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bananapajama87 · 5 years ago

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Bend-The-Knee or be Broken

@aphrarepairweek2020 Day 2: Thunderstrom prompt! Super late, but having fun anyway! A friend/crush fic for RusEng! I just love to think about the mechanics of Nations’ free will and I think (other than Germany) Russia is one of the best subjects for a study on it. I hope my ideas came through clearly :) Ivan Braginsky had a well-known and violently documented dislike for “friendly political visits” but the guest room in England’s lavish country estate had always been one of his least favourite personal hells.

He paced slowly around his confines, inspecting the impersonal velvety decor that he had begrudgingly become familiar with over the centuries. Its careful design was facetiously inviting and desperate to be impressive. ‘Please, make yourself at home!’ the glowing fireplace seemed to say, echoed mockingly by the diamond chandelier who added ‘because I bet you don’t have things nearly so nice back at yours!’ Every country did this of course, but England always managed to be so wonderfully condescending.Ivan bristled. He never slept well in other Nation’s homes, but something in the night air was making him particularly restless. He hadn’t found the peace of mind to even sit down since he had arrived, despite his duties early the next day. Showpony duties, he thought, The dusty to be an amusing little beast, well-trained and pampered to show off how well his masters are doing. He gripped at the hem of the silky pyjamas he had been issued for trips like these. They were so unlike the cotton tank top and shorts that he wore at home. Ivan glanced around the room again and as usual, his eyes were tugged toward the monstrously large landscape painting looming above the mantle. It was a mirror image of the view outside the room's large window. Temperate, emerald moors bordered darkly by mysterious, hungry woods. He ran an ungloved hand over his scarred throat and thought about his own rugged taigas and unforgiving tundras. He shook his head. It was tacky of England to have a painting of himself in the guest bedroom, even if it wasn’t a portrait. He stalked out the door to see if he could find somewhere less here to be.

Ivan drifted through the hallways, careful not to step on any creaky floorboards. He was making a circuitous path toward the first-floor sitting room. If he remembered correctly, that fireplace was always burning and had comfortable chairs. It was disquieting to think about how intimately familiar Ivan was with England’s home although they had never really been on first name (or even last name) terms with each other. Not that he was with anyone else either… Maybe he could tire himself out reading old newspapers.

The heavy oak door didn’t creak when Ivan pushed it open. The dying glow of the fire was filling the room with the heavy smell of a quiet night and casting long shadows on the opposite wall. They wavered gently, distorting the shapes of things and making Ivan unsure of where the floor ended and the dark began. Running his hands lightly across the furniture for guidance, he crossed the room silently, coming to a stop in front of the picture window that looked out onto the veranda, and beyond that, those green hills now inky black silhouettes. The moonlight fought valiantly to shine through the thick clouds but was diffused into a mere suggestion of itself. He could smell the humid scent of an oncoming thunderstorm brewing on the other side of the glass.

“Good evening, Russia. Is there something I can do for you?” England’s voice was soft and scratchy with fatigue, and though Ivan would not allow himself to show his surprise outwardly, he felt his heart pick up speed as he turned to look. England was standing in the doorway, hair more dishevelled than usual and an untied housecoat draped over his pyjamas. He was carrying a mug in his hand that seemed to be empty.“No not at all, England. Just trying to admire the stars, but as you can see, it is not my lucky night.” Russia smiled his diplomatic smile and put a gentle pep in his voice that he used for others. He was naturally soft-spoken but he seemed suddenly too loud for the room. England crossed the room deftly, and joined Russia at the window, not needing to try to avoid the furniture in his own house. The top of his head only came up to Russia’s shoulders. “Quite unlucky indeed. A storm’s coming. A big one if I’m not mistaken.” England said, and Ivan knew he was right. His skin had begun tingling with static electricity. They stood in silence, England sipping at the empty mug every so often. Russia sensed that he didn’t know what to do with his hands (or make a graceful exit from the situation now that he had engaged with Ivan). That man had never been able to stop himself from standing on ceremony even if it made him squirm with discomfort as it did now. Ivan chuckled.“What are you giggling about?” England asked, frowning up at Ivan. Ivan looked down at him, his emerald green eyes were glowing with irritation.“Your mug is empty.” Ivan pointed into the empty cup. England’s face went red and he set the mug down quickly on a coffee table and he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

They were quiet for a while and watched the clouds gather.“Why are you awake, England? Surely you weren’t hoping to stargaze too?” Ivan asked, enjoying keeping England trapped here with him. He wouldn’t be only one miserably tired in the morning.

“Oh, you know. Insomnia. You being here and all, I have a lot on my mind. Lots of things being prepared for your stay and all that,” he said airily, gesturing vaguely with his hands. Ivan noticed the deep circles under England’s eyes and wondered how often he was struck with insomnia. He looked much more human now than Ivan had ever seen him in an official capacity. Stubbly, slouching, and underdressed. Somehow, he felt the need to reassure him.

“No need to go to all the trouble. If I am honest, which I seldom am, I hate the pomp. It is… insincere,” Ivan said, making sure to look away from England’s face before his subject could notice his staring. England ran his hands down his face in exasperation and groaned.

“Don’t I know it. It’s tax money and organization and time being put into a show for the measly audience of one,” suddenly England realized what he had said and quickly added: “no offence, Russia.” Ivan couldn’t help but laugh again. England seemed to take that as acceptance and continued. “I don’t know of anyone who really likes that pampering. Except maybe Francis. And Alfred. Those two are a pair of egotistical layabouts if I ever saw some.” Ivan nodded, the first names not lost on him. He was reminded that despite England’s prickly disposition, he was in very good standing with the other Nations. Friends, even. “I mean, I don’t even want them in my bloody house but, you know how it is, the boss says you’re a bed and breakfast, you’re a bed and breakfast.” Arthur was leaning his shoulder on the wall now, looking more casual that Ivan had ever seen him. There was an impish smile on his lips, complaining about bosses and other Nations was clearly a favourite pastime.

“Yes,” Ivan offered, “America has proven many times over the years to be a terrible houseguest, yet he is one of my most constant companions.” Ivan tried to match Arthur’s relaxed posture.

“Right? The boy carves his name into anything and everything he can lay his hands on, and thinks I won’t notice! Three hundred years I’ve had this little estate and he vandalizes the wall panelling! I don’t know how I could have raised him so poorly.” Arthur mimed strangling someone furiously and Ivan smiled.

“Is that what it says on the back wall of the closet in the guest room? I had always wondered. Terrible penmanship.” Arthur went a little red in the ears

“Alfred,” he growled bitterly. This time, when Ivan laughed, Arthur joined in. “Well, I guess, on the whole, being social isn't the worst thing our bosses have made us do, eh?” Arthur poked Ivan in the ribs with his elbow and winked. Ivan forced himself to keep smiling as his stomach dropped to the floor, he did not want to ruin the atmosphere.

“No, I suppose not,” he said, trying to approximate pleasantness in his voice. Arthur was not fooled.“Oh, sorry. The past is a better subject for a younger crowd.” He had his hands back in his pockets and pushed himself up off the wall. His eyes seemed to be trying very hard not to direct themselves towards Ivan's neck. “I’ve been talking to Alfred too much.”

Silence.

The clouds finally broke and rain finally began to hit the window arrhythmically. For some reason, Ivan didn’t like seeing England feeling guilty on his behalf. Usually, it would be funny but tonight it was not. Unusual. He should say something.“Well,” Ivan tried to sound reassuring, “I suppose that even the past is preferable to America’s company.” Arthur let out a little puff of air that condensed on the cloudy window and smirked.

“You’re a mean son of a bitch, you know that?”

“Coming from you, England, that is high praise.” Arthur let out a barking laugh that made Ivan smile from ear to ear. His own shoulders shook with suppressed snickers. The room felt suddenly larger as if something oppressive had been banished by Arthur’s earnest smile.

“Call me Arthur, Ivan. We’ve known each other for centuries. It’s ridiculous to pretend like we’re not at least well acquainted.” Arthur looked up at Ivan as he said this, his eyes shining a little from laughter. They were the same colour as the hills outside. Ivan felt warmth in his face that he couldn’t diagnose.

“Oh, I thought… Well, we have not always been on the best terms, or speaking terms, I’ve been quite hostile to many of your allies, I-”

“Oh please,” Arthur interrupted, rolling his eyes, “that’s Russia. I’m asking Ivan to call me Arthur. Here,” Arthur stepped closer to Ivan and Ivan once again felt his heart hammering, “since I suppose I’m formally meeting Ivan Braginsky for the first time,” he held his hand out. “My name is Arthur Kirkland, hobbyist and amateur murder mystery author.” Ivan had no idea what to do, he felt nervous for the first time in a long time. Other Nations never tried to be familiar with him. Ivan stared at the hand, frozen until Arthur shook his proffered hand insistently.

“I-Ivan Braginsky. Um, personification and official national ambassador of Russia,” he said. Before Ivan could take Arthur’s hand, it was snatched away.

“Everybody knows that. Tell me something about Ivan!” Ivan was speechless. He hadn’t thought about himself much outside of that in a long time.

“Uh, brother and,” He felt like he was trying to guess a correct answer, “sunflower enthusiast?” Arthur seemed satisfied because he took Ivan’s hand and shook it firmly. And he smiled. Ivan smiled back.

The two men stood in comfortable silence for a few moments, watching the rain run little snail trails down the window through which the two men could see the strengthening moonlight.

“Do you really think that?” Ivan almost whispered. The crackling of the fireplace was setting the volume of the room.

“Think what?” Arthur looked over at him, equally quietly.

“Do you think we are... real?” Arthur blinked and furrowed his considerable brows. “I mean,” Ivan paused to search for the words, “When your boss tells you to do something, do you decide whether or not to comply or do you just,” Ivan mimed a little salute and clicked his heels, “even if you would rather die than carry out the order?” Arthur nodded understandingly, his face seeming concerned, but what he said sounded like something he had rehearsed to himself. Maybe late on nights like this, where everything seemed small.

“I have had to accept that I am not human and that here are some choices I don’t get to make. Not like the people I represent. I don’t get to say no, or yes for that matter, unless one of them leads me there. Boss says ‘the peasants are revolting’? I sharpen my axe. The people say ‘parliament rules’ and it’s the king’s head on the chopping block? I sharpen my axe. It’s that or I’m next.” Arthur shrugged. Ivan gulped. He remembered the weight of the gun in his hand and what it was like to point it at starving citizens one day and the royal family the next. “Obviously, we can’t die but, well, you remember what happened to Francis. During the revolution.” Ivan nodded. Everyone had heard about what happened to Francis. He’d pleaded with Robespierre to stop the violence in Paris and been guillotined by his own people. When he woke up, he was out in the countryside where he had first appeared centuries earlier, naked and revolutionary. “We don’t really ever get to choose. Most have decided it’s not worth the effort anymore. Not that I have to tell you that.” Ivan scowled.

“So… you are saying that it’s bend-the-knee or be broken? That is our freedom? What makes Arthur Kirkland and Ivan Braginsky is - is - obedience with the addition of indignance?” Ivan clenched and unclenched his fists. The first fork of lightning flashed through the sky, for an incalculable instant illuminating the room in a cold white light. The thunder that came after was felt rather than heard. Arthur sighed.

“It’s certainly not the most inspirational thought, but essentially, yes.” Ivan growled and his arm tensed, itching to hit something. To shatter something, anything. Just to make a difference to something of his own accord. But Arthur was looking at him with a pitying acceptance and understanding that Ivan knew could only ever come from another Nation. Ivan felt the fire inside him go out and he slumped against the window, the glass cooling against his forehead and his breath hot on the glass.

“Are you alright?” Arthur asked, leaning next to him on the window, his hand dangerously, tantalizingly close to Ivan’s. Ivan closed his eyes and suddenly felt how late it was. He couldn’t summon the energy to open them again.

“This is not a revelation to me. It is just... disheartening to hear it from someone else.” Arthur huffed in agreement.

“Don’t I know it.” They were silent again.

Rumbling from the outside rattled Ivan’s tired brain as he stood half asleep, just feeling the window on his skin and Arthur’s presence. That is until Arthur once again pushed away from the wall and Ivan felt the loss. He looked up to see the other man walking determinedly to the other end of the window. “You know what?” Arthur wasn’t whispering anymore.

“Arthur?”

“I may not get much to myself in this world, but I do get this. I get to be Arthur Kirkland, a stuffy, grumpy, brother, soldier, knitter, terrible cook, and,” He looked back at Ivan and nodded as he pulled a set of keys out of his housecoat pocket, “friend.” he jammed one of the keys in the lock of the veranda door and began to jostle it violently.

“Arthur?”

“And I don’t know about you, but I don’t have to be England until tomorrow morning, so tonight,” he threw open the door and was immediately battered by the violent wind and rain. The sound of the door slamming against the wall was camouflaged by another clap of thunder. “I’m gonna do whatever the hell I want.”

“What are you doing? It’s pouring out there!” Ivan shielded his face from the wind with his arm. Arthur looked back at him with a half-crazed smile Ivan had heard about. It was a famous harbinger of-

“Who says we’re too old for a little teenage rebellion?” He cackled, once again holding out his hand for Ivan to take, inviting him to spend the night doing absolutely nothing but pretending they were going to die someday.

Ivan didn’t hesitate, he took Arthur’s hand in his own, pulled him close by the waist as if ready to lead him in a waltz and sent them both careening out the door and into the storm, their laughter drowned out by the elements.

#RusEng #APH Russia #Aph England #aphrarepairweek2020 #Hetalia

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fangirlingalittletoohard · 5 years ago

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Movie Moment

Q has just been recruited at MI6. Bond has worked there for years. When the pair meet by chance in Q's bookstore, sparks fly but neither is willing to admit it. A formal work introduction turns into an unofficial date at an art gallery and as Bond walks Q home in the rain, the two men screw their courage and take the opportunity to have a "movie moment."

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You can find the accompanying art by the wonderful 10kiaoi here.

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Word count: 3136

Warnings: NONE! Just 3k words of pure 00Q fluff!

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Q froze on his ladder as unfamiliar voices startled him, the pile of books balanced precariously between his hands and the top shelf wobbled slightly as he attempted to restock the thriller section of the little bookstore in which he worked.

“Are you… Are you James Bond?!” A hushed female voice murmured on the opposite side of the bookshelf that Q was filling.

“...Yes.” Replied the hesitant, gruff voice of the man named James Bond. The voice reverberated around Q’s chest, making him waver dangerously on the rickety old ladder and forcing him to grip onto the bookshelf to prevent him from falling.

“Oh. My. God. You really are, aren’t you! They told us all about you in training! I’m such a fan! Did you really wrestle a shark on the bottom of the Mariana Trench?” The female voice practically hissed with excitement.

“...What?!” Bond replied again, as if failing to find an adequate response.

“Will you sign my laptop case please?”

Q rose up onto his tiptoes, almost falling off the ladder again in the process of peeking over the top shelf to catch a glimpse of the man in the aisle opposite. He was tall and bulky with sharp features and dressed in an equally sharp suit: not his usual bookstore customer.

“Okay.” Bond replied blandly, following the girl over to a desk around the corner and out of sight. Q thrust the remaining books onto the shelf and stumbled down the ladder just in time to watch Bond’s dark-haired accomplice thank him and hurry out of the shop. Bond stood, looking slightly bewildered for a second, before turning and catching Q’s eye. “Excuse me,” he began, addressing Q and smiling a strained yet polite smile.

Q hesitated for a moment, clearing his suddenly dry throat before replying; “how may I help you, sir?” Bond’s cool steely blue eyes seemed to pierce through him and Q wasn’t quite sure how to react.

“I’m looking for a spy novel,” he began, striding closer to Q, his footsteps muffled by the thick faded red carpet, “and was hoping you had some recommendations.”

Q took a moment to weigh up the man standing before him; a stark contrast to himself. Everything about Bond was sharp - his eyes, his angular body, his suit, his neat hair - which created an almost comical juxtaposition with his own dark messy curls and soft, oversized sweater and chocolatey brown eyes, yet something in his demeanour told Q that he and Bond had a similar taste in books. “Follow me.” Q instructed, turning on his heel and leading Bond further into the shop.

