as important as the model."

Lafayette nodded. "What would a model be without the clothes that they show off? It's in the name."

Hercules's shy nature caused him to smile shyly at his boyfriend's reassurance, but Sarah smiled widely.

"I couldn't agree more, Taffy. I would love to see you in the things that my baby designs for you. Maybe I can try a few myself."

"It is my lucky night!" Hugh smiled.

Hercules rolled his eyes. "Settle down, Casanova."

"You're one to talk. I've seen some of your texts with Laf, all of your "I love you"s."

Sarah chuckled. "Aw, Herky, you're a romantic just like me. Now, don't think you're exempt."

"Say what? No, no, that's not for-"

"Oh, nonsense, you used to love dressing up when you were little. Where's that photoalbum?" She rose to her feet as she finished eating and came back with a dusty album, wiping it off before sitting beside Lafayette, who looked more than eager to see it's contents.

Hercules rose to his feet and began washing dishes with his father, trying to avoid the embarrassment to come.

The first few pictures show Hercules as a newborn cradled in Sarah's arms. "Oh, look at him... He was so precious. He was a miracle."

"You mean a surprise," Hercules piped in.

"I mean a miracle. A pleasant surprise. He was such a stunner. His cheeky smile hasn't changed a bit."

A few pictures later showed infant Hercules in a teddy bear onesie and various other costumes.

"Oh, he was so adorable," Laf cooed.

"He was! And he knew it. Just look at that smile."

Hercules's groaning was audible from the kitchen sink.

"Oh, you stop that! Look! Here you are making your first outfit."

He shook his head. "That left much to be desired.."

"I think it's cute. Not everyone is a master at the beginning. Remember when I was only starting to learn English?"

Hercules chuckled. "/That/ was adorable."

"I could not communicate with you. It was dreadful. We're not like John was with boxing."

"Yeah.. He was a master at that from the start."

Lafayette nodded.

Sarah smiled. "You all were definitely friends by fate. What are the odds that you all moved here one after another?" Of course, there was a year between each of them, as far as moving to New York, but it was fairly close. She yawned and glanced up at the clock. "Goodness, is that the time? I should be getting to bed."

"It's only 9, ma."

"Jet lag, sweetie." She rose to her feet and pulled Lafayette in for another hug, this one much more human. "It was great to see you, Taffy. You'd better come back soon."

"Of course I will." He smiled. "And I'll bring the others with me, don't worry."

"You'd better!" And she disappeared up the stairs, Hugh following her.

Hercules sighed as he walked Lafayette to the front door. "My parents are one of a kind..." He grinned deviously as Lafayette walked out of the door and grabbed his wrist, pushing him against the wall and kissing him passionately, his tongue sliding against his lips and hand in his hair. When he pulled away, he kissed Lafayette's nose. "I love you, baby.."

Lafayette, still in shock, leaned against the wall to hold up his own weight and nodded before stumbling to his car.

Hercules grinned victoriously and watched him before going inside and getting in bed.

By the time Lafayette got home, he finally regained his composure. He changed into his pajamas before texting Herc, laying with Rosie. [I see you're stealing tips from John.] [I applaud you.]

[You're more than welcome ;)] He smiled and went through the Facebook messages for the shop, reading through the requests. He tutted when he read one from Thomas Jefferson, but accepted it. [Jefferson's in the shop tomorrow. Bleugh.]

Lafayette frowned. [That sucks. Want me to come over? You know I can kick his ass if I have to.]

[Only if you're sure. You already deal with him in drama.] [I might kick his ass if he asks you to model anything, though.]

[I'll beat you to it.] [Maybe John should come, too? You know he's less hesitant about hurting him.]

[Good idea.] He switched to texting John. [Hey, Jefferson's in the shop tomorrow. Care to join? Moral support?]

John groaned, cursed by his inability to sleep through his phone's ringtone. He grabbed his phone and texted Herc back. [Yeah, sure, but what about Alex? I'm not letting him near Jefferson.]

Hercules pondered for a moment, then created a group chat labeled "Lex Protection Squad." [Herc: So, Jefferson's over tomorrow.] [Herc: John's right; we cant really have Lex and dick-for-brains in the same place.] [Herc: He's still sick though, right?]

Alexander mumbled incoherently in his sleep and buried his face into John's side as text after text beeped through.

"I'm sorry.." John muttered, silencing his phone before responding. [John: Yeah, and with your spamming, he'll stay sick, lol.]

Alexander whined. "Who are you texting this late?.." It was already almost 1 in the morning. Whether it was the sickness or sheer exhaustion, he clearly needed it.

"Just Herc. He accidentally texted me instead of Laf. Go back to sleep."

He nodded. "Yes sir.. I love you.." And like that, Alexander was out like a light.

[Herc: Oops, sorry : P] [Herc: Normally, I'd say just be honest, but...]

[Laf: We know what you mean.] He yawned and checked the time. [Laf: It is getting late. We should get to sleep.]

[Herc: Alright. Goodnight.]

[John: Night.]

In the morning, Alexander was actually the first awake for once and John was alone when he woke up, tucked in as if he were a wrapped present.

Alexander joined him a few minutes later, a toothbrush in his mouth as he sat beside John. "Hey.."

"Hey.. Why are you up already?" John asked as he wrapped his arms around Alexander's waist.

"I got sick again.." he responded as he ran his hand through John's curls.

John nodded and sat up, stretching and quickly getting ready. When he got back, Alexander showed him a new text from Jefferson.

[You can still go through with this you know. Just meet me at the back of the school at the end of the day. Agree and I'll leave John and Laf alone, baby. xx]

"He's going to be hell for you and Laf today.. I'm sorry.."

"Don't be. You know it's not your fault and Laf and I can handle him." He kissed his forehead, then went and fed Squirtle. "You won't do anything he says, right?.."

Alexander waited until John was done feeding the terrapin and turned around before holding out his pinky. "I promise not to do anything if you promise not to get involved if a fight breaks out."

John hesitated and shook his head. "I won't get involved unless I think you're getting hurt too badly."

Alexander thought it over. It wasn't unreasonable. He wasn't exactly a great fighter... He nodded and linked his pinky with John's. "I promise."

"So do I." He leaned down and pecked his lips.

Alexander smiled as he returned the kiss, then sighed. "Can't I'd just puke on Jefferson?"

John chuckled and walked out of the room with him. "If you can time it so he says something gross and you puke on him, I would love you forever."

"I'll try." He knocked on Lafayette's door. "Are you driving in this morning?"

Lafayette opened the door, pushing Rosie back inside with his foot as he finished tying up his hair. "Yes, sorry. I woke up late."

"Texting Herc at stupid o'clock," Alexander rolled his eyes and chuckled.

The three went downstairs and got a quick breakfast, small enough that even Alexander could finish it, before heading to school.

When they got there, they all headed to class together, though Lafayette wouldn't be joining them, and Alexander would've been lying if he said his sickness wasn't making him weak. He stayed glued to John's side and squeezed his arm as they saw Jefferson waiting outside of the classroom.