He escorted Bond to the “spy thriller” sub-section of the store, slid a copy of John le Carré’s “The Night Manager” off the shelf and handed it to him. A satisfied, somewhat arrogant smile tugged at the corners of Q’s mouth as Bond scanned over the blurb and nodded approvingly. “Thank you,” Bond began again, his eyes flicking quickly down to the enamel name badge which was pinned to Q’s breast, “Q?” he questioned, understandably confused by the lack of name on his name badge.

“I, too, happen to be a fan of espionage.” Q confided, smirking subtly at the duality of his statement; Q’s love of espionage was not only satisfied through novels, but also through his recent appointment as head of Q-branch at MI6.

“Ah,” Bond responded softly, “well, I trust your judgement.”

The pair made their way over to the till where Bond paid for his book. “Let me know if I judged your taste in novels correctly.” Q concluded, blushing ever so slightly at his boldness in hinting that he would like to see him again.

“I will.” Promised Bond, gently opening the red-painted door of the bookstore and straightening his tie, the bell above the door tinkling and breaking the silence that threatened to shroud the shop once Bond had left.

“I didn’t catch your name.” Q called after him, blushing more noticeably now.

“The name’s Bond. James Bond.” He replied coolly, saluting in a lazy military style and smiling affectionately as the door swung closed behind him, the bell above the door tinkling again as he did so. Q bit his lip in an attempt to suppress the smile that was transforming his expression irresistibly as he watched James Bond walk away with the promise of return.

---

Days passed without the return of Bond and Q was beginning to feel foolish for believing that he had a chance of seeing him again until he was handed the files of the double-0 agent to which he had been assigned quartermaster. Q’s breath caught in his throat as he scanned through the files labelled “007” in the semi-darkness of his office and stared down at the small black and white picture of James Bond, secured loosely to the pile of documents with a paperclip. Assigned to be James Bond’s quartermaster. The James Bond. According to his files, Bond had worked for MI6 for forever and Q knew that he looked vastly inexperienced in comparison. How had he not bumped into him before? All he had to do was find somewhere that he had the upper hand to re-introduce himself as his quartermaster. Why was he so nervous? This was a professional exchange, not a chance encounter like they had had at the book shop.

---

After a lengthy search of possible locations, Q settled on the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. The moment the gallery opened the next morning, Q was there. He spent hours wandering through each room and choosing his favourite paintings before finally whittling it down to a few paintings in room 34 and eventually settling on The Fighting Temeraire painted by J.M.W Turner in 1838. A quick google of the painting’s history and connotations reassured Q that he could be as pretentious as he liked with his impressive interpretations. He liked to be pretentious; it gave him a sense of superiority that he knew he would lack the moment his eyes met Bond’s again.

---

Q returned to the bookstore for his evening shift, shaking rain out of his hair as he hurried inside, and froze on the doormat as his eyes met Bond’s. He was leaning against the cashier desk with two books in his hands. “Evening, Q.” Bond greeted, smiling subtly.

“How long have you been here?” Q asked in reply, unwinding the scarf from around his neck as he closed the door and paced over to Bond, placing it on the desk next to him.

“Only a few minutes. I came in this morning and asked when you would be in.” Bond replied nonchalantly as he tapped his fingers lightly on the wooden tabletop; he had always been forward and upfront when chasing his heart (or lust for that matter) but he felt almost nervous to be here with Q again and subsequently felt the need to conceal this by acting overly casual. To Bond, Q felt safe. He was soft and gentle but he seemed to have a sarcastic, almost dangerous side to him that Bond knew he could draw out if he tried hard enough. After years working as a double-0 agent and living the inevitable life of inconsistency which came hand-in-hand with the occupation, Bond longed for something constant, and the hint of danger that he sensed from him seemed to draw him to Q. “You were spot on with the book, by the way.”

“What?” Q began, before realising that Bond was only here because he had asked him to review his book choice. “Oh, well I do have a knack for judging people’s taste in novels.” Bond uttered a low-pitched chuckle that shook Q to the core and threw him off his game again.

“Well thank you for introducing me to le Carré.” Bond continued, turning and leaning closer to Q over the desk. Q shuddered and took a step backwards, stumbling slightly over a box of books as Bond placed two new books on the desk. Q caught himself in time and took the money that Bond was holding out to him.

“So I’ll… will I see you again?” Q asked, silently kicking himself for being so obviously attracted to him.

“You will.” Bond replied, already halfway to the door, his heart beating a little faster than usual as he realised that he’d committed to seeing Q again. He turned back as he opened the door, smiling to himself as he was greeted with the sight of Q fiddling with the sleeve of his sweater and watching him leave.

Once outside, Bond instantly regretted not bringing an umbrella as the unusually large raindrops were already beginning to seep through his suit and soak his skin. He had barely taken a few steps away from the cozy amber light of the shop window when the door swung open again and Q called his name. “That suit looks too expensive to get wet.” Q quipped, holding out a large black umbrella. Bond chuckled and jogged back to Q, gratefully accepting the umbrella and brushing some of the rain off his jacket.

“Thank you, Q.” Bond replied affectionately. Q smelled of tea and cinnamon and everything homely and Bond could barely fight the urge to reach out and grab Q’s face and kiss him but he couldn’t be sure that Q felt the same way. “I’ll return it.” He concluded, feeling a dull ache in his chest as he stepped away leaving Q in the doorway of the bookshop.

Q’s chest ached as Bond walked away. That was a perfect ‘movie moment.’ If he lived in a fictional universe, Bond would have reached out and grabbed Q’s face and kissed him under the rain and Q would have wrapped his arms around Bond’s middle and kissed him back as they were both soaked by the downpour and it would have been perfect. But this was real life and in real life you don’t get to live out ‘movie moments.’ So Q retreated into the warmth of the book shop and made himself a cup of tea and tried to forget about the fact that his hand had been so close to Bond’s when he handed over the umbrella.

---

Three days passed without so much as a mention of Bond’s name until the day came to meet him at the National Gallery. Q was dreading it. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get Bond off his mind. He felt like the epitome of a cliche. This was a professional meeting, not a romantic rendezvous. He needed to focus. Q took a moment to tell himself to snap out of his momentary anxiety and took the case containing a radio and a handprint-activated pistol and pulled his coat tightly around him against the cold as he began the walk to Trafalgar Square.

---

Bond ambled into room 34 and sat down as he had been instructed. Introductions to colleagues were usually just an exchange on names and a swift handshake carried out in the MI6 building, they were never as elaborate and mysterious as being sent to an art gallery with no idea who it was that you were meeting. An art gallery, of all places. It was much too romantic for Bond and he decided instantly that he would dislike (but begrudgingly tolerate) whoever it was that he was meeting until a familiar voice broke his train of thought. “It’s a little melancholy, don’t you think?” Bond didn’t have to turn around to realise that Q was standing so close behind him that he could just about feel his warm breath against the back of his neck as he spoke. He didn’t listen to any more of Q’s interpretation of the painting as he knew that he would be instantly engulfed by his chocolate-smooth voice and wouldn't be able to drag himself away to meet whoever it was that he should be meeting.

“Excuse me,” he interrupted, turning away before Q’s deep brown eyes could convince him to stay.

“007,” Q interjected, placing a hand on his arm and quickly pulling it back as Bond froze. Of course Q had chosen an art gallery; it was eccentric and pretentious, exactly as Bond had imagined him to be. Bond tested his wit, harmlessly insulting him and complaining about his gadgets (which in reality, he thought were wonderful… he thought that anything Q gave him would be wonderful) and eventually held out his hand for Q to shake. It felt too formal and strange considering they had already met, but seeing as how his heart had almost stopped when Q’s hand touched his clothed arm he felt that this was the safest option.

---

Q placed his hand in Bond’s and shook it, feeling his heartbeat in his throat and his hair stand on end as the bare skin of his hand made contact with that of Bond’s. Bond’s hand was rough and his grip was tight and strong and Q couldn’t help but notice again the stark contrast between the two of them. He felt rather small and helpless besides Bond, but he was surprised by the fact that he didn’t seem to mind. “007.” He greeted again, feeling strange using his professional name.

“Q.” Bond replied in a tone that sent a warm shiver down Q’s spine. “So do you happen to know as much about the other paintings in here as you do about this one?” Bond asked, gesturing to The Fighting Temeraire.

“Not quite as much,” Q admitted, “but I can certainly make it sound like I do.” He concluded, his throat becoming suddenly dry as he realised where this was going.

“Well seeing as how we’re already here; please enlighten me.” Bond’s expression was soft and gentle, a contrast to his sharp appearance, and it was enough to convince Q that this was actually happening. He took Bond on the tour of the gallery that he had done a week previously and he and Bond played the game of “who can spot the most naked people in paintings” as they ambled through the many rooms.

---

Once the pair had spent multiple hours in the gallery and had made their way through every room, they began to struggle to find more reasons to stay together without it seeming so obvious. Reluctantly, they stepped outside into yet another downpour. “Bloody rain.” Q mumbled as the rain obscured his vision through his glasses.

“Here,” Bond offered, opening up Q’s umbrella that he had given him three evenings previously and moving closer to Q so that they were both sheltered underneath the fabric canopy. They stood so close together that Q’s arm was pressed against Bond’s, but Q’s hair still seemed to be getting wet so he swallowed what little pride he had around Bond and placed his hand in the crook of Bond’s elbow, pulling himself closer to him.

---

Bond slowed a little and smiled to himself. They had practically been on a date, even if it was unofficial, and now Q was pulling himself into Bond. His dark curls tickled the side of Bond’s face and his warm, unusually fast breath pulsed against Bond’s cold hand that was holding up the umbrella. He knew that to passers-by, they looked like a couple and Bond felt that ache in his chest again. Maybe Q did feel the same way about him. After all, they had spent an entire day together and he was now pulling himself into him. Bond tensed the muscles in his arm a little so that they gently squeezed Q’s hand.

---

Q felt Bond squeeze his arm and his heart rate increased even more. Maybe Bond did feel the same way about him. They were almost back at Q’s apartment now, having just turned down his street, and Q couldn’t bear to spend another week not knowing where he stood. This thought prompted him to grow a little more confident and he rested his head against Bond’s shoulder. Bond momentarily forgot to breathe and Q noticed this, smiling in an “I can’t quite believe this is happening” way. They walked on until they reached the entrance to Q’s apartment block, where the pair stopped and Bond turned to face Q, making sure to keep them both under the umbrella as a not-so-subtle excuse to stay incredibly close to the younger man. The sky had darkened as they had been walking and now they were illuminated by the orange toned twilight and similarly coloured streetlamps. Q allowed his hand to fall from Bond’s elbow, but Bond refused to accept the lack of contact and took Q’s other hand in his own. Q’s heart pounded against his chest; his feelings were definitely reciprocated.

---

Bond gazed down at Q, his wide, melancholy eyes revealing all of his feelings without him having to speak. He rubbed his thumb gently over the back of Q’s cold hand and hesitated. This was too good to be true. He’d always had his way with the countless women and men that he’d slept with, but no one had been good to him before. No one had actually loved him the way he knew Q could and it scared him. Q obviously noticed the fleeting expression of fear that had passed over his face as he placed his free hand gently against his cheek. “Bond?” he murmured, asking with that one word if everything was okay and simultaneously if this was what he wanted. Bond raised Q’s hand to his lips and placed the ghost of a kiss onto his fingers as a response. Bond felt him relax as he moved their hands back from his face before Q’s lips were on his and both of his hands were on his face and he was kissing him. Bond stumbled backwards slightly, almost sending them both toppling over backwards but caught them in time. Bond dropped Q’s umbrella onto the pavement so that he could place his hands on Q’s hips, pulling him as close as he possibly could to his body.

---

Bond was kissing back and pulling him in and it was raining and they had spent a day at an art museum and Q’s heart was thrumming against his ribcage as he and Bond stood outside his apartment complex, kissing. This was the ‘movie moment’ that he’d been dreaming about since they met a week ago. One week. Q marvelled at the fact that he’d fallen for someone so quickly and that someone had fallen for him so quickly. He removed his hands from Bond’s cheeks and wrapped them around his neck, rising up to Bond’s height on his toes and almost making him topple over again. This was the stuff of stories and movies and fairytales and it was just perfect.

#mi6cafeminibang #00Q #james bond #no time to die #007 #00q fic

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theemptyquarto · 4 years ago

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Abandoned WIP

Warstan (but John got killed off before the story starts) and purely platonic Sherlock & Mary. Quite AU... John and Mary get together before Sherlock jumped off of Bart’s. Maybe a little bit of hinted unrequited Johnlock, I honestly can’t remember if I was going there with this fic. A “Mary is the new Watson” retelling of “The Adventure of the Empty House,” rated T. This was written before S3 happened and I fell in love with BBC Mary and she actually made me view BBC John as an interesting character in his own right and I rejiggered my alignments.

I’m going to rant here, just briefly, about how ACD’s Mary Morstan is probably one of the most wronged-by-their-author characters that I can think of, which is why I started writing this fic where she takes the lead.

She appears for the first time in the second-ever (authorially, not chronologically) Sherlock Holmes story, “The Sign of the Four,” and is delightful. Watson falls hard in love right away and acts like a huge dweeb about her, she’s courageous, clever, and kind. Maybe without all the panache of the later Irene Adler, but a more traditionally Victorian heroine for our more traditionally Victorian junior protagonist. Her next appearance, “The Adventure of the Crooked Man,” is significantly more tangential, but she sets the action of the story in play and is shown to be a helpful, kind figure.

And then all of a sudden Conan Doyle ships her off to visit her mother (she was established as an orphan), stops using her at all, and finally kills her off.

Not even on the page. Between books. And it’s mentioned so tangentially in two lines of “The Adventure of the Empty House” that you can easily miss it if you aren’t looking for it.

(Incidentally this sort of shit is why ACD fandom can’t agree on how many wives Watson had or who the subject of his “sad bereavement” is. The number ranges from 1-13.)

Why, Artie? Why did you do that? I mean I get if you want to park Watson back at Baker Street you probably do have to off her but you were a fairly good hack and doing it this way made you give up the opportunity to have some sort of emotional payoff in your stories. Especially since you later introduce another wife character who is in no way distinct from Mary (a niche component of ACD fandom thinks that Mary didn’t die at all and Watson “abandoning (Holmes) for a wife,” was him and Mary reconciling after an estrangement.)

Anyway. Don’t create cool characters and then kill them for no good reason. That’s my point.

_____________

The Empty Flat (Mary)

I had been widowed for three months and was rather surprised at how badly I was doing with it. The snug three-bedroom garden flat in Maida Vale had been the perfect size for a not-quite-young couple planning on children. Now it seemed vast and empty and utterly, utterly silent. When I slept, which wasn’t all that much, I did it on the sofa. Our bed still smelled faintly of his aftershave, and I couldn’t stand either to sleep there or to wash the sheets. Arthur, the blue point Siamese cat who I had bought into the marriage, would curl up on my feet and awaken me with his yowls in the morning.

To some extent I had been able to occupy my mind with work, and the requirements of my job had kept me more or less a functional adult. But the summer holidays had begun a week previous, and I was thus thrown entirely on my own resources, which were scant. What family I had left were all back in America, and the friends I had made in England seemed to have melted away since John’s death. Some days, I thought that this was due to the universal impulse to avoid reminders of mortality. Other days I decided it was more likely due to the fact that I deleted their emails and declined to answer their phone calls.

The truth, as always, was probably somewhere in the middle.

Whatever the cause, my life was empty. I ate when I remembered that I was meant to. I wore pajamas all day. I left the flat when I ran out of cat food, and at night I would turn on the tv and stare at it without paying attention until I finally sank into oblivion.

Presumably it was on one of those descents into the maelstrom of crap British late-night TV that I first took note of the murder of Ronald Adair. The dead man was vaguely familiar to me, though I had never watched any of his shows personally. He was a scion of one of those impoverished but very old-and-noble families that the English keep on out of sentiment. Showing unusual initiative for one of his class, he’d made a success of himself by appearing on a famous reality show, then on the “celebrity” version of that show, and parlaying that into one of those mysterious but apparently quite lucrative careers that consist mostly of having your picture taken.

And now, he was dead, shot in the back of the head in his own bedroom on Park Lane.