"Just the person I wanted to see. Did you get my text this morning?" he smirked at Alexander. "Are we doing this or what?"

Alexander shrunk down a bit and shook his head, John glaring at Jefferson and pushing Alexander behind himself defensively.

"Fine. Have it your way." And, in the blink of an eye, he grabbed John by his ponytail and yanked him forward. "Alex made me do this," he announced before throwing John to the ground, making him cry out as his nose slammed against the linoleum.

"No!" Alexander cried out as he ran to help him, Jefferson looking ready to kill him.

Lafayette grabbed Jefferson's arm and turned him around before kneeing him in his crotch and shoving him down, kicking him in the gut. "That was such a cheap shot! You are a disgrace." Before he could kick again, Jefferson scrambled to his feet, though he didn't look very willing to keep fighting.

He just glared at Alexander. "Fuck you, Hamilton," he hissed. "You're going to pay for that." He limped into class, sitting way in the back.

John sat up and took a deep breath through his nose. "I'm okay.. It just hurts.." He kissed Alexander's cheek and stood up, fixing his hair.

Any other time, Alexander would've been crying. He saw John get hurt because of him. But, instead, he was completely blank. He allowed John to lead him into class and sat in the front with him, right in Adams' line of sight as he walked in for class.

"... Alexander? ...I received a call from your father this morning saying you wouldn't be in. What are you doing here?"

"...Thomastriedtomakemehavesexwithhim."

".. Excuse me?.."

"Hesentmeabunchofabusivetextsandtriedtomakemegohomewithhim."

"...come with me, Alexander."

Alexander hesitantly pulled himself to his feet and glanced back at John one more time before heading out.

[samayla]

Impossible to Please

Written for @mythopoeticreality:  Oh and for the Dialogue prompt thing: 3. “When this is all over, I want my sanity back.” For either William of Lanchester/Thomas Dundale, or, if you'd be willing to do a more platonic relationship, Vinculus and Childermass

Thanks for the prompt! I have not yet read the Ladies of Grace Adieu in its entirety, so unfortunately I couldn’t write Lanchester/Dundale for you. Hope you enjoy a little Vinculus/Childermass silliness instead :)

Rating: G

AO3

“You cannot be serious.”

Vinculus stared blithely at Childermass’ reflection behind his shoulder in the mirror. “Why not?” he asked. He twirled, sending the tails of his new frock coat fanning out around his body. He was excessively proud of the coat, and more than a little put out that Childermass did not seem to share his appreciation of it, though looking at his companion’s plain black coat, Vinculus reflected that it might be rather rich for the man’s taste. It was rust-red velvet, and generously trimmed in silver and gold brocade at the cuffs, around the collar, and all along the tails, so that when he turned or moved, the trim flashed pleasingly in the candlelight. He felt rather like an elemental spirit, all quickness and fire, while Childermass lurked behind him, a disapproving shadow.

In the mirror, Childermass rolled his eyes. “Finish getting ready,” was all he said. No comment on the coat, or how well he thought Vinculus looked in it, or how the venerable gentlemen at the York Society of Magicians would be sure to be impressed.

“I am ready,” Vinculus answered with a flourishing bow. The candlelight flashed off his cuffs most dramatically, so he did it again.

Instead of commenting on the dashing trim of Vinculus’ new coat, Childermass asked about his new trousers.

“They’re my old trousers,” he answered. He lifted the tails of his coat out of the way so he could check the progress of the hole in the seat of them. It didn’t seem much bigger than it had the day before, and his coattails covered it admirably, and so he felt perfectly satisfied with the state of his trousers. He caught the look on Childermass’ face in the mirror, however, and felt obliged to explain himself. “These’re my lucky trousers.” At Childermass’ blank look, he continued. “Seen me to the next life and back again, didn’t they? Didn’t even mess ‘em when I was hanged. Luck like that must be respected.”

Childermass conceded that point without comment, but naturally, he proceeded at once to a new argument entirely and informed Vinculus that he must put on a shirt.

“What for?” Vinculus demanded, utterly perplexed. “I’ve just got to take it off again ten minutes into the meeting.”

Childermass answered that the other gentlemen would expect him to come fully dressed, to which Vinculus scoffed and straightened his jacket primly. If the other gentlemen were not impressed by his coat, they would not be impressed by any thing, and they could all hang, as far as Vinculus was concerned. “And there are ladies present at these meetings now,” Childermass continued. “More each month. Have you no consideration for their sensibilities?”

Vinculus waved that concern away like a pesky insect, admiring the sparking of the candlelight against his cuff again. “Lady magicians are a different breed, Childermass, as you ought to know.”

Vinculus peered around for his old hat to top off his outfit, thinking to himself how well the faded old rosette upon the brim would look with his new coat, and so he missed the peculiar little twitch of Childermass’ hands in the mirror.

“The lady magicians might well be different,” Childermass conceded, beginning to see sense at last, “but their fathers, brothers, and husbands are not. What of them?”

Vinculus granted him the point. He had plenty of experience with disgruntled male relatives, and was not particularly anxious to repeat any such encounter. “You got a shirt I can borrow?” he called after Childermass, who had turned to go, no doubt satisfied that his every little demand would now be seen to.

“What? Where is your new shirt?”

“Ain’t got one, do I?” Vinculus answered absently. “Spent the whole of my allowance on my dashing new coat.” He twirled again and watched the tails flare in the mirror. Having spotted his hat at last, he reached out to snatch it with a flourish that set his cuffs flashing once more.

But there was nothing there.

Rather, there was something there, but it was not quite his hat. It was the same size and shape as his hat, but the rosette was on the wrong side, as was the frayed patch where a donkey had bitten the brim. A horrible suspicion forming in Vinculus’ mind, he reached out to touch the hat-that-was-not-his-hat, but his fingers met only empty air.

“What have you done to my hat?” Vinculus cried, trying again to pick it up off the table. He whirled to the mirror. “It’s in there, isn’t it? You’ve swapped it with its reflection, you beast! That’s my favorite hat!”

But Childermass had gone already, presumably to fetch Vinculus a shirt.

—

“Get ready to go, Vinculus. Put on a shirt, Vinculus. Leave off the hat, Vinculus. Never ends with him, does it?” Vinculus stuffed an arm back into his coat, even its glorious trim not enough to elevate his mood any longer.

“Got to look our best, Vinculus. There’ll be ladies present, Vinculus.” He shoved his other arm into the coat and tugged it straight, cringing at the combined effect the new coat and borrowed shirt created in the mirror.

“I bend over backward to make him happy, bow to his every absurd little demand, and what does he give me? Heartache! It’s white, Vinculus. White, my tattooed arse! Heartache! With this red? Honestly!” He tugged his new, rosette-free hat onto his head without bothering to check that it was on straight. He started for the door, still fuming to himself over the oppressive, ill-humored, capricious bear of a man that was John Childermass.

“When this is all over, I want my sanity back. And my hat!”