The story struck me, for some reason. John, when he’d been alive, used to take four daily papers and half a dozen weeklies, and I had not cancelled them yet. I plucked a week’s worth out of the recycling where I had tossed them, unread, and scanned through them for articles about the murder.

Ronald Adair had been alone in his bedroom, drinking neat whiskey and updating twitter, when he died. His last tweet (@JustLukeyA, “LOL C U @ Ibiza”) had been sent at 10:11 in the evening. His personal assistant had heard the sound of breaking glass, broken down the locked door that led into the bedroom, seen his body, and dialed 999 by 10:17. The bullet had been a large caliber hollow point round that had done severe damage to the back of his skull, and he had most likely died almost instantly.

The entire affair was mysterious. While the police hadn’t released any real statements, the personal assistant had been the only other person in the house at the time of the shooting, and had been released after questioning. This would suggest the shot had been fired from outside, but the window in Adair’s bedroom, while open, was on the fourth floor. There was no evidence to suggest anyone had climbed to the window, meaning that the shot had come from somewhere outside.

This made no sense at all to the gossip rags. The window faced directly over Hyde Park, and any level shot would have had to come from over a mile away. And shooting from ground level would have been impossible: the Park was open, reasonably crowded given the warmth of the summer evening, and no one had heard a thing. The American embassy was less than two hundred yards away, and even its overblown security hadn’t noted any unusual activity. Essentially, it was impossible that he could have been shot, and yet there he was.

As I read through the papers, I thought how John would have gone through them at the breakfast table to try and figure out what had happened. Although his professional interest in solving mysteries had died with Sherlock, he never lost his fascination with the more arcane sorts of crime. He would have loved this one, and I could imagine the crinkles that would form around his eyes as he would describe the possible motives, mechanisms, and solutions. It was a Sunday, and I suspected that he would have wheedled me into taking our normal long walk in the direction of the crime scene. I’d have teased him, said he was morbid, but I’d have gone, and he’d have hypothesized happily for a while.

I could so clearly imagine it, and it made me smile, despite myself. It had been difficult to like Sherlock Holmes, and very difficult to deal with the fact that their association put John into danger on a regular basis. Yet, now that they were both gone, I found myself forgiving every thoughtless insult and sleepless lonely night the detective ever gave me, since he had made John so happy.

Wishing to hang on to my happy memory, I decided, abruptly, to take the walk over to Park Lane myself, just as John and I would have done. It was past time I actually started doing things again. I would go and see where Ronald Adair had died, and I would try and solve the mystery, and I would remember John. Quickly, before I could change my mind, I showered, dressed, and left the flat.

July, in London, is one of the few times of the year when it approaches being warm enough, and it was a beautiful day. I took the long route around Kensington Park, since a straight shot would have taken me directly past St. Mary’s Hospital, where John had worked - and where his body had been taken. The trees were brilliant green, and it seemed everyone in London was sunbathing or playing football or falling in love around me.

Ronald Adair’s flat was adjacent to the Mariott, in one of the converted brick Georgian edifices that infest all of Park Lane. I had forgotten to take note of the number, but it was easily identifiable by the flowers and stuffed animals heaped up on the low fence that surrounded it. There were a fair number of gawkers, and by asking, I found which window Adair had been shot through. I was stumped, for the moment, but thinking logically, decided the best route was to see from where I could have made the shot. The busy street and the shrubbery borders of the park being ruled out, necessarily, I confined my attention to the sidewalks. I took pictures on my phone, and paced around, and tried to work out the trigonometry involved.

Then I stopped. There were half a dozen locations from which the shot could have come. It would be the hell of a task: the window was small and high, but if it were dark out and the shooter were aiming into a lit room, it would be possible. I had hunted a lot as a kid, and might have been able to make it with a rifle. John, who had been an excellent marksman, might have been able to do it with a handgun. But to do it quickly enough to avoid notice in a busy neighborhood, to do it silently? That was impossible.

All facts that were undoubtedly obvious to the police. If John had been with me, it would have been a fun little mathematical exercise. We’d have followed it with a walk home, dinner at the pub on the end of our street, and making tipsy love in the light of a summer sunset in our flat. But he wasn’t with me, and he never would be again, and the day would end as all days did, alone with the cat and the television and the dark. The whole thing was a pointless, futile exercise - a little girl’s attempt to play make-believe.

I knew, suddenly, that I was going to cry. It happened a lot, and it wasn’t an experience I wanted to share with all London, so I spun around to depart and slammed full-force into a souvenir hawker who had been just behind me. Grace has always eluded me. The pole she carried, hung with ballcaps and other tat, fell to the ground, and she gave an indignant Cockney squawk of “Oi! Watch it!” I bent to retrieve her pole and handed it back to her, mumbling, “Sorry, sorry,” and fled outright into the park, keeping my eyes firmly on the ground.

Leaving the path, I hurried through the park, not really aware of where I was going as long as it was quieter and emptier. I reached a dim copse free of children, tourists, and lovers, where I sat down, and let the tears flow.

It’s easy to see why the ancient Egyptians thought that the heart, and not the brain, was the source of love. True sadness isn’t felt in the head, it’s felt in the chest, and I could feel every choked beat of my heart as I sobbed and gasped and tried to catch my breath for what seemed like ages. But from a pragmatic point of view, I’m sure I didn’t go for long. Crying is too tiring to keep up for much time. Of course, I had come out without any tissues, so I wiped my aching eyes and puffy face on the corner of my cardigan.

At that moment, the hawker walked into the copse.

“There you are!” she called out, “Wondered where you’d got to!”

I sighed. “Look,” I said, “I’m sorry about knocking into you. It was an accident. If I’ve damaged anything I will be happy to pay-“

“Na, na, love. Just a load of rubbish. Can’t hurt it if it isn’t worth anything to start with. But I saw your face and thought you might be in some trouble.” The woman was elderly, with a mop of dyed auburn hair and a thick Docklands accent which I would love to render in text, if it didn’t look so silly. But her blue eyes were kind, and she handed me a miniature water bottle marked with “Souvenir of Hyde Park.”

“I’m – fine. I just got a little upset. Thank you.” The water was lukewarm and tasted faintly of plasticizers, but it soothed my irritated throat.

The woman seemed to take this remark as an invitation, and placing her wares on the grass, sat next to me. I have lived in London since I was twenty-five years old and I could tell what was coming. There are two main personality types among the English: the type that is intensely uncomfortable with any sort of emotion, and the type that delights in every possible expression of sentiment and wishes to hear all about it. They’re like New Yorkers in that respect.

Apparently I had found one of the latter variant.

“You get to see a bit of everything, my line of work,” she said, digging a battered packet of Silk Cut out of her pocket, “Care for one?”

I had officially quit smoking years ago, when I finished my doctorate, and stopped even having the occasional one when I started dating John, since he loathed the things. Just at that moment, though, it sounded like heaven. “Yes, thank you.”

She shook two out of the packet, and passed one to me before getting out a transparent plastic lighter. She lit hers, and then handed over the lighter. A brief breeze kicked up, and I bowed my head over the tiny flame, trying to make the cigarette catch, as she said, quietly, “Now, Mary, you need to remain calm.”

The cigarette caught, and I took that first delicious, poisonous drag, before the fact that this stranger knew my name really filtered into my mind.

I looked over, and where the woman had been, sat Sherlock Holmes.

The Sign of Four (Sherlock)

The art of disguise, as I have often remarked, is in context far more than it is in costume. Truly approximating the appearance of someone else is only possible from a distance: in ordinary situations major alterations to the face appear theatrical and attract more attention than not. If, instead, you select a character who would be entirely appropriate in the context in which he appears, you need make only minor changes to your own appearance. The observer’s mind will then do ninety per cent of your work and you will be de facto invisible. I intend to write a monograph on the topic when I have the time.

Mary Morstan may have had some subconscious understanding of this. On the occasion of our first meeting, I observed that she was wearing a carefully calibrated disguise, although I doubt she would have referred to it as such. Very high heels, but an intentionally prim and boxy suit, severe makeup and hairstyle, heavy-framed glasses. She introduced herself with a flat, middle-American accent, only slightly sharpened by years of living in London.

Just after she arrived, John walked into the flat, his arms filled with carrier bags of groceries, which he set down with great rapidity in order to shake her hand.

“Mary Morstan, my associate, John Watson. Miss Morstan,” I said, “Teaches maths at Westminster School.”

She stared at me when I said that. John, I noted, didn’t let go of her hand when her attention was distracted.

“How do you know that?” she asked.

I sighed, though in truth I always enjoy it when they ask for the reasoning.

“You’ve obviously come straight from work, meaning that you work Saturday mornings. Chalk dust on the right cuff, which is worn in a way that you only ever see with people who spend a great deal of time writing on blackboards. There are traces of red ink on the heel of your hand and a splotch near the tip of your index finger. Thus, teacher.”

As I’d expected, she dropped John’s hand to examine her own.

“You took the tube to get here, and in those shoes you probably didn’t walk far before you boarded at Westminster station: there’s construction digging up the street there and the fresh splashes of yellowish mud on your left stocking are quite distinctive. Half a dozen schools in that area, but your ensemble suggests older students and moneyed parents. Hence, Westminster School.”

The last was a gloss, as her ensemble suggested nothing of the sort. It said quite plainly “I teach older boys.” Her skirt was unfashionably long, her blouse was buttoned up to the neck, and her jacket was boxy in order to conceal her rather large breasts. Having attended an all-boys senior school, I recognized the style, and the motivation behind it. But since I was undoubtedly going to receive the ”abrasive” and “show-off” lectures after her departure, I saw no reason to add the “inappropriate” one, and simplified the matter.

“And… maths?”

I sighed again, this time sincerely. The easy ones are never any fun.

“There’s a graphics calculator in the right pocket of your overcoat.”

At that, she laughed. Giggled, really. But almost instantly, she caught herself, cleared her throat, and dropped back into the lower vocal register that she had previously affected. Everything I could ever have wished to know about Mary Morstan’s character was thus revealed in the first five minutes of our interview. Nature had given her a respectable brain and deposited it in a body that was small, blonde, and rather fluffy. Her disguise did a reasonable job of concealing this, but she would spend the rest of her life trying to make people take her seriously.

“That’s amazing,” she said, “I read in your blog, Doctor Watson-“

“John, please,” he interrupted. Oh dear.

“John. I read about this kind of analysis but it’s remarkable to see it in real life.”

“Can be a bit creepy if you’re not used to it, though,” John replied, which I thought extremely unfair, given that I had been very polite and not mentioned that her teeth demonstrated her adolescent bulimia or that her fingers and eyebrows strongly implied a mild obsessive-compulsive condition. I maintained my dignity, and said only,

“Thank you, John. State your case, Miss Morstan.”

“Right. Well. I suppose I have to go back to the beginning. My father, Thomas Morstan, was English. I was actually born in Sussex, but when I was two my parents divorced and my mother and I moved back to America. I never got to see him much, growing up, but he always kept in touch, by phone and letters, and then by email when that came around. Sent birthday gifts and that sort of thing. Ten years ago I finished grad school, and he offered to buy me a ticket to come and meet him in London. I hadn’t seen him for several years at that point and I didn’t have a job so, obviously, I said yes.”

“Mmm. Continue.”

“He’d booked us rooms at the Langham, which I thought was much too expensive for him, but he said it was a treat for my graduation.”

“What was his profession, then?”

“He started off in the Army, but he resigned his commission after the first Gulf War and joined the diplomatic service.”

“As?”

“An attaché. Just an office job, basically. Visas and helping distressed tourists and so on.”

“And his rank in the army?”

“Ah, he ended as a Lieutenant Colonel, I believe.

“Go on.”

“I flew to London, expecting him to pick me up at Heathrow, but he wasn’t there. No answer when I tried to call him. I took a cab to the Langham and asked if he’d checked in, and he had, but there was no answer when they called up to his room. Eventually they agreed to open the door – he’d had a heart attack a few years before, and I was getting very upset - and all of his things were in there, but no sign of him. I never saw him again.”

“Interesting. Did the police investigate?” John was patting her shoulder, sympathetically, which seemed excessive given that the death (and yes, it was death, almost certainly) was ten years in the past. She should have been well beyond it by this point. But upon closer observation, I could see that he was right: a slight swimminess around the eyes and the set of the jawbone indicating gritted teeth. Oedipal complex. She replied, calmly enough.

“Yes. They didn’t find anything.”

“Of course they didn’t. They never do. Did your father have any acquaintances in London?”

“Only one that they could find: a Major Sholto. He had no idea Dad was even in town.”

“Mmm. I doubt a disappearance ten years ago would incline you to seek the services of a consulting detective today. What has changed?”

Morstan cleared her throat and opened the battered leather attache case that had been sitting at her feet. From a manila folder, she removed a broadsheet page of yellowing newsprint, with a quarter-page sized advertisement in the upper right hand corner circled in red ink. The paper was the Omaha World-Herald, the date was May 4, 2004, and the advertisement simply stated:

“If Mary Morstan, daughter of Captain Thomas Morstan, will contact the address below, it will be to her advantage” followed by an email address.

“Half a dozen of my friends from high school saw this and forwarded it on to me.”

“And what did you do?”

“I sent them an email. I said I was Thomas Morstan’s daughter, that I’d relocated to London, and asked what they wanted.”

“Any reply?”

“No. And when I sent on a follow-up a few days later, it bounced. It was just Hotmail… could have been anyone. But then a few days after that, I received this in the mail.”

Reaching back into the attaché case, she pulled out a small pouch made of black jeweler’s felt. Loosening the drawstring, she tipped something small and square into her palm, and passed it over to me.

I could hear John inhale sharply through is teeth as I reached for my lens. Mary said, wryly, “Yes, that’s pretty much how I felt. It’s a three carat, blue-white, flawless diamond. Probably dug up in India, if that’s any help. It’s worth around $150,000, retail.”

“Unusual cut,” I murmured, looking at the magnified lump of crystallized charcoal, “It’s called the-“

“The old mine cut,” interrupted Mary, “Meaning it was most likely faceted sometime between 1700 and 1900. I know. After the police gave it back to me, I had it appraised at Sotheby’s.”

“You went to the police again?”

“I did.”

“Any good?”

“Not really. They hung onto it a while, but nobody reported any similar gems lost or stolen, and then they gave it back. Apparently it’s “not illegal to be given things.” So after that I was on my own. But I still didn’t feel right about it, so I had the appraisal to see if a real professional could find anything more useful.”

“Well done,” said John, heartily. He was in a fair way to make an idiot of himself over this woman, although she seemed flattered by the compliment.

“Thank you,” Mary replied, “And then, the thing is, Mr. Holmes, that it didn’t stop with this. Every year since then, on May 14, I get another one of these in my mail. I’ve changed addresses and it didn’t make a difference. Perfectly matched, very expensive diamonds. I left the rest of them in my safe deposit box: even carrying one of them around makes me edgy. And then, yesterday, there was this.”

She passed over a letter. Fine, high linen content paper, no watermark, 10-point… Trebuchet font, printed on an HP laserjet printer. It read, “Be at the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre on Saturday, July 9 at seven o'clock. If you are distrustful, bring two friends. You are a wronged woman, and shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all will be in vain. Your unknown friend.”

There was no signature or address.

“Did you keep the envelope?”

“Yes, here. And here,” she said, passing over a small heap of padded mailers sealed into plastic zip-topped bags, “Are the envelopes the diamonds came in.”

“Well, you do have the right instincts. Not much to see here, though… the letter and the last three packages had their labels off the same printer. The first four were from another. It stretches credulity to think that there are separate groups doing this so we’ll assume for the moment it was simply a matter of replacing an outdated device. The mailers can be bought anywhere. Various London postmarks… thumbprint on this one, Miss Morstan, may I see your right hand please? Thank you. Your thumbprint. I’ll put them under the microscope later but I doubt there’ll be that much to learn.”

“And you’ve no idea at all who may have sent these? No… admirers, things like that?” John asked.

She laughed at that. “Generally, when men are interested in me they go more for things like asking me to dinner rather than anonymously sending me a million dollars in gems over the course of seven years. I’m not that unapproachable.” I rolled my eyes at their stale flirtation, although I don’t believe either of them noticed it.

“But…” she continued, more hesitantly, “Mr. Holmes, do you think that there’s any possibility that these are from my father?”

John was glaring at me, and so instead of saying “Of course not. He’s been dead for ten years,” replied “I’m afraid it’s very unlikely.”

“I see,” Mary replied, quietly. She drew a deep breath and continued, “Well, regardless, I had planned to go… unless you can give me a real reason not to. If whoever it is wants to hurt me it seems like they’ve chosen a really baroque way of going about it. I mean, they already know where I live so it’s not like there’s much point in avoiding them. And I’m getting sick of this mystery.”

“There are, however, a few points of interest in it. As you are allowed to bring two friends and John is already planning on accompanying you, I believe I shall join him.”

She darted her gaze back and forth between us, smiling, “Really? You will? Both of you? Oh, thank you, thank you so much! This whole saga has just been so shady and I didn’t know anyone who’d be any help with this kind of thing. It’s such a weight off my mind. Thank you.”

She was gushing, and her voice had inevitably pitched up again. I responded calmly with, “Yes, well. Can you be here by five thirty on Saturday? And leave us your contact information.”

“Of course!”

And, writing an email address and a phone number on a sheet of scrap paper, she disappeared in a whirl of gratitude.

John rose to escort her to the door. I remained seated, and began texting.

“That, he said, picking up his carrier bags and taking them into the kitchen, “Was a very attractive woman.”

“Hadn’t noticed.”

“Really. I knew you were a human adding machine but I never thought you were actually dead. Sherlock, it’s an objective fact! She’s got a beautiful smile.”

“Very short.”

“Oh, come on. She’s an inch or two shorter than I am.”

While this statement would not actually exclude “short” from consideration, I simply raised my eyebrows and replied, “Women have developed this remarkable technology called shoes which they use when they wish to increase their height, John. She’s no more than five feet tall.”

“Yes, well, shortness is not a handicap, Sherlock. And she’s clever.”

“She’s adequate.”

“And brave. She was going to walk by herself into a threatening situation just because she wanted to find out the truth.”

“So are you. So am I, for that matter. I fail to see why it’s so much more meritorious when it’s her doing it.”

“I’m a combat-trained military reservist, and you are England’s only consulting detective. It’s our job. She’s a very small maths teacher.”

I set down the mobile and glared at him, “Mary Morstan, John, is in no need of your protection. This affair of the diamonds is a mere personal intrigue. She’ll meet with the woman and resolve it without the benefit of your attention.”

He paused from putting the potatoes in the bin and inquired, “It’s a woman sending the diamonds? You’re sure?”

In general, I don’t admit which of my deductions I’m certain of and which are (very good) guesses. Maintaining a reputation as infallible isn’t a trivial exercise. But John had repeatedly earned the truth from me, and so I said, “No, I’m not. I’m reasonably confident, given the font choice, the computer used, and the wording, that it’s a woman, and a rather melodramatic one. But there’s more – uncertainty in these things than I would like.”

John chuckled. “I should take a picture of you right now and call it ‘Sherlock Holmes admitting he might be wrong’. They’d love to have it down at the Yard. So why take the case if you don’t think there’s any mystery?”

“Oh, there is one, just not the “why is someone sending me expensive gemstones” one she came in with. Can you log on to the GRO database and look something up for me? My email address and password will get you in.”

“Sure,” he said, walking back into the sitting room and picking up his laptop, “What?”

“Deaths. Start by looking for “Sholto” in late April, early May of 2005. If that doesn’t bring up anything, look for ex-military, older, in London, same time frame.”

“Right. What are you going to do?”

I held up my mobile. “I’ve done it. I’ve sent a text to brother Mycroft.”

“Why?”

“Watson, when a man leaves a high rank role in the army to become a low-end functionary in the diplomatic service, what does that suggest?”

“Er, PTSD?”

“No. It suggests spy. I want to find out exactly what Thomas Morstan did for a living.”

A week after that, Mary Morstan arrived punctually back at Baker Street. She’d replaced the dowdy suit with trousers and a blue blouse cut low in the front, left off her glasses, and undone her severe bun to let her hair hang over her shoulders. She had chosen flat shoes this time, which was a relief, as it showed the target of all this display was John rather than me.

Six hours after that, I saw that the display had been successful. I had to physically restrain John from going to her as she was handcuffed and loaded into a black maria for the murder of Barbara Sholto. As typical of Americans, she was explaining loudly and slowly to the arresting officer that there had been a terrible misunderstanding, clearly expecting this to rectify the situation.

“John, look,” I said, sotto voce, as I pinned him to the wall of the alley, “If you go over there you’ll only be arrested too. Athelney Jones has already picked up the entire domestic staff and Theresa Sholto and would be only too happy to increase his bag. The man’s an idiot, even by the standards of the metropolitan police. We’ll text Lestrade to let him know, and the worst she’ll have is a few uncomfortable hours, but we need to be on our way if we’re going to actually catch the killer which is the only thing that will do her any good.”

Even that early, I suspected that Mary would not be as swiftly forgotten as the rest of the girlfriends.

Three days later, Mary was a free woman again. The lost crown jewels of the Russian Tsars, of which she had been offered a one-third share, were scattered along six miles of the bottom of the Thames. She had accepted this development with equanimity. As she said to John, “Even if they hadn’t been lost, it’s not like I was expecting to keep them. I’m sure there’s still some Romanovs somewhere who’d like to have them back. The whole time Teresa was telling me the story of how she got them I kept thinking “Yeah, this kind of stuff doesn’t happen in real life.””

I heard, while they were falling in love, enough of “The Things Mary Says” to gag a cat. I heard about Mary’s feelings on politics, the arts, and current events. I heard about Mary’s emotional turmoil on the discovery that her father was an intelligence agent who had taken the pay of so many competing nations and organizations that even now nobody could say who he had really worked for. And that was apart from his being a jewel thief. I heard enough recitations of her personal charm, intelligence, and integrity to gag a dog.

Not being enamored of her, I was able to observe her far more clearly. I saw that she omitted to mention during the investigation that she was already in receipt of seven perfectly-matched flawless three carat blue-white diamonds, pulled from a coronet made for some forgotten Tsarina. I saw no reason to bring it up to anyone, if she had overcome her scruples about receiving stolen property. I would rather the money have gone to John than to anyone else, and it was clear by that point that it would.

Over the next months, Mary incorporated herself into John’s life, and thus, into mine. I grew accustomed to the scent of her cosmetics in the flat’s shared w.c. (she was a disgustingly early riser and had usually gone before I woke up), and the sounds of their post-sex conversation from the upstairs bedroom (they kept the actual lovemaking quiet, out of politeness, but the after-chat was quite distinct). I drew the line, however, at allowing her to tidy the place. She didn’t understand the system and would have made a hash of it.

Ultimately, just over six months after the day she rang the bell at Baker Street, I found myself ordering a round of tequila shots at the bar of the White Lion and slipping chloral hydrate into three of them. Earlier, Mary had balanced on tiptoe to kiss my cheek and whisper in my ear “Can you please try not to let them get him too drunk?” I carried the round back to the table where a flushed and grinning but not yet weaving Watson listened as a dozen of his Army and medical school friends speculated on whether Mary would qualify him as “Four-Continents Watson” or if the actual location of the coitus mattered more than the origin of the lady in question. I passed the shot glasses around, judging that the administration of three Mickey Finns to three particular members of the party would bring the night to a graceful but early end in about an hour.

I judged, as usual, correctly. After decanting the three dazed ringleaders into a cab, the party broke up, and John and I made it back to Baker Street with only slightly more difficulty than usual. The stairs did give him some trouble, but ultimately I was able to successfully deposit him on the couch. I shook two aspirin from the bottle and handed them to him along with a glass of water. He took both uncomplainingly.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. For whatever you did back there. I’d hate to be a mess tomorrow.”

“I looked up the duties of the best man and apparently making sure the groom is present and presentable are tops on the list.”

“And you even agreed to wear a tie!” This non sequitur amused him, and he chuckled at his own joke for a moment, before sobering (comparatively), and staring around the flat. “I’m going to miss all this.”

“No, you won’t,” I predicted, climbing the stairs to fetch the blankets off his bed.

“I will!” he insisted, “I’m happy, really happy, about Mary. She’s wonnerful. But I’ll miss this life. And you.”

“It’s not as though I’ll be dead. You’ll be ten minutes away. I’ll be sure to call you whenever I need my cases blogged.”

“I love you, mate, you know that? Even though you are- just such a prick.”

I smiled and pitched the blankets at his head. “I do. Tosser. Now go to sleep. You have a busy day ahead of you.”

He was out and snoring, wearing everything but his shoes, five minutes later. I refilled his water glass and left it on the end table.

At noon the next day I (wearing not only a tie but my entire morning suit) stood at John’s left shoulder and watched Mary Morstan walk down the aisle. I doubt she saw me: her eyes were fixed on John, who was sober, alert, and in full dress uniform, as requested. The expression of love and joy on her face obliged me to concede that, at the moment, she was in fact a very attractive woman.

I don’t think I could have given him up to anyone who loved him even a bit less.

At the reception I gave a speech which everyone said was very interesting, and drank one and a half glasses of inferior Prosecco. I watched them cut the cake, noting that the new Mrs. Watson was far more comfortable with John’s ceremonial saber than he was. She’d lost the callosities of the dedicated fencer, but the skill remained. Then, as Molly Hooper was prowling around with an eye towards dancing and my actual duties were complete, I slipped out of the hall and walked back to Baker Street.

I stopped in at the chemists and bought a packet of cigarettes, then let myself into the flat. There was a peculiar sensory illusion that it was larger and emptier than normal: nonsense, of course. John was routinely absent when I was there. The fact that the absence would now be permanent didn’t alter the actual physical size of the place.

There was always work, and heedless of my dress clothes, I went to it. Three months later, I “died.” And three years after that, I returned to a London which seemed larger and emptier than I recalled. Sensory illusion again. The softer emotions have a very negative impact upon accurate observation, and the world in general doesn’t change at all when a single person drops out of it. On an individual level, though, a single death can rip the bottom out of everything. Such was the case with Mary Watson, who I encountered on a bright August day in Park Lane. She’d lost a stone in weight, which was significant at her height, and was wearing an oversized camel-colored cardigan which I recognized with a pang as being one of Watson’s. She had, in general, the appearance of a child’s toy where the stuffing had been pulled out. I approached her, unseen, as her attention was on Ronald Adair’s flat. When she lost her composure and fled, I hesitated. Then I followed. There were two reasons for this. The first, as always, was John. I couldn’t envision a situation where he would not have come to the aid of a crying woman. In the particular case of Mary, he’d have sprinted to it.

As for the second, well… On the occasion of the case of Neville St. Claire, John had said to me that, “People in trouble come to my wife like birds to a light-house.”

And I truly had nowhere else to go. Chapter 3: The Death of Ronald Adair (Mary)

In general, I am not a fainter, and I didn’t faint then. But a grey mist swirled in front of my eyes, and when it subsided I noticed I had dropped the cigarette onto the well-clipped Hyde Park grass. I picked it up with numb, nerveless fingers. With my other hand I reached out to Sherlock and pushed on the flesh of his bicep. He was reassuringly solid.

“So I haven’t gone mad.”

“No.”

“Not dead, then?”

“Yes.”

I took a drag from the Silk Cut and asked, “Does anyone else know besides me?”

“Mycroft.”

“Of course.”

“And Molly Hooper.”

“That bitch!” I exclaimed, before I could stop myself. I wouldn’t quite have called Molly a friend. We didn’t see much of one another, but her quiet competence had gotten me through the hellscape of the funeral. I found it startlingly painful to believe that she had been concealing a secret like this- especially from John.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at me and said, “You’re harsher on her than on Mycroft?”

“There is nothing that I would put past one of the Holmes boys.”

He sighed, and drew on his own cigarette. The sun dipped below the treetops and set us into shadows.

“Sherlock,” I asked, eventually, “What do you want?”

“I need a gun.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Of course you do.”

“Mary, please-“ and he hesitated. He and I had never been more than “friendly”, and he certainly had never been inclined to ask any favors of me.

“You’re still in trouble, aren’t you?” I accused.

He hesitated again.

“Yes.”

“Right,” I said, brushing off my pants and rising, “We’ll talk. Baker Street, or our place? My place.”

“Baker Street is being watched.”

“Can we take a cab?”

“Probably.”

It was actually very impressive, how he collapsed his face into that of the Cockney souvenir hawker. He even seemed to lose several inches in height. The stage lost an excellent actor when he decided to go into detective work.

We walked in silence back to Park Lane, and took a cab (after he’d dismissed the first one that tried to stop). He sat next to me in silence, until a horrible thought overtook me, and I said, “Oh, God, has anyone told you? About-“

“Your… bereavement? Yes. I was… very sorry to hear of it.”

It was a relief. It had already happened several times: some colleague or acquaintance who I hadn’t seen in a while would, in the course of ordinary chit-chat, drop, “Oh, and how’s John doing?” into the conversation. And then I would have to watch their faces change from polite disinterest to horror and pity as I gave them the news. I would say it was the worst thing I had to do, but I had developed an entire new suite of worst things in recent months and was somewhat spoiled for choice.

We didn’t speak any further until I let us into the flat.

“Have a seat. I’ll just go get it.”

John, given that he was occasionally prone to physically violent nightmares, had always kept the Sig Sauer semi-automatic securely locked away in a box in the master bedroom closet. I retrieved it, and returned to the living room. Sherlock had installed himself in his old favorite spot on the sofa, and Arthur had climbed onto the arm next to him. They were watching each other with matching expressions of flat-eyed distaste.

“I don’t know where the key is,” I said, passing the box over.

“It’s fine,” he replied. And indeed, he materialized a lockpick from somewhere and opened it within ten seconds.

He’d removed his auburn wig, although he still had on an excellent shade of lipstick for his complexion: a glossy transparent berry-stain. It was almost the only color on his face. Whatever he’d been up to, it was doing no favors for his health. I wouldn’t have thought he could have gotten thinner or paler, barring his contracting tuberculosis or vampirism. And yet, he had managed. At some point, he’d cut his hair off close to the scalp, and it was faintly peppered with grey. Sherlock was a year or two younger than I, but at the moment I could see what he would be like as an old man.

“You know that thing’s illegal, right?” I said.

“It’s not something that’s a real concern just at the moment,” he returned, calmly.

“It should probably be cleaned. It’s not been touched since… well, I’m not sure of the last time John cleaned it.”

“It will be fine. They’re very simple instruments and Watson was always over-cautious. I didn’t clean my old one for years and it never had any problems.”

“That’s because John would secretly do it for you every few months.”

One of the small pleasures in life that everyone should get to experience at least once is to watch Sherlock Holmes’ face when he is informed that one of the normals has gotten something past him. I had to suppress a flicker of a smile at how thunderous he looked.

“Look,” I said, “Give it here and I’ll do it. The cleaning kit’s on the top shelf above the stove in the kitchen, if you’ll reach it down for me.”

I could hear him rummaging around in the cabinet as I released the clip, disconnected the slide, and popped out the spring. I laid everything down on the coffee table and accepted the kit when he returned and gave it to me. When I sighted down the barrel, I could see ample dust, and a fair bit of corrosion from the soggy English atmosphere. It only made sense, really. When Sherlock had died, John had lost any professional reason to carry a gun, and gained a strong personal reason to lock it away and leave it to rust. Dipping the cleaning swab into the wide-mouthed jar of solvent, I began passing it through the barrel.

“’In a self-defense situation, there will be many things you can’t control. The condition of your weapon is not one of them,’” I quoted.

“Did Watson say that?”

“No, though he’d have agreed with the sentiment. That was my stepfather. He was the one who taught me about shooting.”

Sherlock blinked at me. “I didn’t know you had a stepfather.”

“Like everyone else, I do actually have an objective existence apart from the parts you find interesting, Sherlock.”

I sounded bitter, but I didn’t care. I had been the one to put John back together after Sherlock’s quote-unquote death, and having him sitting calmly on my sofa irked.

“I only meant,” he replied, “That he wasn’t at your wedding.”

“He has congestive heart failure and travel is very difficult for him!” I snapped,

“Sherlock, why the hell did you do this?”