[wingsy-keeper-of-songs]

Paper Faces

Since Halloween is coming up and I am a huge sucker for masquerades as evidenced by the huge amount of starters I wrote, I decided to write a little something with King and Paula because I am also a sucker for that ship. Paula doesn’t get enough love in the Django fandom and I want to fix that. Chronologically, Schultz is most likely somewhere in his thirties here and Paula is in her twenties or so. Also, this is what they’re dancing to. I know it doesn’t make sense in the time period, but goddamn is it fitting. Anyways, enjoy!

It would not be for the first time that Pauline Thomas was invited to a masked ball. She and all ladies of her station were invited and mostly encouraged to attend. Though she cared very little for the soiree as a whole, she did quite enjoy the selection of music and champagne that would definitely be served there. Most young ladies her age were in attendance to catch a gentleman’s eye as a future husband. Paula was there because, well, mostly it was because she was forced to. She did not enjoy the frills and lace of the gown she wore, nor did she care for the feathered mask on her face. It was of a great hinderance to her and one she planned on disposing of when she had the chance. She was dressed resplendently in cream and lily white which blended nicely with the cornsilk blonde of her hair and enhanced the lovely violet-blue of her eyes. She cut a perfectly Romantic, dashing figure and managed to catch the eye of a select few young men. She wanted nothing to do with them. She was here because she had to be, but no one said she had to enjoy it. She planned to spend the evening getting drunk off the champagne and perhaps sample the new wine that was on display as well until someone successfully caught her attention. Had it not been for his peculiar stance, he might very well have gone unnoticed by her, but for the moment, their eyes met and she recognized the lively intelligence there almost immediately. She recalled her debate with the little devil a few nights ago and it had been a perfectly heated, yet polite discussion about the state of the French monarchy and whether or not a revolution was at stake. Revolution seemed to be at hand, that much was certain. Tearing her gaze away, she headed once more for the refreshments, but again she was stopped.

             “Pardon me,” a particularly fine specimen of a gentleman had stopped her. “But I have not been able to take my eyes from you the entire evening.” Paula was not impressed. She’d heard this sort of empty flattery a hundred times before.

             “You are impressed too easily,” she replied. “I see many an attractive lady flitting about the dance floor. Perhaps you could bother one of them.” The gentleman, dressed rather elegantly as a peacock, frowned underneath his mask.

             “Begging the mademoiselle’s pardon, I was not meaning to be a bother. I was merely trying to engage in friendly conversation.” He said. Paula’s eyebrows raised under her mask.

             “I do not wish to be your friend. However, I would very much like to get acquainted with the champagne you seem to be holding me back from.” He laughed, as though he did not hear the beginning of her rather venomous statement. Or if he did, he found it charming.

             “Wit and beauty, truly a rare combination.” he said with a smile. “Pray tell me, do we know each other?”

             “I should hope not,” Paula replied under her breath. “I believe I would recall meeting such an opulent talking peacock.”

             “And I would recall meeting such a delightful angel,” he said through his smile. “But this night is reserved for anonymity, and so I shall refrain from guessing.”

             “How thoughtful of you,” Paula replied dryly.

             “Indeed. But if we are to get to know each other, might I ask the young lady for a dance?” Bold, this one was. And he certainly expected her to say yes, by the look of the predatory gleam in his eye.

             “I’m disinclined to acquiesce your request, sir.” She said. “And if you’re hard of hearing or are merely lacking in social graces, that means no thank you.” She was about to head for the tables once more when the gentleman took hold of her arm.

             “You will find, mademoiselle, that I am not a man women say no to.” He growled through a tightened smile. Paula attempted to yank her arm back, regarding him with a cold stare.

             “A gentleman, or anyone passing for a gentleman, does not touch without invitation. And I most certainly did not grant you mine. Unhand me or I will scream.” She informed him coolly. There was a tense moment between the two of them when the peacock’s smile faded and he released her arm.

             “Your commonness betrays your elegance,” he sneered. “Even a whore can wear jewels.” Paula glared at his retreating back, unwilling to let him have the last word when someone else spoke from behind her.

             “Just as a dog can wear a suit.” Paula turned her head to find that the gentleman she’d identified from across the room had come to her aid and was eying the retreating figure with great dislike. “I can’t abide terrible manners,” he said by means of explanation. “And his were certainly the worst I’ve seen.”

             “I’ve endured worse insults,” she informed him loftily. “I’ve met lords who were more ill-mannered than he was.” He gave her a sympathetic smile.

             “I expect that comes from being a highborn lady of quality.”

             “Precisely so, though apparently lady is debatable.” She turned her attention to him fully now. “What are you doing here?” His answering smile was mischievous.

             “What am I doing anywhere?” He replied. She shot him an unimpressed stare and he chuckled. “I managed an invitation through sheer luck. And perhaps I charmed the lady of the house into letting me in.” Paula stared at him impassively. Jacqueline was rather susceptible to the charms of certain men, but she liked to think Schultz had more tact than that.

             “Your costume is dashing,” she said by means of changing the subject and giving him a once-over. He glanced down at his black and gold-trimmed finery and then back at her through a winsome smile. “What were you hoping to be?”

             “A crow, or at least that’s what the tailor informed me.” He replied. “And thank you.” He gave her gown a similar glance, though his eyes lingered on the cut of her mask. “You look exceptionally lovely tonight as well. I can understand how our friend could mistake you for an angel.” Paula was grateful for her mask for the first time that night for hiding the color creeping up her neck.

             “Thank you,” she replied somewhat stiffly. She was used to empty compliments, but Schultz had a funny way of sounding incredibly sincere.

             “I hope our over-dressed friend didn’t put you off of dancing tonight,” he continued. “I would very much like at least one proper waltz with you.” Paula continued to eye the refreshment table and almost missed what he had said.

             “It seems that the champagne and I are never to be better acquainted,” she lamented. “I’m stopped at every turn to sample it.” His gaze followed hers to the table.

             “If you would permit me, I wouldn’t mind fetching it for you.” He offered. Paula blinked in surprise, but she nodded.

             “That would please me, thank you.” He inclined his head and trotted off to the refreshments and leaving Paula alone with her thoughts. She watched the dancers as gowns and coattails twirled and spun round, creating whirls of color. She swayed a little to the familiar strains of the orchestra, catching a glimpse of the man who had insulted her earlier. There was no accounting for taste in some people, she thought. Schultz returned from his errand with two glasses and a playful smile in tow. Though she would never outright admit it, Paula found herself growing rather fond of that smile and the merriment that danced in his dark eyes. He handed her the drink and raised his to her in a toast.

             “Prost,” he said through his grin. She nodded and took a sip, sighing at the taste. It was so much better than expected and very much worth the wait. “I wonder,” he began. “Does your high society teach the Viennese waltz?” Paula raised her eyebrows underneath her mask.

             “Of course we teach the waltz,” she said, lifting her chin. “I am expected to find a husband somehow and dancing is a surefire way to get to know someone.” Schultz’s eyes gleamed and Paula wondered what the little imp had in mind for her.

             “But do you know the proper way to waltz?” He inquired. “After all it was invented in Vienna.” Paula wasn’t sure if he’d meant to be insulting or not, but she definitely had a mind to show him just what kind of dance partner she was.