“Well, I had in fact been exposed as a fraud and-“

“Bullshit. You have been more or less cleared for two years and I’m sure your brother told you that. D.I. Lestrade had to demonstrate that you weren’t, in general, a criminal, because he wanted to keep his job. Fifty people, including me, by the by, came forward to tell stories of how you had solved cases that you couldn’t possibly have faked. The only real mystery remaining is this whole affair with Richard Brook, and frankly the best person to justify that would have been you.”

He scrubbed his hands through the bristles of his hair. “There was more.”

“So tell me.”

Sherlock sighed, and stared off into the space over my left shoulder. “When the head of an organization is removed, the organization generally remains. John Kennedy is shot, the United States persists. The death of Jim Moriarty left a thriving multinational criminal organization with a vacancy at the top for which there were numerous keen candidates. I have spent the last three years attempting to take advantage of this situation and dismantle its operations entirely.”

Something about the cold way he said “dismantle” made me think I really didn’t want to hear much about this process. I asked, “And you couldn’t have done that in your own persona?”

“No. Because- Moriarty was in many ways a remarkable man.”

The tone of this statement was pure admiration, and I rubbed my forehead where I could feel the old familiar “Sherlock” headache coming on. “How’s that?” I asked.

“I don’t want to say he founded a cult of personality, but in his immediate circle were several men who genuinely did admire him and support him in his goals, as opposed to the ordinary hangers-on who simply were in it for the profit.”

“So, his friends.”

“What?”

I sighed. “Never mind. Continue.”

#quarto's fics #warstan #Sherlock&Mary #major character death #Mary morstan #mary morstanning #ACD Mary in BBC Sherlock #which used to be a thing

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boogiewrites · 6 years ago

Text

Bad Bride

Word Count: 7700+

Summary: A power hungry woman finds herself suddenly having feelings beyond the professional for another gangster while engaged to another man. She decides to form a plan to secure her and her husbands rival, Alfie Solomons', place in the underground of London. She doesn't tell Alfie of her plan to get them everything they could want until her wedding day to his rival. How will he react when she confesses it's been for them the entire time? A fun, smutty little one shot.

Warnings/Tags: Language. Explicit Sexual Content: Dominant Alfie. Dom/Sub undertones. Dirty Talk. Getting off on being bad. Some angst, some fluff.

Click on my screen name, then go to my Mobile Masterlist in my bio on my blog page for my other works. (Had to do this since Tumblr killed links, sorry.)

It was your wedding day. By all usual circumstances, this should’ve meant it was the happiest day of your life and it wasn’t that you were unhappy. It was just the source of your happiness for the occasion was rather, well, unusual.

You were the picture of a blushing bride, but that was all a facade. You just happened to be very good at pretending to be things you weren’t. Your dress was perfect, your quaint Christian ceremony and lavish reception thanks to your wealthy husband was all a more simple and sane woman could’ve wanted. But you didn’t believe yourself to be either of those things.

You could blame your upbringing, your absent father, your troubled mother who was now wasting away in a sanitarium. But you knew what evil you did. You felt compulsory in your deviant behavior at times, yes, but you were always in control of it.

Growing up with a mentally ill mother and a father that only showed up in the middle of the night, pissed and high on gambling earnings with a birthday present that was 6 months too late had caused you to have to form a lot of layers to protect yourself from the world. With no money, you had to work early in your life. You soon found that money by any legal means was not enough. So you turned to crime. It was simple at first, petty theft and learning to manipulate men. But this set the tone for how you would end up where you were today. A gangsters wife.

Mind you, this wasn’t the first gangster to have proposed to you. You had made your way through them and too easily so. Once one had you, with a simple glance another wanted to steal you away. So you’d made your way up the ladder and here you were. But not for long. Not if your intention to kill your husband went to plan.

You had been rather selfish for most of your adult life, as growing up and fending for yourself can sometimes make you. You were always looking out for number one. Which was always you. With your air of confidence, your wild card behavior, and now your business mindedness as your ownership of a warehouse with a yard by the canal had made you of high interest to smuggling gangsters getting their alcohol to America during the prohibition. You were willing to work with them and with you being a woman, the police simply didn’t suspect you.

This was how you’d met the man that was on your mind on your wedding day, Alfie Solomons. And he was not your husband. He had offered to be at one point and even though it was nowhere near the first time you’d been proposed to it was your favorite out of them all. You had found yourself in a bit of trouble with a rival gang of the Jews. As you went to Alfie for a chat about your problem, as he was the smartest and most clever man you knew, still was, he rather clumsily offered to marry you to protect you. You were surprised. You hadn’t taken Solomons to be the sentimental sort but as your devious self found his eyes soft, his posture unguarded you pried into him with questions. He admitted to having a rather unusual stirring of feelings for you. He admitted he wasn’t happy about it, as these things, these emotions of the heart as he’d put it, they complicate things. And looking back at that moment, you saw things from your time spent together that made sense in a different light than they had. He had favored you over other criminals but in your ego, which was large, you had assumed he knew which side to play for and the best one was yours.

You tell him you’ll think about it. And having never been married up to that point, you needed time to consider all your options for how to deal with your problems. As marriage wasn’t a temporary thing that was easy to get out of. That was unless your husband died.

In a bold meeting with the gangster than you now called your husband, the biggest rival and enemy to Solomons it turned out, you had thrown your cards out on the table, metaphorically, and also yourself at him. With your physical ability, mental capability and emotional control you found the man wrapped around your finger very quickly. He proposed and you did hesitate.

You went to Alfie, told him of the proposition, as you hadn’t yet given him an answer. And that answer was no. You tell him you’re going to marry the other man. He’s furious, even though he tries to hide it. He expresses a softness towards you, something he does not do and you respond to his offer to help you by marrying the man that was an enemy to you both? You saw him pace his office, that handsome and heavy brow low over the eyes that could cut right through you. His plush mouth tight, that silver tongue rubbing over his teeth in thought. He stares at you and neither of you backs down. It wasn’t in either of your natures. As he gives in first with a heavy sigh, he gestures his hand towards the door for you to leave, and you set in motion a plan.

No man had ever interested you much. Not in any meaningful capacity anyway. Some were excellent fucks, some were funny, but none made you feel anything. That night in his office as he fearlessly faced you, never breaking as you hurt him emotionally, you felt something stir inside you. You were used to men reacting when you did these sorts of things. They’d scream or they’d throw things, grab you or try to kill you. He did nothing except stare into you, then let you go. In your experience men weren’t always capable of letting things go. When they felt hurt for whatever reason they lashed out and lost control. You’d never turned down a proposal and come out unscathed. But Alfie stayed cool. He let you go. He didn’t threaten you or his enemy. And ever since that night you had been planning on thanking him by killing his rival and your now husband. You’d have his money, his real estate and without his leadership, for what it was worth, his men would fall apart. This was your plan to take him down. And so far it was going swimmingly.

You sent a bipartisan messenger boy to Alfie, with the request for him to be at a small work shed on the grounds of where you were having your wedding. The boy that came back had no response, saying that the man had looked at it most curiously and sent him away. You didn’t know if he’d be there but you were setting into motion the plans to find out.

After a round of spinning and dancing, you see the sun setting through the windows of the grand hall your reception was being held in. You find your husband and with your usual feminine touch, you sigh and tell him the festivities are just a little too much and if he didn’t mind, might you have a lie down for a moment and eat something so you could recuperate from your excitement. He, of course, agrees, as he did with most things you said.

Skipping away to the dressing room you’d gotten ready in, you lock the door behind you. You open the window and gather your dress, sneaking out into the bushes. Under the cover of a darkening sky, you move through the decorative flora of the gardens and towards the work shed.

You look from around a large manicured bush, seeing Alfie in his usual daunting hat, dark suit, and cane. He has another man with him, and you couldn’t blame him, he had no clue what he was walking into. You sigh and smile, knowing he was smart but was willing to let his curiosity get the better of him. And you could appreciate that sort of combination. A cautiously open mind.

You emerge from behind the plant, your dress gathered in your hands to keep it from the dirt. The hand of the man behind him goes to his gun. Alfie does not flinch.

“What are you doin' 'ere? I’m busy. Shouldn’t you be off show boatin' about with your new husband? Right twat he is.” He declares angrily, a brow quirked and looking away from your wide eyes as you approach him.

“I’m the one who invited you, silly.” you reply with a soft laugh.

“You?”

“Yes.” You state obviously. “Why else’s would I be here at the advertised time? Wouldn’t I be at my reception with my twat husband?” You give him the same attitude filled face back.

His eyes narrow and he looks You up and down. “Trouble in paradise already eh? Can’t say I’m surprised” he snarks.

“On the contrary, today has gone to plan so far.” You give a casual shrug.

“So my bein' here is part of your plan?”

“A very big part.” you speak slowly and purposely.

He was highly intrigued, trying to not be distracted by how lovely you looked in the dress. “And what’s that then?" he demands.

“Could we speak inside?” You ask, walking towards the small isolated brick sheds faded green painted wooden door. “I’d rather not be seen with you out here.”

“With ya husbands enemy on your wedding day...I’d certainly say not.” He nods to the other man who hides and waits outside. He shuts the door behind him, the space small and all but one wall covered in hanging and propped up gardening equipment.

“Ya bring me here to kill me? A wedding present for your husband?” He rolls his eyes.

“No. The opposite really.” You say with a mischievous smile.

“Ya gonna help me live then?” He snorts out a laugh.

“Actually yes.” you grin.

“I know ya love your codes and like to think yourself to be mysterious but I don’t have the patience today and shouldn’t you be getting back to your, I'm certain, very expensive party?” he shakes his head with judgment clear on his face.

“No hurry for me. I told him the excitement from the festivities was getting to me and I needed a little lie-down.” A more wicked smile appears.

“And he believed that?” He lets out a short laugh.

“He believes anything I say.”

“Then he doesn’t know you at all does he?”

“No he does not.” You state plainly and Alfie's interest is rising, you can tell. “Not the real me. Not like you do Alfie.”

“Me? I’ve not spoken or done business with you in months. What do I know?” the anger breaks through in his voice.

“Doesn’t matter if we haven't seen each other, does it? I would bet that I’ve been on your mind as much as you’ve been on mine.” the coo in your voice frustrates him and reacts accordingly.

“What’s to say none?” he tilts his head and presses his lips together defiantly.

“Oh, Alfie. You don’t have to lie. It’s just us here." he hears you tease.

“Why would I lie?” he barks back.

“Because I hurt your feelings. And no one hurts Alfie Solomons feelings, do they?” you give him a little pout.

“No they do not. Not even you.” his chin wags as he sells his point.

“Again with the lying Alfie.” you scold. “I brought you here tonight to end the lies between us.” you roll your eyes and sigh.

“I ain’t lyin'. You made your choice 'n there was fuck all I could do about it, yeah? So I showed you the fuckin door dinnit I?” his posture is stiff and you can tell he's set to defend himself still.

“But not before you stared at me for a few minutes.” You smirk.

“I was trying to read you. See if there was somethin' there behind your eyes. I was wrong.” his eyes are cold to you now.

“You’re wrong about that. You did see something.” your voice is soft to offset his anger.

“What?” He asks more angrily.

“Me.” You say simply, stepping closer. “You saw me.”

“You were standin' right fuckin there." he gestures to the floor with his hand.

“Let your guard down for a fucking second Alfie, Jesus Christ. You’re so god damned stubborn sometimes.” you say with your lips in a tense line. “If I felt it I know you had to feel it. You looked into me that night. You didn’t look AT me. You looked into me, studied me like no one had before.” your voice gives away your honesty and he's confused by it.

He lets out a sigh and looks away. “Feel what?”

“That connection. That spark between us.” you lean closer to invade his space, make him face you.

He lets out a condescending laugh. “You think you’re gonna try 'n seduce me on the day of your marriage to another man? My enemy? Are you daft? If you’d wanted a fuck love you just had to ask, or accept my proposal. But ya didn’t. So you and ya husband can fuck off. You’re on their side now. Why the fuck did you call me here?”

“To tell you you’re wrong.” you state assuredly.

“Not many have the balls to do that mind you.” he points a finger in your face.

“Have you ever known me to be short on them?” You put your hands on your hips.

“No.”

“Then will you stop your defensive whingin' and let me answer you?” your voice rises.

He doesn’t say a word, he clasps his hands in front of him.

“That night. When you looked at me I felt something.” You nod earnestly. “And men don’t make me feel things Alfie. But you aren’t like most men are you?”

“I’d bloody hope not.” he answers with an exasperated tone.

“You’re not. You’re smart and clever and despite your reputation, when you go off the cuff I believe you to know exactly what you’re doing. You control your emotions. And no men I’ve ever met have controlled themselves the way you do. You are a rare one Alfie.”

“But you married that dimwitted cunt instead? You’re making all the sense in the world mate.” he rolls his eyes and sighs again.

“I married him for you.” You say more seriously.

“And how the fuck does that work?” he almost laughs.

“Because I married him so I could kill him. Something you couldn't get away with.” you bite back.

This grabs his attention. “And what the fuck does this have to do with me?”

“I knew that night when I told you no, that I would be killing him. As an apology to you. I can take his money, his real estate, and his businesses down. I can delete him from history and you can have it all.”

He looks You over inquisitively. “What are you on about?”

“I don’t want him. I want you. But I can’t let a man threaten me and get away with it. So I plan on killing him and taking everything.” he see's the passion in your eyes.

“Sounds like that benefits you more than me." he nods his head at you.

“Not if I marry you.” You state with pouted lips.

He narrows his eyes and tries to decide if he trusts you or not. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I see a great deal of potential in you. I like how you do business and I like you.” you answer earnestly.

“Oh, now you like me eh? You should work on ya fuckin' timin' there.” he wags his finger at you again.

“I do. I have ever since that night. But more importantly, we both hate my husband.”

“I do hate the fucker.”

“And I’ve had to be with him while thinking of you. So, believe me, I hate him more than you for what I’ve dealt with these past months." you spit out.

“I might believe that.” he side eyes you.

“I can have financial safety for myself if I kill him. I can offer the demolishing of your biggest competition. You can take over the businesses that will be in my name. I believe we could be a true force to be reckoned with.” you look away almost bashfully at your confession.

“But why love?” his voice softens slightly.

“I’ve stated my reasons and you're only looking for excuses to not believe me now.” You say defiantly and he grins. “I like you. As a person and a businessman. I want to help you. And I saw that I hurt you when I said no. And I know you put yourself out there by asking me to marry you and confessing you had feelings for me and I’m trying to repay the favor by doing something you can’t.” your voice is quiet but sincere.

“I could kill him if I wanted to." he scrunches his face in defense of himself.

“Yes, but not get away with it. Not and also get his money and businesses. Not make his dim-witted men fall apart in their functioning. You’d get thrown in jail, I won’t.” you lean in closely to speak softly to him to use your charms against him.

“What makes you so sure you'll get away with it?” he gives you a stern nod of his chin.

“Slow poison and good acting.” You say confidently.

“That’s your plan?” he responds flatly.

“Yes. I’ll have exclusive access to him, his doctors, his records. And I can play the heartbroken wife and you get to sit back and watch him wither to nothing and know the truth.”

“Why not end him with violent means? Quick. Dirty.” his brow lowers over his darkening eyes.

“Because it’s obvious. Don’t go thinking like a man now.” you flash him a charming smile. “We must be patient and our patience will be rewarded.”

“I’m not known for me patience.” he shakes his head.

“Especially when it comes to something you want?” you smirk.

“Especially that." he nods.

“And do you want me Alfie? Your biggest enemy’s wife? The woman who is offering to help you conquer London?” you ask, your eyes narrowed and voice delicate as you lean in towards his face.

“I do.” he answers simply.

“And I want you.” You whisper. “And although I capable of patience, when it comes to things I want, I do prefer immediate satisfaction over delayed.” a playful smile grows across your face.

“And what does that mean for me?” he stares down at you, watching you glance down to his lips.

“Would you like to fuck him over before I even begin to poison him?” you offer, a tilt of your head and a wicked smile.

“How?” his voice rumbles.

“By fucking me.” you state clearly. His eyes go dark, heavy under his low brow as you touch his chest to yours. “You could know you had me before he did on our wedding day. Know that tonight he’ll be second to you physically and mentally all the nights thereafter. I’ll feel the pleasurable sting of you instead of him, think about you while he thinks he’s consummating our marriage. But I’ve already consummated the real relationship haven’t I?” you rasp up at him, feeling a tingle down your spine as you see his eyes dilate.