             “That being said, I do know how to dance.” She argued back. “And quite well, I may add.” That playful smile was back in all its mischievous glory.

             “I would very much like to see that,” he said as he offered her his hand. Paula eyed it like she would a poisonous snake and looked back up at him. “Dance with me?” He asked because a gentleman did not demand. Paula downed her glass for liquid courage and placed her hand in his.

             “Very well,” she said. “I shall teach you how to really dance.” He chuckled at the thought and the couple left for the floor, striking up a waltz position as the previous song came to a close. The orchestra started another slower, more mournful song that Paula found rather pleasing. She kept her eyes on her partner, not needing to look down at her feet as Schultz danced her around the room. For a smaller fellow, he certainly was light on his feet and he had a commanding presence that kept their little piece of the dance floor strictly to themselves. It was an attractive quality in a man, Paula thought and then wondered where that came from.

             “You carry yourself very well,” she told him as he gave her a spin.

             “As do you,” he replied. “You must have had a great teacher.”

             “She was a right old bat,” Paula grimaced at the memory. “And my partner kept stepping on my toes the entire time. It was a nightmare.” He had the good sense not to laugh at her misfortune, but she could see that he wanted to. “Where did you learn to waltz?” She asked him curiously, twirling under his arm and then back into him again.

             “As I said before, the waltz was invented in Vienna.” He said with a mysterious smile. Paula resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Schultz never seemed to want to discuss his past with anyone, and would always charmingly change the subject when it was brought up. It was, quite frankly, annoying and Paula was bursting with curiosity about her partner. He hardly revealed anything about himself, but seemed to be able to read other people in the room like one of his books.

             “Will you ever give me a straight answer, or do you prefer to keep me guessing?” Paula replied, chin lifted ever so slightly to let him know she meant business.

             “In all honesty, I prefer to keep you guessing.” He said with good humor. “It makes for a much more interesting conversation, wouldn’t you say so?”

             “A more infuriating one, you mean.” She corrected. He barked a short laugh in reply.

             “Maybe so, but a masquerade is meant to preserve the identity, is it not?” He gave her another twirl.

             “Indeed, though you seem to wear a mask even when it isn’t required. I must admit that I have a difficult time reading you.” She hated admitting that out loud. His eyes seemed to gleam in the light of the low lanterns.

             “Do I really? And does that frustrate you?” He asked with a cheeky smile.

             “To no end,” Paula replied flatly. The waltz ended on a rather harried, passionate note and Paula was a little sad to see it end. She quite enjoyed her conversations with Schultz, but she was not quite in the mood for another dance. “You dance very well,” she informed him. “Though I expected as much from a gentleman from Vienna.” He bowed to her.

             “And you make a very fine partner,” he replied sincerely. Paula didn’t bother trying to hide her smile.

             “Come, walk with me.” She said. “I think I need a bit of air. This corset is murder on my ribs.” Schultz nodded sympathetically and accompanied her outside on the terrace. “What a lovely evening,” she remarked once they were outside together. Something behind Schultz’s mask changed and his smile seemed to have softened when he looked at her.

             “A very lovely evening,” he agreed though he seemed more enraptured by her rather than the night sky. Paula felt her cheeks grow warm again and was once again thankful for her mask. They were silent a moment, tension filling the warm night air. “I had no intention of enjoying myself tonight,” she informed him after a pause. “The only reason I’m here is because my mother expects me to find a suitable husband.” He chuckled.

             “I doubt very much that the word suitable is in her vocabulary when it comes to me.” He said, having met the strict Madame Thomas beforehand. “Your mother terrifies me.”

             “As well she should,” Paula said. “Papa told me that I get my stubbornness from her side of the family. It’s why we argue so often.”

             “A pity I never got to meet your father,” Schultz said. “I believe he and I would get along quite well.”

             “You would have liked him,” Paula said with a fond smile. “He was quite fiercely anti-monarchy as well until Maman put such notions out of his head.”

             “A man after my own heart,” Schultz replied. Again, there was a moment of silence passing between them. He turned to look at her again only this time Paula caught the lingering stare.

             “You’ve been staring at me all night,” she said, giving him an accusatory stare. He smiled sheepishly.

             “My apologies, it’s just I doubt I’ve ever seen you look more beautiful than you do right now.” Paula was used to all kinds of pretty words and empty flattery, but coming from a man she could share her mind with, it seemed more sincere. His eyes gentled at the sight of her and they didn’t ever seem to roam places where they shouldn’t. Paula found herself breeching the distance between them.

             “That charm of yours is going to get you in trouble someday,” she said softly. He smiled, his eyes glancing down at her lips.

             “Perhaps so, but I believe I’m safe for now.” And very carefully, he leaned down to kiss her. Paula had been kissed before, some time ago when she was a child and in childhood love with her best friend. And she greatly treasured that timid kiss. This kiss, though. This kiss was different. Schultz kissed her with a reverence that she didn’t know he possessed. It was as if she were some secret, something otherworldly that should be cherished and protected. He was so careful and so gentle and Paula returned the kiss with the same amount of tenderness. His hands cupped her face, thumbs brushing the edge of her lacy white mask as they were led into slower, sweeter kisses where their lips barely parted before the next one started. Paula laid a hand over his, looking at him as if she just saw him for the first time. She leaned into his hands and ventured to kiss him again. She would never tell her mother about what happened on the terrace, and she would never tell her that she’d been right. She had found someone suitable, she just wasn’t looking in the right places.

[punk-in-docs]

You Were Always Mine, Chapter 11

AU Tom Hiddleston - Romantic, Historical Romance, Victorian Fic. Based off the imagine; ‘Thomas spying on you after your divorce and doing anything to get you back. Including threatening your new beau.’ credits go to the lovely ladies at Tom-Hiddleston-Imagine.Tumblr.com. Link to the imagine here…. http://tom-hiddleston-imagines.tumblr.com/post/158156795440/gif-lokihiddleston-imagine-thomas-spying-on-you Chapter number: Chapter 11 Author: Punk-in-docs 
Triggers/warnings: mentions of nursing. Injuries. Limb loss.

~

Thomas Sharpe sat alone in the Royales expensive, elegant and low lit dining room. Candlelight the colour of champagne splashed up the walls, and doused the ceiling. Silent waiters skated dextrously through the room, gliding from table to table. The rooms atmosphere is underlined by sheer elegance, and class. Baroque, golden mirrors, that seemed to ooze and drip gilding down the middle, lines each wall. Multiplying the room out on itself for what seemed like eternity.

Gold chandeliers cast soft lighting around the antique, ornate ceiling. That too was ostentatious in it’s seventeenth century extravagance. Everything was flawless. The food. The wines, the champagnes. It all promised to be luxurious and immaculately sublime.

He sat, alone, at a white, linen clothed table that was laid as flawlessly as an iced cake. Set for two, with gleaming silver cutlery, the finest china, adorned with sparkling wine glasses, crystal, glinting in the light. Like amber sherry in the firelight. It was a dinner service so fine that it could be served to royals at Buckingham palace should it need be. Though he himself admitted he wasn’t exactly the kind of gent to get along with all members of society. Tonight, he looked undoubtedly suited to this environment. Pressed black tails, black waistcoat, and a scarlet red ascot tie. His hair was neatly brushed back, and most of the curious men and women about the room were drawn to his mysterious aura, and the beauty of this elusive, dark, lovely creature.

Men wondered who he was, this abstruse, dark outsider. And women wondered what on earth an eligible, stunning, dashing man like that could possibly be doing, dining alone.

He and Vianne had an outstanding reservation this evening, to dine. She had been volunteering all afternoon at the Hospital. He had been surveying some possibilities of striking up business with a local engineering company. So their days had been separate. But he had pledged to her that their evening, most certainly would not be. If at all possible, he wished to spend the evening as entwined as was possible. He couldn’t keep his mind off what happened between them the other night.

Whenever he shut his eyes, he could smell and feel her skin under his hands. Her lips on his neck, and her small hands raking into his back. He could picture her, utterly naked, laying in bed next to him. Doused in moonlight, that red hair a copper mess and her lips all bruised from him as she lay under him. Enchanted in his hold.

He opened his eyes. Trying not to let his body grow roused at the thought as he sat there. He blinked, jolting himself back to reality. He adjusted and refolded his legs under the table, shifting his restless body. Glancing once more at pocket watch. They’d agreed to meet at eight o'clock sharp. And now it was a quarter to nine.

He watched it go from ten past, to twenty past, and then half. His eagerness to see her not fading. He could only hope the next few minutes would bring her to him. But. To no avail it would seem…

He had his eyes glued to the doors, waiting the familiar sight of her to walk through those doors at any second. Most probably flustered, and wearing that pinched expression of empathy for being so late to their dinner. His eyes diligently watch the doors. Waiting. For that red hair. That shapely figure that was wholly and uniquely her. His eyes are blessed with no such luck tonight.

He tightens his jaw. Putting his watch away before he had the displeasure of watching it tick over to nine. Sighing inwardly to himself. His eyes flicking back over to the place setting opposite. He watched her champagne fizzing and spitting in it’s glass. Probably warm by now. And he looked on with despair at the velvet jewellery box and red rose he’d sat to nestle on her placemat.

A wry, polite cough at his side alerted him to the dark coated, light of foot, waiter who’d appeared at his side as if he were not human, but rather a spectre made out of thin air.

“Will your companion be joining you to dine, sir?” Comes the enquiring sneer. Hands folded nearly behind his back. Thomas gave him a pointed stare from those piercing eyes. Letting him know his snide contestation did not go unnoticed for it’s poignant sarcasm.

“Evidently, I think by now, we both know the answer to that question…” Thomas answered him. A slight edge to his tone.

The waiter dipped his head in a formal bow. And slid away to attend another table.

He drained his own glass of lukewarm champagne. It was sweet, crisp and the tang of taking so much at a time burned acrid in his throat.

He slowly stood. Scraping the chair back. And coming to a stand. He picked up the velvet box, stroked it with his thumb, sadly, and slid it back into his pocket. He tucked his chair back in under the table. And adjusted his jacket. Smoothing his lapels, and the creases near his elbows. He looked at the docked stemmed, crimson rose on the table below.

He picked it up. And twirled it round in one hand. Feeling the brush of its silky petals ghost over his knuckles. Able to sense it’s sickly, rich fragrance.

When he detects the hefty burn of someone’s eyes boring into him, he looks up. A few tables away, a young girl, no more than ten and six years old, was watching him. Her big, innocent eyes snapping elsewhere when he joined eyesight with her. Her cheeks reddening. He could tell her age by her waif like figure that hadn’t blossomed into womanhood yet. And she still wore little blue ribbons twined in her dark hair. He felt sorry for the poor lamb. Sat in such a stuffy environment was no entertaining experience for any child. All the more potent for the unfortunate girl, as she was being ignored by both her parents. That was no way to treat a child.

He turns to leave. His pride a little sore, dejected, slightly incensed at Vianne for forgetting their engagement for dinner. He cuts through the dining room. Heading in the girls direction. A testament to how little attention her parents were paying her. That they didn’t even notice when Thomas stopped and handed her the red rose. She took it, reluctantly, still as shy as a baby fawn.

He smiled down at her, before nodding kindly and in a gentlemanly manner, before he moved away. Out of the expensive, elegant atmosphere. Away and off into that London night.

~

Usually the wards at night were quiet. Only the sounds of coughs and snores to be heard, and the gentle footsteps of careful nurses, gliding from bed to bed, with oil lamps, to check dutifully on their sleeping patients.

Tonight was no such night…

This evening, the wards were lively. Invigorated by the catastrophe that had all medical hands to be spared on board. Everywhere was chaos. Chaos, blood, burns and bandages. It was all a blur. Shouts and groans of agony. People crying out for their mothers, wives or doctors. The three people whom beheld the highest degrees of comfort, safety and escape from the pain. Her evening thus far was a blur of fractures, deep wounds and sutures. She felt like no matter how fast she stitched, dressed and helped reset splintered bones. She was still behind. Men and their cries, faces gnarled in agony, all were seared, raw, into her mind.

Vianne had never known a night like it. Other than the war, was her instant comparison. The receiving room was crammed. There had been a boiler explosion at the docks from a faulty compound yard. Which meant that every already full ward was twice as busy. Vianne wasn’t a properly qualified nurse. She was busied by fetching and carrying clean linens, changing beds, dressing wounds and tending of those who needed help with feeding themselves.

She must have been a sight for sore eyes, in her high collared, aproned, cobalt blue dress. Streaked with blood, and muck. Her white sleeves she’d left off long ago, after she shed them helping assist in holding down a man who’d sustained severe burns from the Docks explosion. Her hair was unruly, and unkempt now. But even Matron Davis was too busy in her duties tonight, to point out that her buttons were askew and her drooping hair arrangement needed re-pinning.

Vianne liked her work. Really she did. She found pleasure in dressing wounds, helping ease pains and aches. Sorting immaculate linen cupboards and organising a spotless ward into it’s functionality. She got along very nicely with patients. She was always requested after, to sit by beds. Read stories, chat idly with them. Both young and old, male and female. She was adored on the wards. Her bedside manner was remarked on as being divine. They always asked for Nurse James.

She was there. Always. For those in need. Helping young girls dress their hair prettily, or getting young boys to eat all their greens under doctors orders. She could comfort the lowliest, foulest, most vile mannered person into easiness. Five minutes talking with her and her no nonsense attitude, and they were cured of their ill temper. No one could deny it. She was a highly skilled nurse. And no exception. Though she wasn’t aware if it, her looks helped her along somewhat too. That made her all the more popular - particularly with the male patients. Staff or not, both adored it when she did her rounds on Wellington, the men’s ward, because that meant that everyone would be obedient if she were there to cause smiles.