“You wicked thing.” he scolds.

“You have no idea.” You grin. “And to take me in my wedding dress nonetheless. The one he bought me? I have to admit my astounding naughtiness is making me wet already Alfie.” you give a wrinkle of your nose as a small laugh escapes you.

“And how do I know that’s not a lie?” he quirks a brow at you.

You slowly pull up the front of your skirt. “You’re welcome to feel for yourself.” you purr.

His eyes cut down to your bare thighs, peaking out under the dress. White stockings squeezing your thighs just so.

“Or I could show you? If you still don’t trust me?” You say innocently.

“Show me.” he gruffs out.

“You reach between your legs where you feel the cool air hitting the slick that followed your devious plans discussion. You’d been thinking about fucking Alfie for most of the day and all this other talk had built the tension within you. You take the wetness to your fingertips and show him with shifting fingers the clinging viscous liquid. You reach them out and touch them to his soft and full lips you’d wanted to feel on you. “You can taste what my impure thoughts of you today have brought forth in me.” You whisper. “I am as sweet as revenge, Mr. Solomons. I promise you that.” You speak certainly and he feels his own need bubbinlig up to the surface.

He opens his mouth and your fingertips enter his mouth and your lashes flutter, his eyes stay on your face. He sees your chest rise and fall noticeably, your face flushing, and the way your eyes went dark as he licks away at them.

“And this is my doin'?” He questions, holding your wrist with authority and a thrill rushes through you.

“Truly. This cunt is as good as yours.” You whisper and he exhales forcefully, a hand moving to the back of your neck with a firm grip.

“And what of this mind?” He rasps into your ear and he feels you tremble. He knew then it wasn't a lie.

“It thinks of you most often. It devised this plan to make you ours.” your voice breaks in your nervousness for his forcefullness.

“And of your heart?” he drags his nose up your neck to your jaw.

“No man has ever owned it before. But I believe you are the only one to ever make me question that fact.” You admit.

That was truly an honest answer. And he felt it as your skin broke out in goosebumps at his touch. If you’d been playing him you would’ve said everything was his, that he owned it all. But you hadn’t. So he allows himself to believe it.

“And right now, I can make this cunt mine?” his voice demanding and quiet.

“Yes. And the rest will be yours solely soon after.” you almost squeak out.

“And you’re going to kill him? For me?” his intensity washes over you.

“For us.” The answer makes him groan.

“And you want me to take you in your wedding dress in a dirty shed as you lie about your whereabouts on your wedding day?” his voice is almost a growl.

“I do.” You moan.

“Is that what you said to him today?” He smirks.

“And to you is the only time I meant it.” you shake your head.

“You are fuckin' filthy.” He scolds I’m a deep tone. “And I adore it.” He snarls, showing his dominance and holding you tightly by the face.

“Would you give me my favorite wedding gift then Alfie? Give me you for just a short while?”

“I will love.” He whispers, lips close to yours. “I’ll fuck you so well you’ll be left thinkin' 'bout me all those nights you’ll be left disappointed in him. You’ll crave it, sweetheart, you’ll want to risk being found out by sneakin' away in the middle of the night for it.” he coos.

“Those are big promises Alfie. You have the tools to back up that dominating sentiment?” You ask, reaching down to his trousers and finding him growing hard.

He lets his cane hit the ground and with one hand roughly undoing his trousers, holding your face so you could not see him, but putting your hand around him. “Why is it you think I’m not like other men love? It’s not just me brain.” He rasps, eyes looking over your face as you breathily exhale, finding him thick and long. You hadn’t been with many men that would be described as large, as most men that sought out power were compensating for something deep down. But when you say that he was the biggest you’d ever felt, it certainly didn’t mean nothing.

“You have no reason to try to make up for any lacking in this department do you?” You say with a huff of a laugh, that showed you were impressed. “When other men were worried about compensating you were busy using that big... brain of yours to beat them. You don’t have the typical shortcomings of a man in your position.” You elaborate and a slow smile moves across his face.

“Brilliant little bird. So observant aren’t you?” He coos, loving that you knew people on a level that he did, understood their deep dark motivations. “You still want me to fuck you love? Surely your husband is only going to be less than for you now.”

“I do still want it. But do you know how to use it?” You smirk.

“Do I know-?” He lets out a deep laugh that appreciates the taunt. “How 'bout I just show you love?”

“Please.” You whisper and shut your eyes for a moment, hands tugging him.

“Oh, she asks me nicely now eh? Dirty girl.” He growls, hands moving fast to your waist and pushing you against an uncluttered spot on a wall where you would be hidden from sight. He looms over you, lips grazing your cheeks, nose, and lips teasingly. “And how am I going to get at your delicious little body without making a mess of this dress?” He asks.

“Let me.” You say breathily, reaching and undoing the buttons at the neck of the gown. The large keyhole back stays clasped below your waist, but you bare yourself to him by sliding your arms out of the top and pulling it down.

“Much more obedient than I expected” He taunts.

“It takes a certain sort of strong man to make a powerful woman want to bend, doesn't it?” You admit, now bare to him as he licks his lips and looks over your breasts. “I’m not like this with anyone else. I don’t like men being dominating. But most are so boring about it.” you quickly explain.

He puts his hand around your throat loosely and you hear his heavy breathing in your ear. “This racing pulse of yours I feel under my palm would say otherwise.” His slides his hand over your chest, rough palms grazing over your nipples and making them stand at attention, causing you to release a small whimper. “These pert tits say you like it. Shall we see what your cunt has to say about it?” He asks as his fingertips trail up your thigh and shove between your legs, wet and soft and eager. “This little cunny fuckin loves it, dunnit she?” The words travel over your skin and break it out into goosebumps. He pushes into your folds and finds your clit, a task you sometimes wondered if men were capable of at all. Your knees buckle for a moment as he grazes and strokes. You let out a little moan and he teases your lips with his again. “That little mouth tells me you love it as well. I thought the lies were over between us?”

“They are” you whine as his circles your clit. “I like it when you do it.” You moan. “You’ve proven to me you deserve it.”

“Mmmm.” He hums, lips grazing your neck. He begins to kiss your skin, fingers still working away at you. His lips move slowly across your breasts before taking one nipple into his mouth and sucking away at you with a grunt of pleasure as his face pushes into the weight of it. He does this on the other side and releases you with an obscene pop. His nose moves up your sternum as your chest moves faster, his fingers threatening to end you before you even had him.

“Alfie you’re going to finish me before we even get started.” You whine.

“Oh, but we’ve started love.” he groans into your neck. “Has any man taken his time like this with you before?”

“No.” You admit.

“Then you are in for a treat love. You’ll be killin' that prick husband of yours even sooner now won’t ya? You said I wasn’t like other men, why wouldn’t that carry on into the way I fuck?” his confidence is intoxicating.

“I see your point.” you flash him a smile through a bitten lip.

“But do you feel it love?” He asks, fingers entering you and pressing the hard heat of him against your bare thigh. You let out a wanton moan at the sudden feeling and he puts his hand over your mouth. “You do feel it.” He coos, fingers fucking into you, exploring you and stretching you in ways you hadn’t felt before. “You can’t be so noisy, love. Someone findin' us would ruin your plan wouldn’t it?” You nod and whimper, he releases your mouth and you gasp for air as you breathe loudly through your nose to hold in your sounds of pleasure.

“Fuck Alfie.” You whine and mewl, eyes rolling back in your head. “I want to finish around your cock, and I’m close.”

“You will.” He says knowingly.

“But I’m...oh god I’m close.” your eyes begin to flutter.

“Don’t tell me no man has ever made you come more than once in one go?” his lips almost pout at you.

You shake your head, struggling to keep quiet. “No.” You moan, your hands now firmly gripping on his arms.

“Pet...” He coos, his hand now hitting into you harder with some sort of earth-shattering grip on you. “I’m going to ruin you for any other man.” he says so condescendingly in your ear as you begin to shake.

“Alfie” You whine, turning your face towards his.

“Yes, love?”

“Kiss me.” You plead, rubbing your hand to the back of his neck. “Keep me quiet with your lips.” You whine and he ruts against your thigh. Such a soft and needy little thing you were.

He answers you swiftly, feeling your muscles start to flutter and tense around his fingers. The kiss is harsh and biting. You knock his hat off as your fingers reach into that thick dark gingery hair you’d fantasised about running your fingers through. His lips just as thick and soft as you’d imagined. You share moans from each other mouths, feeling his arm against your back, pulling himself closer to you. it’s rushed and passionate and the most arousing kiss you’d ever had. The combination of his oppressive kiss and his pounding fingers makes you fall over the edge quickly. He feels the grip of your fingers in his hair tighten, the hitch in your breathing, the way your lips stopped and trembled against his as you began to gasp and squeak before he allowed himself to indulge in one sultry and wanton moan, rising from your flushed chest before sucking your bottom lip into his mouth and holding your face to keep it still and your lips together.

He finds himself losing himself in you. The way you were so open, you weren’t hiding your pleasure from him in some reservation or power move, you gave yourself to him freely and wholly and it was the first interaction he could think of since before the war that felt honest. As your cries quiet, now only noisy heaves of your chest, he withdraws his fingers, the mess he’d made of you being moved now to his cock which was at full attention with your performance and writhing against him.

“Oh my god.” You sigh out, eyes fluttering open again, hands on his face. “Where the fuck did you learn how to do that?” You ask earnestly and he grins.

“Us Jewish men are meant to please our women.” He croons into your ear as he kisses your neck.

“I’ve been with the wrong sort of men.” The post orgasm bliss making you let out a soft laugh.

“Clearly.” He growls and it brings you back into the moment. You feel his hands move against you. “We aren’t finished here love” he groans, hands finding the backs of your thighs and pushing you against the wall, your legs put around his hips and as you feel the heat of him against you the moans start again. “Such a wanting little thing aren’t you?” He grins into your chest, sliding himself against your soaked slit, tapping against your clit and pressing against your entrance.

“For you. After that how I could I not be?” you sigh into him.

“Then tell me. Tell me you want it.” he commands.

“You do love your words.” You let out a short lived giggle. “I want that fat cock of yours Alfie. I want you to fuck me hard and leave me a mess like I know you can. I want you to feel his little cunny wrapped right around you and know it’s yours.”

He groans at the words, forehead pressing into your chest for a moment to compose himself as he notches into you. “And what a tight little cunny it is pet, fuck me.” He grunts.

“Fuck.” You squeak. “Go slow love, go slow.” You breathily beg and in his animalistic frame of mind it makes him want to do the opposite.

“I won’t make it hurt, pet, it’ll only ever feel good with me.” He promises in moan laced words as she slides himself inside you, hands on your arse as he rises and you’re lowered to meet into one.

With raspy swears from you both, you meet at both the hip and mouth as he buries himself fully in you. Your lashes flutter and you let out deep moans into his mouth. “So deep, Alfie.” You whisper against his lips, arms wrapped around his neck. He holds you up, the wall helping him as one arm wraps around your lower back and the other laces under your knee to keep you open and up.

With a slow withdraw, that isn’t quite pain, he takes a deep breath to prepare himself. He didn’t expect you to be so tight, but who was he to assume you’d been with a man recently? He starts to wonder what other things he’s only assumed and has yet to learn about you. But right now he was more interested in learning your body, submitting it to memory as he wa sure this coupling would haunt him in his dreams until the next time it came. He follows as you ask, a slow pump of his hips in and out of you, feeling your lashes flutter against his cheeks as you panted your subdued moans against his face.

You splay one hand across his cheek, the bristle of his beard against your palm, your thumb pulls his bottom lip down for you to stretch your neck and take it into your mouth. He was so much softer than you’d imagined. A light chap to the center of his lip is gone as you suck away at it, little moans of enjoyment given up as you take him in from both ends.

“Faster, Alfie.” you whisper against him and he obeys your command. With a grunt, he moves his hands grip on you tighter, strong forearms holding you up. With your knees higher and pushed back, he begins a harder pace, watching your eyes threaten to roll back into your head.

"Like that, love?" his gruff voice asks. Even though it was a question, it felt more like a command in his deep tone, the steady smack of skin to skin hitting, the sound filling the shed.

The moan that escapes you from the question is small and light, which was the opposite of what you were feeling. "Yes." you rasp out, tongue flicking out against his lips, set in an almost snarl as he felt your body tremble and shake. Your eyes eventually bat and close over the whites as your pupils dilate and they disappear into the back of your head. "Does this feel so good because it is wrong?" you ask, a small smirk before he grinds into you, making you gasp as you took him in to the hilt. "Or is it simply you Solomons?" you grin and feel

"Certainly not your fuckin' husband is it?" he groans through gritted teeth before, nipping at your lower lip as it hung loosely as he pumped into you, building a second release.

"No it's fuckin' not." you let out a deep chuckle, a girlish gasp as the mention of your decisions of the day bring a possessive sort of anger in him. "Shit." you squeak, eyes flutter back open as he hits into you harder. You meet his eyes, blue and cold and half hidden under his intimidating heavy brow. "It's all you isn't it?" you moan out, meeting him with a harsh kiss that he returns with teeth and force.

"That it is." he growls as you part for a few rbeaths as you start your worldless lamenting of how good he felt. "Is it all for me, love? This cunt? Killin' that fuckin' daft prick of a man?"

"Yes." you moan out, the acceptance and embrace for how bad what you were doing was, was adding to your pleasure in a new way. You'd never been with a man to talk to you in such a way. "For you, Alfie. Since the day I told you no. For you. For us." This was more than the boring dominance that you had experiened before. This was beyond calling you a slag before bending you over and slapping your arse. He was in your head, and that was a place no man had ever been before. You were finding it to be just a pleasure as him being inside your cunt.

"That makes you mine then, yeah? Makes everyfing you do from now 'til that wanker dies for me. Ya dinnit marry him today did ya? Ya fuckin' married me. You schemein' little minx." he moans out, letting himself give in to his feelings for you, for the warm tingling that ran from his head to his balls at the thought that you'd been thinking of him as he had you for these months.

"Oh, fuck, Alfie." you sigh out, your eyes looking tired as let the warm waves of pleasure start lapping away at you from his words. "Oh fuck me, you're gonna make me come with a mouth like that."

"Dirty girl." he growls, pounding into you now, trying to let out all the heavy hurt he'd felt knowing you were with another man. But you were his now. "She knows how fuckin' naughty she's been. Gets off on knowin' what a lyin' little bird she is." he bites into your skin with his teeth and words as your head tilts back and the moans grow louder.

"Yes. Oh god, Alfie, yes I do." you grin and gasp.

"And now you're fuckin' your husbands enemy on your fuckin' weddin' day you filthy thing." he moans, pressing his forehead against your shoulder. Finding himself liking the deception of your actions as much as you were. "And you're gonna think 'bout me every night innit ya love? Ya gonna lay in that tacky fuckin' bedroom of 'is, 'n think about what a real man would be doin' to ya if he were there. Wonderin' if ya could kill him faster just to get back to me 'n these hands...this cock that knows what a brilliant fuckin' woman you are, yeah?" he lets it all go, giving you the mental stimulation you never knew you needed.

You let out a low and rumbling laugh of pure enjoyment that makes his balls tense. "I will." you gasp, lowering your face back down and leaning in towards his, making him look at you. "I'll be thinking about you fucking me every day. About this big cock. Imagining what filthy words this clever brain would be whispering to me. Ugh, Alfie, you've gone and ruined me haven't you?"

"I deliver on my fuckin' word for you, love." he grunts.

"Fuck, Alfie I'm gonna come." you moan, moving into another round of harsh kisses. "Give me soemthin' to think about on those lonely nights, Solomons. Give me something to keep me warm for you until his body goes cold." you moan into his mouth and his eyes roll back into his head.

"I'll fuckin' fill you up with warm, love." he growls, teeth knocking as you both gave in and started to shake.

"Fuckin' do it." you growl and the sound makes his nails dig into your skin. "I'm gonna come around this thick cock and I'm gonna milk you for all you've got, Alfie. Fill me up. Leave me with the reminder that I'm yours dripping down my thighs after you leave." you whine out, fingers tight in his hair as you snarl and your brow lowers, your body starting to seie and convulse.

"Fuck." he growls, hitting as hard as he can, a more helpless sound escaping him, feeling you tighten around him. "Take it. Fuckin' 'ell take all 'a me." his words rise and fall with his moans, as the feeling of you around him proves too much. A deep guttural sound rises up as your noses bump together, both unable to kiss as your lips trembled and his snarled as you came.

Coming down together was something new for you, there was something strikingly intimate about watching the hunger fade out of each other's eyes, sharing breaths as you both heave and recover. You both mutter swears, small droplets of sweat on your temples, that you wipe away from his handsome face. He was much more rugged than your husband was, you thought. An unshaven face with power behind his eyes, a strong brow and nose over what you could feel was a well-rounded chin hiding beneath the gingery beard. Your husbands was smooth and plain, a perfectly acceptable face but not much unique about it. Brown hair and brown eyes, thin lips and a chin that was lacking, even if it was minor. He led his men, but he didn't hold a candle to the charisma that Alfie exuded without even trying.

He speaks first. "Let's put ya down, now." he says with clear eyes and a nod. You let out a girlish grunt as one foot hits the ground, his hands warm and firm against your soft thighs, making sure you were stable before they regretfully departed from your skin. He puts himself away into his trousers as you pull up your dress.

"Would you?" you ask softly, the tone and doe eyes so different from just moments before as you turn and hold the high neck of the dress together, asking him to help you.

"'Course." he says in his usual gruff tone, thick square tipped fingers managing with the small pearl buttons.

You turn and dust yourself off, seeing no real damage done to the dress. "Am I decent?" you ask with a tug back of the corner of your mouth.

"Entirely not." he teases, an easier going and charming smile across his face as his fingers tuck loose hairs back into place, a brief dusting of the back of your dress, before a cheeky slap to your bum that makes you giggle. "It's a shame you look so lovely." he says quietly. "Such a waste of beauty on an absolute git." he tsks. "'Spose it's good you got to wear white. Won't get to do that again, eh?" he grins and bends to pick up his cane with a grunt.

"Suppose I'll be getting used to wearing black soon enough." you say with a flirty tone and he recognizes the mischief in your soft face.

"Unless he was already dead, it would not be soon enough." he says and leans in to drive his point home.

To his surprise your hands reach out and take him by his loose collar, pulling him in for a kiss. "I will begin my work tonight." you whisper, nuzzling your nose against his, an affectionate gesture he did not anticipate. "And I'll find a way to be in touch. With him ill we can most likely arrange something to see each other again."

He hears the hopeful tone in your voice and it convinces him you mean what you're saying once agian. "And if not... I look forward to seeing you at the funeral." he grins boyishly and tenderly touches your jaw. "I'll be the one that won't be payin' no mind to the body. Only you." he whispers with a soft press of his lips again. It carries on, a soft back and forth, something gentle to off set the hard of earlier. "You better get goin' now. Else you'll be missed." he says with a sigh, a light tap to your nose before he leans away.

"You're right." you nod and take a deep breath. "I must admit I thought leaving you and going back to my life in there would be easier." you willingly express your fondness for him with a soft smile.

"And I thought watching you leave would be too, love." he purrs back, making your stomach flutter.

"Until next time?" you say with a more playful smirk.

"Until then." he nods, stepping away from you.

"I'll be thinking of you, Alfie." you say softly, silhouetted in the doorway to the shed.

"I know." he grins, a low chuckle rumbling out across the space between you. "And I you, love. Now go, pet." he says with a shooing motion of his hand.

With one final up and down of him with your eyes, your hitch up your dress and move back to the dressing room. You climb in the window, shut it, and rest on the bed for a moment before freshening up.

"Miss?" you hear after a knock at the door after you'd been staring out the window for a moment. "Your husband wanted me to come check on you. Are you unwell?"

"I believe too much champagne was the culprit." you say with a feminine lilt you were used to performing.

"Do you require anything?"

"No." you say with a sigh. "I'll be out to get him shortly." you say with a smirk.

@fangirlfreakingout @jaegeeeeer @cosettewinchester@lookuptheskyisfalling-blog @brianaisasongbird @cry5t4l-w4rri0r@iliveonchocolateandnetflix @jess2464 @hardygal69@thegarrisonpublichouse @a-flock-of-angry-pigeons @pootle@negansdirtygirl22 @musingsby-night @wtf-is-wrong-with-this @shine-dont-shadow @inkinterrupted @vale0413 @lafayettes-baguettes-1 @sxlomons @aphnxrising @emerald-bijou @elaenom@give-jack-a-lightsaber @anrm1 @ultrablackwidower@tinastarkandco @arrowswithwifi @marvelgirl7 @they-are-not-just-stories

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badwolf-in-the-impala · 6 years ago

Text

~Where the Wild Rose Grow~

~Chapter 7~

((Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6))

Image Credit: Myself, none of the pictures are mine obviously. Just the editing

Inspiration: Colors - Halsey

Pairings: Tommy Shelby x Original Female Character

Rating: Mature/18+

Warnings: PTSD, Drug use, Alcohol use, mentioned physical/sexual abuse, violence, angst, sexual content.

Chapter Warnings: Drinking, fluff, little bit of angst.

Word Count: 4,723

A/N: Sorry I suck and haven’t updated this story in like...forever. I seriously fail at trying to get my shit together so I can finishes these fics...please don’t hate me lol.

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When Althea awoke the following morning Tommy had already gone. Leaving behind in his place a very cryptic note scrawled in that immaculate handwriting of his. He apologized for his absence but he had business elsewhere that morning that needed attending to; but that she was welcome to stay as long as she liked. Even offering her the day off if she wasn’t feeling up to it.

Althea heaved a small sigh as she placed piece of paper on the nightstand and pushed the covers back; sitting up as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. With a small stretch, she turned her head to glance out the window, noting that the sun was actually shining for once; a rare occasion. Her eyes widened slowly as realization suddenly struck her at how late she had actually slept as she noticed just how high the sun had risen.

Climbing off the bed she padded her way across the cold, hardwood floor, as she approached the large clock that sat atop the mantel above the fire. Checking and then double checking to make sure it was working properly when she saw that the time was well past eight in the morning.

Most days, since returning home from the War, she didn’t sleep any later than four in the morning, so this was an unusual occurrence indeed. But she didn’t have the time to dwell for long on the issue before a loud knock at the door grabbed her attention, instantly putting her on edge.

“It’s jus’ me!” A woman’s voice chirped cheerily, followed by a short pause, then by a few choice profanities as she chastised herself before adding, “I mean, it’s Ada!” Althea chuckled softly, the slip up helping to ease some of the tension as she crossed the room and opened the door slowly.

“Good morning!” Ada beamed brightly as she waltzed into the room, passed Althea, to the table where she set the tray she had been carrying and few other items in her arms down before turning around with a smile.

“Um, morning?” Althea turned with a quizzical expression as she allowed the door to fall shut behind her, eyeing the items Ada had brought with her, curiously.

“I didn’ wake you, did I?” Ada apologized quickly as she turned back to the tray and began pouring them each a cup of tea, offering Althea one of the cups once she had finished. “Thomas asked if I’d bring some things by.”

“No, it’s quite alright.” Althea replied, taking a quick sip from her cup before finishing, “I was already up.”

“Oh good.” Ada breathed a sigh of relief before taking her own sip of tea and returned the cup to the table. She then gestured for Althea to have a seat as she began pulling out a collection of fresh medical supplies to change the bandage on Althea’s arm. “Heard you had quite the afternoon yesterday?”

“Suppose I did.” Althea gave a soft laugh, watching as Ada rolled back the sleeve and began slowly undoing the bandage from Althea’s left forearm.

“Christ!” Ada breathed, eyes widening as she stared at the neatly sutured wound. “How are’ye not in pain?!” Althea simply shrugged in reply, taking a sip from her tea, as Ada gently began to clean around the wound again before applying more salve and redressing it with a fresh bandage.

“I’ve suffered worse.” Althea replied with a sad smile once Ada was through. Her hand instinctively drifting to her right shoulder for a brief moment; fingers probing tentatively at the scars that lie covered beneath Tommy’s shirt that she wore. “Anythin’ else pales in comparison, really.”

“I can’t even begin to imagine.” Ada stated softly as she tidied up the dirty bandages, disposing of them before returning to her seat to finish her tea. A comfortable silence fell over them as they listened to the bustling streets below, just outside the window.

“Oh! ‘Fore I forget,” Ada spoke suddenly, startling Althea as she jumped a little, startled by the suddenness of Ada’s voice, turning to watch as Tommy’s sister grab up a bag from the floor and pass it over; Althea taking it carefully. “Tommy had me grab ya some clean clothes from ye’re flat on my way over...I hope tha’s alright?”

“Of course.” Althea gave her a smile to reassure that she appreciated the kindness of the gesture. “Thank you, Ada.”

“Think nothin’ of it.” Ada replied sweetly. “An’ I was thinkin’, tha’ maybe if you weren’t busy, an’ needed a lil company today? Maybe we could do a bit of shoppin’, or visit the new Tea House tha’ jus’ opened? Doesn’ have to be anythin’ fancy … I mean, it would be a nice change from hangin’ aroun’ with Aunt Pol.” She chuckled nervously. “But obviously, it’s one hundred percent up to you.

Althea thought about it for a moment, considering the offer carefully as she finished her own cup of tea. On one hand, she probably should get some work done today; spend some time at the stables at the very least...But Tommy had offered her the day off, and it had been a great deal of years since she had actually spent time with another woman. At least doing anything that didn’t involve the tending of wounded soldiers, that it is.

“On second thought, forget I said anythin’.” Ada started to dismiss the offer nervously when Althea stopped her, reaching across the table to rest a hand on her arm reassuringly as she gave the younger woman a smile.

“Tha’ sounds like a lovely idea.”

It was late, somewhere around 7 o’clock in the evening, before they were finally headed back for the Garrison. Tommy’s business having taken much longer than he originally intended when the day first started. But then again, making deals with Gypsies was never easy ‘business’, and now the entire day was all but wasted, along with any plans he had hoped to make that included Thea. Sighing heavily to himself as he drove, he could only hope at this point that she may have taken Ada up on her offer of spending the day together, out doing whatever it is women consider ‘fun’ these days.

He also couldn’t help it as his mind started to drift back to the previous night. Sharing his bed with the same woman in question; not intimately of course. But it had proven to be a welcome change of pace for him. One that he couldn’t help but long to repeat again, hopefully sometime in the near future.

While he still hadn’t managed to quite achieve a full night's sleep, it was for much different reasons. Better reasons, so to speak, and when he did finally manage to drift off, he did so peacefully into dreamlessness. No smoke, no whiskey, no sex...Just the genuine comfort of lying beside someone who understood his soul. Even if she wasn’t yet aware of it. Just being in her presence seemed to somehow seemed enough to put him at ease. But no matter how hard he tried to wrap his mind around it, he just couldn’t figure it out.

“Oi!” The sound of Arthur’s voice snapped Tommy from his thoughts. Glancing at his brother from the corner of his eye as he drove, acknowledging him with a soft ‘Hm?’, before turning his attention back to the road. “The fucks y’er head at, Tommy boy?”

“Nowhere.” Tommy replied bluntly.

“Lemme guess,” Arthur mused as he shifted in his seat, staring at Tommy intently, as he studied his brothers seemingly blank expression closely. “Thea?”

“Shut up, Arthur.” Tommy gave him a warning glare.

“So I am right?!”

“Drop it.” Tommy repeated.

“Aw, c’mon Tom. Ye gotta give me somethin’ta go on ‘ere. Did ya sleep wit-”

“I said’ta fuckin’ drop it.” Tommy snapped, cutting Arthur off in a harsh tone. “Now shut the fuck up ‘fore I kick ya outta the Goddamn car.”

“Christ, Tom, I’m fookin’ jokin’. Don’t go gettin’ y’er knickers in a knot.” Arthur huffed out, but as requested he dropped the subject. Leaving the last remaining half hour of their drive completely silent. Arthur all but a little too relieved as they pulled up outside of the Garrison finally.

“Let’s jus’ hope John boy ain’t wrecked the place, eh?” Arthur grumbled as they climbed out of Tommy’s automobile and began to approach the doors of the Pub; both pausing to exchange a confused look at the strange commotion that was coming from within. Something that sounded an awful lot like a chorus of singing.

“Wha’ in the bloody ‘ell--”

Tommy followed close behind as Arthur burst through the doors, shoving their way into the Pub a ways before stopping, stunned to find the place packed; more so than usual at least. Not a single empty seat to be found in the entire building as patrons gathered around, drinking, chatting, and singing. Something that seemed quite unusual indeed, and there at the center of the room, atop one of the tables, stood Althea; whiskey glass and cigarette in hand, the room suddenly falling silent as she began another song.

Her voice rising as the melody of ‘The Parting Glass’ began to fill the silence, the beauty of her voice quickly captivating the audience that stood before her, Tommy included. Completely enthralled as he leaned a shoulder against the wall beside him, his own words suddenly escaping him as he listened; though they flowed from Thea’s with such ease. Even despite how she swayed slightly, likely from a little to much drink.

They hadn’t had singing, of any kind, at the Garrison since the war, and normally Tommy would’ve put a stop to it right then and there. But as he stood, listening to the intoxicatingly beautiful sound of Thea’s voice, a sense of calmness washed over him. Leaving a strange warmth to settle in his chest, a foreign feeling not often felt by Thomas Shelby these days. Until he had met the woman standing before the entire room, that is.

The crowd was more than a little disappointed when Althea had finished her song -- Tommy included -- and announced that she was through for the evening before trying to climb down off the table. A look of surprise overtaking her soft features suddenly, as Tommy and Arthur suddenly appeared to offer her a hand down, her cheeks suddenly flushed red with embarrassment.

“Havin’ fun?” Tommy arched a brow as he started down at her, trying his best to hide the smirk that tugged at the corners of his lips. Althea cleared her throat awkwardly as she tucked her hair behind ear, before smoothing her hands down the front of her blouse, chasing away imaginary wrinkles as she gathered her composure.

“As a matter of fact-- I was.” Althea answered as she took her drink back from Arthur. Tommy chuckled and shifted as he said, “Usually we don’t allow singing in the bar anymore. ‘Least not since before the war.”

Althea turned down the corners of her mouth, puzzled and downed what remained of her whiskey. “Oh, really? Tha’s a shame. The men seemed to enjoy it.” She said, handing her empty glass back to Tommy, a sly grin creeping onto her lips as she turned and pushed her way back up to the bar where Ada stood, ordering another round of drinks.

“Aw, Christ, John boy!” Arthur shouted as they approached the bar. “Ye had one job!” All John could do at that point was throw his hands in the air with an exasperated look, as he tried to keep up with the flow of patrons demanding drinks.

“Eh, it’s n’ah his fault!” Ada hiccuped drunkenly as she rounded on Arthur. Althea reaching out to catch her by the arm as Ada lost her balance and nearly toppled over

“It’s really not.” Althea gave an amused laugh as she righted Ada, turning to grab their drinks with her left hand before guiding them back inside the safety of the private nook. “I, am unfortunately, the bad influence to blame ‘ere. We shoulda’ left hours ago.” Althea admitted sheepishly as she took a seat, carefully. The effects of all the alcohol they had consumed since being there, finally starting to catch up with her.

“Aunt Pol is gonna ‘ave y’er arse.” Arthur shook his head, but gave a laugh -- directed at Ada -- as he and Tommy took their own seats at the table. “How long ye been ‘ere?”

“Too fuckin’ long.” Althea and Ada answered in unison before dissolving into a fit of giggles. Tommy and Arthur shook their heads, but shared a chuckle of their own all the same as they joined in on the drinking; even if it didn’t last much longer. It eventually being decided upon that they should take Ada home, before she nodded off with her head on the table, and Aunt Pol skinned them all alive. Arthur agreeing to stay behind and help John finish up so that they could close and finish out what business needed to be handled at the Garrison -- after helping to get Ada into Tommy’s car. The group ignoring her drunken ramblings about being perfectly fine and not wanting to go home just yet.