She’d just delivered another round of dirty linen to the laundry, and hurried back to the ward. Where Sister Evangeline have her an entirely new set of orders. To redress bandages in beds, four, seven, and twelve.

She nods. Wiping a hand over her dewy brow. Dutifully obeying. There were too many things to keep track of. Her mind going at a million thoughts a minute. She grabs an oil lamp, and heads to Mr. Hewitt. She almost preferred to work at night. It was calmer. But after the catastrophe earlier, the place was still humming with life, and it was all hands on deck. Doctors still flitted about beds, nurses marched from bed to bed soothing where they could, and groans of agony could still be heard. There would be no slumbering silence for a good while yet.

She rounds bed four, and sees the old man within, brighten lightly at the sight of her. He was led back, asleep, his cheeks rosy, and he was perspiring too. She could see it plain as day in the sparse, low, lamp light. His hooded eyes found her as she came to stand by his bed. Her eyes creased as she smiled gently down at him. He groaned, adjusting himself to sit up. Made all the harder by the fact that his left arm was no more than a nub. Having been amputated a week ago for gangrene from a poorly done tattoo. He was baring the loss of it remarkably well.

“Having trouble sleeping, are we, Mr Hewitt?” She asked in a gentle whisper.

“Yeah. A bit. All that rackets keeping me ‘wake. Nurse. D'you think you could tell ‘em to keep in down, for an old man?” He japes lightheartedly.

“… You and me would both be in for the long jump if I let out so much as a peep of that notion to Dr. Warner. He’s busy trying to patch up those poor souls from the docks explosion…” She explained. Straightening and retucking his covers, adjusting his pillows. It was some form of magic she had about her, he decided, because from two mere touches and suddenly he felt much more relaxed and comfortable from the simple way she’d rearranged his pillows and bedcovers.

“Sister told me you were uncomfortably hot earlier…” She adds. Placing a cool, soft hand on his forehead. She then reaches down for his pulse, finding her watch and taking it. Feeling it was a little faster than normal. She then reached for a thermometer and he dutifully allowed her to slip it under his right armpit.

“My temperature always shoots up when it’s youse here to take it, Miss.” He flatters. Vianne smiles. Slyly. Watching him out of the corner of her eyes. Flicking over from where she was still watching her pocket watch.

“Now, now. Mr Hewitt. Do try to behave yourself. Your temperature and your heartbeat certainly aren’t. And we can’t have that. Now can we?” She tells him firmly.

“Would you mind awfully unbuttoning your shirt please, Mr Hewitt. I need to get to your wound. Due for your hourly check I’m afraid. We need to see if there are any abnormalities happening with those dressings..” She tells, helping him slip off his striped hospital wear, nodding when she saw the state of his wound.

It was seeping through the snowy dressing. And when she pressed her hand to it. She found what she thought she would. It was abnormally hot. She unwound it, and found his discomfort was due to that fact the surgical site was slightly infected.

“I’ll speak to Sister Evangeline and Dr. Warner, Mr Hewitt. But it looks to me like there might be an infection. Which means you may need a drain in that wound. We’ll get you comfortable as soon as is possible… I’ll make sure of it. In the mean time. I’ll fetch you a cool flannel and some ice-water to help cool you down. Never worry. We’ll get you sorted.” She assures him. Patting his shoulder. Before recollecting her oil lamp and heading for the desk.

She can barely get her words out. And she had more tasks to be getting on with. It turns out the young rascal in bed three had a friend sneak him in more booze flasks again. Trouble was, booze was not a good thing in trying to cure portal hypertension. Causing cirrhosis of the liver. All of which meant that one should usually give up the cup that inebriates and not cheers. Trouble was. Their patient was a slippery customer. An East Ender who was the very meaning of the word trouble.

“I’ve no idea what to do with him. Nurse James. He’s a menace. As if we don’t have enough to deal with on our plates tonight already… That boy has a smart mouth on him. And he’s as stubborn as a mule.” Sister Evangaline fretted to Vianne, in a quiet hush under her breath whilst she angrily scratched her pen onto the ward report.

Vianne smiles. They were both in the same state. Weary to the bone. Dead on their feet. Aching. Hungry and tired beyond any reasonable measure. Covered in blood and various other fluids that couldn’t be named. Hair mussed. Uniform shabby. It was remarkable, what the toll of a day saving lives took on ones appearance.

“Don’t worry, Sister.” Vianne assures her. “In my own way. So am I.” She smiles. Heading over. All she wanted to do was drop into a hot bath, with a stiff drink, and scrub her day away. But, she sighs wearily, not yet she can’t.

Again. She is off. Barely having time to stand still. She crosses to bed three, where their calamitous patient lay with his bowler hat perched wonkily on his head. His arms were cockily crossed behind his head, and his legs were resting in the same crossed manner. One folded over the other. He lay atop the covers. Smirking at Vianne as she moved closer.

“Evenin’ Nursey…” He drawled when she came close. She stood by the end of his bed. Her hands folded as she looked at him sternly.

“Good Evening. Mr Robins.” She smiles sweetly. “How are you feeling?” She asks pointedly. Rounding the bed. Eyeing him shrewdly as he levelled his hat on his head. When she came closer, she eagerly eyed a spot of a stain on his shirt. It was the colour of toffee. But she had a sneaking suspicion that it was not a confectionary related spillage. He had that wicked gleam in his eyes. One she had seen in him before when she was admitted. And it had not appeared there under the influence of sobriety.

“Can I help you, Nurse?” He asks her cheekily. Vianne says nothing. But narrows her eyes and steps forwards to look through his bedside cabinet. He jumps a little, sitting up in the bed.

“Am I to find any contraband that you are wishing to keep hidden from us, Mr Robins?” She asks. Searching through his folded clothes.

“I’d not dare hide anything from you, Nurse.” He flirts. She drops to her knees, crouching, and runs her hand along the underside of his mattress. He watched her. Those brown eyes twitching in nervousness that he masked with confidence. She could see him fidget in disquiet as she probed around.

“You don’t believe me. Do ya? Oh. I am hurt Nurse. You cut me. Cut me to the quick you ‘ave.” He teases all the more. She stops. And raises an unimpressed brow at him, her smile wry, as her hand grasps for the object that it came into contact with. She gets her fingers around it, and tugs it out. Tilting her head in a silent query as she held a small hip flask in her hand. Still able to hear something sloshing around inside it. She watched Mr. Robins sit bolt upright. Looking severely panicked.

She opened it and swilled it’s contents around. Holding it under her nose to take a sniff. Raising a brow.

“By my guess….I’d say… Scottish…. Single malt, whiskey. Judging by that stain on your lapels. And if I got any closer, Mr. Robins, would I, or would I not, be able to smell that very same spirit on your breath?” She asks him with thinning patience. Still smiling down at him. He averted his eyes. Ashamed under her scrupulous interrogation.

“Just a little tipple to take before bed, Nurse. Nothin’ ‘armful. I can’t sleep without it.” He protested grumpily.

“Mr. Robins. You came to us because though you may be in your early twenties. You have the scarred liver, and abdominal tenderness of a middle aged, forty year old. You’re suffering from alcohol poisoning. Mr Robins… Because that’s what drink is doing to you. Poisoning you. Killing you. And if you keep it up at this rate, you’ll have a lot more strife to deal with than me giving you a sharp dressing down. Do you understand?” She tells him firmly.

He looks ashamed. But seems to perk up and smile filthily at her again.

“Wouldn’t mind you giving me any sort of dressing down, Nursey.” He winks. Vianne sighs and employs her best, well learned, sharp, hard, nurses glare that oft had people jumping to obedience to do her bidding when she employed it. Patient or no.

“That’s, Nurse James. To you. Mr. Robins. I’ve no doubt out about in the streets you think yourself in charge. But this here’s my domain. And I rule in here with absolute authority… Now consider this flask confiscated. And if I pass by again and find you still awake, I will set Matron on you. And you’ll be begging for a reprieve by the time she’s done with you. I can safely assure you of that.” She promises. Tucking the flask in her uniforms pocket and walking away. Before an idle thought occurs to her. And she pauses…

She walks back to his bed. And smiles, politely.

“Do you not take your hat off, to a Lady? Mr. Robins?” She demands with a cunning smile. Knowing she had him beat. He acquiesced to her request. Plucking his hat and lifting it off his head to her. Careful to keep the inside brim concealed from her sight.

She rolled her eyes and snatched it from his hands. He let out a loud exclamation as she did. But quietened down when she looked into the dome of it, and found yet another flask pinned, hidden up there.

She raises a brow. She unlatched the flask, and with a flick of the wrist, as if she was skimming a stone, she tossed the hat back to him. It landed square on his chest. Emptied of it’s contraband contents.

“Sweet dreams, Mr. Robins. You are a terrible liar.” She smiles before she sidles away to the Nurses desk.

“My dreams aren’t sweet compared to your tender care, Nursey.” He calls sarcastically after her.

She rounds the counter, smiling at Sister. Placing the two flasks in a strongbox. Smiling at her conquering victory. Placing the source of Mr. Robins ill health under lock and key. And putting it out of sight. If only all ailments were so easily cured. She thinks.

“We’d be a sorry ward without your expert touch. Nurse James. I thank you.” Sister Evangaline smiles, looking up for a moment from her ward report. She had a sweet smile that was rarely seen for all the times she was so shrewish and strict. She was kind. But she took no nonsense above it. Vianne had a kinship with her. She saw less and less of her acerbity now. The very same veracity that had most probationers shivering in fear when she passed them by.

“Oh, a Gentleman just left this for you. Nurse… he didn’t leave his name. He said you’d know who he was, and what it was about.” She told. Passing her a small, white envelope.

Vianne swallowed. Looking at the small, rectangular slip of paper in Sister Evangeline’s hand. Her breath came short, and she felt queasy just looking at the dreaded little thing.

For if it was anything alike the note she had received the other day. She didn’t want to go through opening another. She took it quickly. With a false smile. And a nervous, trembling hand.

It had her first name written on it. No profanity’s this time. Which eases her fears, if only by a little. She smiles meekly.

“Have you any other duties for me, Sister?” She asks curtly.

Sister Evangeline met her eyes, smiled. And bid her leave to go and take a tea break for a few moments. Vianne walked briskly away, out of the wards double doors. Which squeaked loudly in her absence. And her footfalls echoed loudly in the empty, hallway. She stalks quickly to the linen cupboard, and shuts the door soundly after her.

She’d hidden the previous one from Thomas. His temper would be volcanic if he thought someone was threatening his Vianne. She’d stuffed it into her dressing gown pocket and forgotten it. But let it instead burn a gaping hole in her brain…

Then she gasps…. Thomas. Oh. God, Thomas.

She is suddenly hit with a wave of epiphany. Aswell as one of guilt and shame. It had just gone eleven o'clock. And she had dutifully promised Him she’d meet for a romantic dinner at the Royale at Eight. She put a hand to her forehead. She felt rotten. She sighs in her abhorrence at her own stupidity. She’d been so caught up in her shift and orders, that she’d quite forgotten the time.

She opened the note with a heavy heart. She have to make it up to him in some way. She’d stood him up, without so much as a note. But when she tore open the letter in her hands, she didn’t find anger in it’s contents.

“Carry on the good work. Dearest Heart. - T”

~

When she is released from her duties, she doesn’t even bother to change from her nurses uniform. She pulls on her coat. Collects her surgical bag. And trudges wearily for a hackney cab. Her aching body bone weary, and miserable. She was tired, hungry and filthy. And to top it all off, she’d let her Thomas down.

She hated letting anyone down, let alone him. Especially not him.

She chides herself all the way home. Wanting nothing more than a scorching hot bath, and to get a missive to him as quickly as was possible. Detailing all the ways in with she was sorry for missing their engagement tonight. She can only hope he’d be forgiving. If she'd have ever done that to Henry, the repercussions of riling his temper didn't bare thinking about. But judging by Thomas's perplexing letter, he had visited the hospital, and found she was too busy to be pried away. That’s what ate away at her worst of all.

The fact he now thought that she would put work ahead of him was just too unfathomable to bear. Given their past history.

When she gets home, she drags her aching limbs out of the cab. Cursing inwardly at the frankly foul nature of the ache in her neck, and back. Pays the driver. And coerces her ailing form up the steps, unlocking the front door, she let’s herself in. And shuts it after her. The house is unlit, and eerily quiet. Tonight was Jeanie’s night off. She often went to see her family in Poplar of a Wednesday night.

She stood, for a second. Looking up at her dark, lifeless house. Never dreaming she’d be the one to be a lowly spinster. Coming home to nothing but a house. A silent house, to a woman of her age, was the saddest thing of all. No husband. No children. Not even an batty, aged relative to keep her company in the next room. Just her. And her monotonous life.

She sighs. Putting her coat on the rack, chucking her bag on the side table. In the foyer mirror, she looks at her dark, baggy eyes. And exhausted face. Un-pinning her nurses cap, and removing her stained, bloodied apron. She crumples it into a ball in her hands. She then detached the stiff, two buttoned collar and threw that down too. Undoing buttons down to her chest, letting some air get to her heated skin. Placing a steady hand on her sternum. She breathes deep and looks in the mirror. She saw the same flawed woman staring back. Looking lonely, tired and despairing.

She’d march herself upstairs. And flop straight into her own bed. She wasn’t even sure she’d spare the energy to pull off her shoes. Of course, her corset was ruthlessly tight. And she wanted to tear it off. But with the little energy she has, she fears the climb above stairs would sap her of all the little motivation she did have left.

She turns to take her bloodied clothes upstairs, when her attention is drawn to her front parlour door. Because there was a sliver of amber light slicing under the door. Standing out like a beacon in the dark house. She frowns.

Walking quickly to the door, she twists the handle and slowly walks the door open. When she saw what was the other side, she gasped. Smiling wholeheartedly at the sight within.

A small table. Set for two. Laden with lit silver candelabras, dressed with a vase of roses, and two silver domes awaiting their attention. And one ex-husband, turned current lover, sat smiling across at her from the settee.

“May I begin with a thousand apologies?” She asks him sincerely. Frowning with empathy at him.

Thomas comes to a stand, and crosses to take her in his arms. One hand to her dainty waist, the other to the back of her neck. And he pulls her into a hungry kiss that conveys how much he had missed her, being parted from her all day. After he’s made her knees weak, and her legs shiver in wanton arousal. He pulls away. Both hands now on her neck as he leaves her gasping for air when he retreats. His hot breath fanning against her lips. She rolls her eyes back in her head in pleasure as he kisses her neck. And then he speaks.

“You may not. And I will tell you why. I came to the ward tonight. Ticked off, and with my nose put out of place because I thought you’d taken the choice to put work before our time together. But then I saw you… I saw you sat talking to that man with one arm as you gave him comfort, and made him smile. I watched you tease and chide a patient for the sake of his own silly good. I knew then you hadn’t chosen your nursing over me… But that I had been selfish once again. There were people who needed your help, more so than I needed your time. How can I be mad at a woman who spent her time today, saving lives?” He asks her.

She smiles. Clutching at his arms. He nuzzles his forehead to touch hers. Closing his eyes. And sighing a moan in pleasure as he held her in his arms.

“… And then. I thought. Well. If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain. The mountain shall come to him.” He smiles. Gesturing to the table behind him.

She kisses him for that kindness. He draws her closer, the hot look in his eyes letting her know he intended to kiss her once more… She pulls back. Gasping a smile as one hand slid south to grab her bottom.

“I should warn you. I’m in dire need of a bath. And I can barely keep my eyes open. I don’t know what I want more, a drink, to rip these clothes off, or some sleep…” She sighs happily. Stroking his hair. One finger sliding lovingly along his pale, sharp cheekbone. Drinking in the sight of that adoring face. Even sans scar. To her, he was still the handsomest man to ever walk the earth.

“Why don’t we start with that drink, then, my love?” He asks. Helping guide her to the table. Helping her to take a seat. She flushed wildly, hot, as she sat down. Because then he leaned in, his warm fingers toying with a curl of hair at her nape. And his lips lowered to her ear.

“And as for the ripping off of clothes, and the bath… I’d quite happily assist you in those ventures…” He flirts. And when she meets his mischievous eyes once again, she can’t help but notice he looked terribly determined in that quest also.

~

@heavymist @totallynotasmutblog @frenchfrostpudding

[our-legacy-rp-blog]

LISA has been accepted for the character WREN TURNBROOK

Your application for Wren was astounding, Lisa! You’ve captured her perfectly, as well as put your own stamp on such a strong character. We can’t wait to see Wren on the dash - and for the trouble she’s sure to cause. Welcome back for another round of OL, and be sure you fill out the checklist HERE.

OOC name & pronouns: Lisa, she/her Age: 21 Timezone: GMT

IC INFORMATION

Character’s name: Wren Turnbrook

FC choice: Camila Mendes

Position request: N/A

Birthday: 4th April, Aries. Those born under the constellation of the Ram are often seen as determined and confident, something Wren does not particularly lack. Her confidence in both herself and her own abilities can often be perceived as arrogance. She’s a dedicated worker for the few things she’s bothered to fill her time with (music, photography, the occasional Potions lesson), and is dead set on maintaining the way the school perceives her.

Wand: Elm Wood, Unicorn Hair Core, 8″

Patronus: Wren is currently unable to cast a full Patronus. She’s interested to know what her Patronus might be but does not care enough to try. However, if she did manage it one day, it would take the form of a falcon. Falcons are know for their solidarity, swift power and focus, an intense presence that resonates with Wren very well; everyone knows she’s the daughter of Daily Prophet’s Editor and Senior Journalist, but also, her own person detached from them both.

Boggart: Her Boggart would take shape in the form of herself at her mother’s age, dressed in Julia’s typical, fashionable black work suit. Wren most fears ending up like her mother – someone who has prioritises work over family.

Headcanons: 

Wren despises any form of written expression. She does not have the same natural penchant for writing as her parents but only because she has denied to pursue it, refusing to be wrapped up in fruitless articles and endless lies. Because of this, Wren has fallen to different artistic hobbies; photography and music. All shot on Muggle, analogue 35mm or medium format cameras, she truly believes photos cannot lie. In an age where digital photography is everywhere, Wren much prefers the process of self-development and a physical end product. While she will occasionally dabble in magical photography of the moving image, she specialises mostly in portraits; her roommates frequently falling subject of a quick photo regardless of if they want to be or not, always trying to find the truest representation of the moment she could snap. Her music works in a similar way. Whilst she does not often compose her own songs, her piano renditions make for a relaxed weekend afternoon. Inspired by the works of Ludovico Einaudi, August Wilhelmsson and Thomas Newman, she will often play alone. She does not mind the company of others whilst she plays but will refrain from playing particular songs from her repertoire, ones that make her… feel, again. Ones that are private and too precious to her.

Because of her lack of appreciation for words, Wren is a very physical being. Her body language and posture are the biggest influences to the arrogant, cavalier air she gives off on the daily. Wren will always react based on her emotions. She can sometimes be a little hot-headed, occasionally jumping to conclusions or acting rashly, or even purely giving lip to a teacher or another student because of how they had acted towards her. This ties in with her appreciation of music, connecting with it emotionally and preferring to be moved musically rather than verbally.

Whilst she despises her parents and rarely sees them, Wren is always sickeningly polite with them. A sarcastic, bitter comment or backhanded compliment might pop up every once in a while during a conversation between them, but Wren will never loose her temper with them. She makes no attempt to make time for them – it was the most she could do to repay them for all the time they denied her as a child – often visiting friend’s houses, hot spots in London or even Diagon Alley while she’s at home during the holidays to avoid them as much as possible.

Now: 

If you were to ask a student who they thought was least likely to get sorted into the house they were given, many would likely say Wren. The daughter of renowned Daily Prophet journalists and constantly being dragged to the centre of school gossip because of it, Wren’s attitude boasted a sense of lack-lustre interest; not just for gossip but for most things. Very few could consider themselves friends with the girl, her disinterest in building relationships a stark trait in her personality that often made people question just how she ended up in Hufflepuff. Occasionally a disruptive nuisance, Wren is seen as ignorant and self-righteous – not that she cared what others thought, acting as she pleased regardless – she someone to avoid if you didn’t want to get into trouble or wind up in detention. Get on her bad side, however, and prepare to suffer the consequences. A threat from a Turnbrook is not hollow. If your family name had an ounce of dirt on it, a Turnbrook would find it, an article would be produced within a week and it would be cast off as purely ‘free journalism’ because of the scandal; such a thing could never be done out of spite, of course.

Wren’s lack of emotional connect to others causes her to be incredibly disinterested in the magical world around her separates herself from politics, becoming desensitised to it ever since her parents published their first article for the Prophet. It was almost as if she was jealous of the attention the work had pulled from her parents instead of looking after their only daughter.