And even though he would never admit it, Tommy would be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed about having to call it a night so soon, as he had rather enjoyed getting to see this side of Althea. Seeing her out of her shell and so relaxed, was a welcome change from the more reserved facade she normally put on. Something Tommy knew all too well about. But the ride wasn’t a complete waste. While Ada sat in the back seat, nodding off in her drunken state, Althea sat close to Tommy, her head on his shoulder with her eyes closed. Every now and then, Tommy glanced down at her and smirked to himself. Before he could shift and put an arm around her, Ada suddenly came to life, making both Althea and Tommy jump, before Ada launched into more drunken ramblings with Althea. In between words, Thea and Tommy exchanged glances and secret smiles gone undetected by Ada. Althea still sat close to Tommy and after a while, Tommy shifted to slide his hand over her thigh, raising her skirt slightly. Her cheeks tinted pink, even more than they were already from being drunk, and she slowly slid her hand over his, slightly lacing their fingers together. Tommy smirked and glanced down at her.

As they pulled up to the house, Polly was waiting for them, arms crossed, cigarette lit, and pissed. Tommy and Althea, both, tried to explain, but Polly waved them both off and escorted Ada up to a room and got her settled, leaving Tommy and Althea alone downstairs.

“Could’ve gone worse…” Tommy chuckled softly as he turned his attention away from the stairs, crossing the living room to the whiskey decanter where he poured a glass and offered it to Thea, who graciously accepted. Taking a few sips before setting it aside as she watched him pour a glass second for himself.

“Aye…” Althea chuckled as she took a sip from her glass. “I pity poor Ada in the mornin’, though. If Pol doen’ smother her in her sleep first.”

“Ah, she’ll be fine.” Tommy shrugged with a smirk, his icy gaze drifting down to meet Althea’s, the room falling silent again as he leaned up against the table behind him. His gaze watching intently as Althea glanced away briefly, chewing her lip lightly as though she were suddenly lost in thought. A good minute or two had passed when Tommy finally set his glass down and moved to see if she was alright. His fingertips just barely grazing her shoulder as Thea turned, suddenly, and without warning; her lips crashing into his.

It was something that caught Tommy a little off guard at first, causing him to stumble backwards a few steps before regaining his balance, as he slipped an arm around her waist, keeping them steady, allowing his other hand to slide up and caress her cheek. His thumb stroking lazily against her cheek as he returned the kiss; lips moving gently in tandem with her own.

The kiss started out slow and soft, but quickly became more urgent and passion filled as Thea parted her lips, allowing Tommy the access he desired as he slipped his tongue into her mouth, moving it freely against her own as her hands reached up to grip the lapels of the trench coat he still wore; pulling him closer. Tommy’s own hands drifting down to grip her waist as she pressed herself against him, a soft moan escaping her throat. It quickly replaced by a low whimper of disapproval as Tommy broke the kiss, leading her upstairs quickly.

Once the door to his room was shut and locked behind them, Tommy’s lips were quick to reattach themselves to Thea’s, as her hands began to make quick work of removing him of his trench coat, blazer, and shirt. His own hands moving to hike up her shirt as he picked her up, hooking her legs around his waist as he backed her into the dresser that sat against the opposite wall, setting her atop it as he settled between her thighs. Tommy’s fingers drifting to the buttons of her blouse as he trailed his lips along her jaw and down her throat, settling over the sweet spot between her neck and collarbone as he sucked lightly on the sensitive skin, reaching a hand up to palm one of her breasts, through her brasserie as he finished undoing her blouse and pushed it open, earning a moan of approval from Althea as she tipped her head back. Tommy’s teeth grazed across her pulse point as her nails scraped over the finely shorn hairs at the base of his skull; tugging him closer. The action prompting Tommy to return his lips to Althea’s, deepening the kiss once more as he pushed the blouse from her shoulders, allowing the fabric to slip down her arms slowly before casting it aside. The tips of his fingers ghosting over her skin, as they trailed down her waist, hands settling on her hips as tugged her closer.

Thea’s own hands settled on either side of Tommy’s face gently, as she lost herself completely in the kiss they shared. A soft moan escaping her as a rush of pleasure pulsed through her veins, the same way a wildfire burns through a forest. The walls and defenses she worked so hard to keep up around herself on a daily basis, seeming to all but fade away. Tommy’s touch seeming to ground every bad thing that stirred inside of her; quieting the war inside of her mind, the same way it did his. She had spent so much of her time and effort trying to distance herself from her emotions...Starved from happiness, starved from feeling.

But there was something that woke, deep down inside of her, stirring slowly back to life with every small touch of Tommy’s hands against her bare skin. Reminiscent of how a Rose wakes from its slumber in Springtime; finally blooming after enduring a harsh and seemingly endless Winter. Flourishing once more under the warm caress of the Sun…

And it was Tommy’s touch that finally brought Althea out of her thoughts and back to the present situation, as his hand slipped gently across her right shoulder. Reminding her of the scars that lie scattered across her body, now fully exposed by the absence of her blouse. Althea blushed out of embarrassment as she broke the kiss, abruptly, turning away in an attempt to hide herself as she hunched inward and crossed her arms protectively over her chest. Allowing her dark curls to fall across her shoulder and shield the scars that lie there. A sudden wave of anxiety and shame creeping in on her out of nowhere.

Her heart began to race frantically inside her chest as she wracked her brain for a way out of the situation at hand, about to speak some half-assed excuse and flee, when she was stopped buy the feeling of Tommy’s fingers grasping her chin softly; forcing her to look up and meet his eyes. Finding that icy blue gaze of his filled with solace and understanding, instead of pity or disgust, like she had expected. The simplicity of the gesture causing tears to well in her own eyes, which she was quick to try and hide; cursing her emotions, and the alcohol that had brought them to the surface.

“Eh, none of that now.” Tommy assured softly, despite the usual roughness of his voice, as he reached up to brush away her tears. Althea leaning into his touch, careful to avoid his gaze, as he stroked a calloused thumb against her cheek, she closed her eyes and gave a soft sigh.

“‘M sorry.” She muttered softly, now that she was coming down off the high of Tommy’s touch, her drunken state tried to slip back in, her walls and defenses slowly putting themselves back in their rightful places. She opened her eyes when she heard Tommy chuckle, softly, the light, yet deep rumble rushing through her. She finally looked at him again and gave him a soft smile as Tommy brushed away the stray tears, pushing his hand along her skin to push back the curls that had sprung forward.

“Don’ apologize, love. You can talk to me.” He said, softly. Althea shook her head and pulled the mask over her features as she said, “It’s nothin’. Jus’ been a while, is all.” She lied.

“We don’t ‘ave to rush it, pet.” He said, letting his hand fall, slipping over her shoulder to hold her waist. A comfortable silence hung in the small space between them as Tommy leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers. Althea closed her eyes again and gave a breathy laugh before looking up at him, giving him a silent response. Tommy smiled and leaned back, taking a step away to help her off the dresser. Althea quickly grabbed her blouse and tugged it on, buttoning it up. Tommy kicked off his shoes before he lit a cigarette, watching as Althea took a seat on the edge of his bed, removing her own shoes before curling up against the pillows. Tommy joining her once he had finished his smoke, shifting to get comfortable as she rested her head against his chest. Not another word was spoken between them as they lay there. Althea comforted by the warmth of Tommy’s embrace, and his touch, as his fingers stroked lazy patterns against her arm. Lulling her into relaxation, and eventually, sleep.

Tommy woke up alone the following morning...Seeming like Thea had taken her chance and snuck off, not wanting to face the reality of what had happened between the two of them last night. He had hoped that wouldn’t be the case, but he knew better, and the guilt of feeling like he had taken advantage of her in such a vulnerable state, weighed heavy on his mind as he set about getting ready for the day. Making his way down to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee and some toast before heading off to the betting shop; stopping as he rounded the corner to find Althea sitting at the table with Aunt Pol, and a very hungover Ada.

“Mornin’.” Polly said, turning away from her conversation with the girls to acknowledge Tommy’s presence. Brow raised and a soft smirk fixed to her lips as she took a sip of her coffee, watching as he passed by her, stone faced, to the stove behind her. Grabbing his coffee and toast, consuming it in silence as the Pol and the girls resumed their conversation, something about new Tea Room that had just recently opened.

“Headed to the Betting Shop?” Polly asked as Tommy made to leave the kitchen, pausing briefly to give a nod as replied, “Aye.” The answer was followed by a moment of silence as Polly took another sip of her coffee, Tommy turning to leave when Althea’s voice stopped him.

“Would ye mind droppin’ me at the Garrison?” She asked softly as she looked up, not quite meeting his gaze as he watched her, trying to gauge her expression; but it was guarded, as usual.

“Of course.” Tommy gave a nod, waiting a moment longer -- ignoring the looks from Aunt Pol and Ada -- while Althea gathered her things. Giving him a soft smile once she had finished and was ready to go, turning to thank Polly for her hospitality once again. Polly simply waved it off with a smile.

“No need. You’re welcome anytime.” Polly’s gaze drifted over to Tommy briefly, his patience thinning as he continued to ignore her, which only amused her further. “Off with ya both, then. Best not be late. Arthur was in a hellava mood this mornin’.” Tommy didn’t have to be told twice as he turned and ushered Althea out the door, and into the car, before Polly’s gaze could burn a hole straight through his skull...The awkward silence on the ride to the Garrison not doing much in the way of helping his mood any; stuck in his head, obsessing over his thoughts, and it wasn’t hard to miss. Althea watching him closely the entire ride, Tommy never once taking notice, as she remained quit until they were inside the Garrison.

“Thomas?” Tommy glanced up from the ledger he had been skimming through, looking over to find Althea standing beside him, just a few feet away; hands clasped in front of her, patiently awaiting his full attention before continuing. “About las’ night...I wanted to apologize-”

Tommy raised a hand, stopping her before she could finish. “You’ve no need to apologize...You we’re drunk, an’ I shouldn’t of takin’ advantage like I did...It won’ happen again. You ‘ave my word-”

“That’s not wha’ I meant.” Althea chimed in, cutting him off with an awkward giggle as she glanced away, trying to hide the blush that tinted her cheeks,which earned her a rather confused look from Tommy before she cleared her throat softly and continued; green eyes fixing to his as she turned. “I meant abou’ the scars...How I shut down. That’s wha’ I’m apologizin’ for. Me bein’ drunk had nothin’ to do with it...I mean, did it make braver, in a sense? Probably. But it doesn’ make me regret a second of anythin’ else tha’ happened between us last night.” She finished softly, her gaze falling to the floor as she looked away from him again. His own gaze having become so intense -- his expression unreadable-- that it started to make her saying anything at all.

But that changed as Tommy stepped forward and grasped her chin lightly, raising it to bring her gaze back to his own, and while his features were still hard to read, that icy gaze of his had softened considerably. “Ye don’ have to apologize.” He assured her softly, running his thumb just beneath her lower lip; tracing it almost. Althea instinctively leaning into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed for moment as she let out a soft sigh, composing her thoughts.

“I feel like a do, though.” She admitted softly. “For wha’?” Tommy questioned curiously as he stared down at her.

“For bein’ so broken...You don’ deserved tha’...No one does.” Althea admitted, attempting to pull away. Surprised when Tommy pulled her forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips before resting his forehead against her own; his hands resting gently on either side of her face as she stared up at him, her own features slightly twisted with confusion by his reaction.

“Ye’r not the only one who’s broken.” Tommy stated, pulling away from their embrace and closing the ledger on the bar, just as the front door of the Garrison flew open and Arthur came storming in; madder than a wet hen and shouting nonsense. Althea watching, brows furrowed and fingers pressed against her lips gently. The sensation of Tommy’s kiss still lingering, as she watched them leave without another word.

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

Let me know if you would like to added to the taglist, or if I missed anyone...or if anyone’s usernames have changed. It’s been so long since I updated my shit. **laughs nervously** I’m sorry I’m like this.

TAGLIST: @jacksonroth @londoncharlotte88 @liiv0urlifee @theworld-is-ahead @zazasblogxx @readsalot73 @ly--canthrope @harjumus @theskinofmyemotions @sympathyfortheblinderdevil @juuliaa-gooliaa @feyrearcheron44

#Thomas Shelby #Peaky Blinders #Tommy Shelby #Where the Wild Roses Grow #Tommy Shelbyx OC #Thomas Shelby x OC #Cillian Murphy #Peaky Blinders Fic #peaky fookin blinders #Fanfiction #Writing #Thomas Shelby fanfic #Sorry I suck

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scribeofmorpheus · 6 years ago

Text

Sleepytime, Aurora ~One Shot

A Marvel Spoof Fic

Written in response to this gifset!

Words: 2k | Masterlist

Premise: Our magical Marvel beings (Loki, Wanda and Strange) as versions of the fairy godparents to Aurora as they protect her from Maleficent (in this case Hela!)

OC: Aurora

Thank you @electroma89 for suggesting I write something for it! I had tonnes of fun, and even though the story isn’t fairy-tale-eque, I hope you enjoy it!

APPALACHIANS, 00:32 am

Energy crackled against the dark night setting of the Appalachians as an interdimensional rift tore through the fabric of the universe. Bright light poured through the rift, scaring the wild animals that slept under the cover of night. A body materialised out of this light and softly fell onto the thick snow -this less than graceful gazelle was named Aurora.

"Get back here!" Hela’s voice boomed across the rift, her long nails stretching out to peek through the dimensional curtain.

"Make me!" Aurora stuck out her tongue before she clasped her hands together to seal the rift.

Energy pulsed around her as she lay unconscious in the snow.

SANCTUM SENCTORUM, NEW YORK, 00:32 am

Strange had his nose firmly stuck in a thousand-year-old book; its words written in Aramaic -a translation spell causing the words to move and shift until legible with each page turn.

Wong was polishing the brass Centurion of Dismemberment downstairs, leaving the Cloak of Levitation to wonder about the room aimlessly.

Shimmering out through half-closed curtains, a crystal ball became agitated, displaying images of a mountain peak, a woman falling through a rift and darkly painted nails being severed once it was closed.

Curiously, the Cloak hovered close to the heavy drapes but was unable to move them apart.

The crystal ball began to whisper in a thousand angry voices too low for any of the mortals within the Sanctum to hear. In a panic of human-esque movements, the Cloak hovered in front of Wong's peripheral trying to get his attention.

"Not right now, I'm busy." Wong swatted the Cloaks coattails away carefully. "This is a very delicate procedure. One wrong move and I risk awakening the Centurion of Dismemberment. Even the slightest gust of wind could risk awake--"

The Cloak wouldn't take no for an answer and wrapped itself around Wong's midriff, pulling him backwards.

"The hell's gotten into you?" Wong frowned before using his sling-ring to singe the ends of the Cloak, causing it to let go abruptly.

"Oh, shi--" Off-balance, Wong's head hurled directly into the Centurion's folded brass exoskeleton.

GONG!

The noise travelled through-out the Sanctum.

Strange rolled his eyes when the loud noise disrupted the flow of his spell.

"Wong, can you keep it down?" Strange shouted before he mused quietly to himself in annoyance: "Is it really too much to ask for a day of quiet?"

In a hurry, completely ignoring the magical animatronic machine coming to life in great puffs of steam and groaning metal, the Cloak flew up to the sound of Strange's voice.

It tapped on Strange's shoulder several times only for him to subsequently brush him off. Then the sound of something large stomping around and crashing into things finally caught his attention.

"What in the--?" Strange turned to head down the stairs, the Clock tugging him in another direction.

The top floor of the rotunda was filled with several frightened apprentices using sling-ring whips to try and keep the Centurion in one place as his sword crashed into every glass casing.

Wong, having just been woken up off the floor, shook his head and used his magic skills to move each magical artefact away from the Centurion's path destruction.

"Strange, get down here! We need you!" Wong said with great effort as his magical abilities were being stretched thin.

Just when Strange took a step down the stairs, the Cloak had managed to pull his attention towards the shimmering light behind the thick red drapes.

"Hmmm," Strange said as he walked towards the strange lights.

The Cloak finally bringing itself to rest easily upon the Sorcerer Supreme's shoulders.

"Str- Strange? Where the hell are you going?" Wong demanded as he watched his friend walk away with disinterest in his eyes at the fact a live Centurion was slashing and knocking and stomping about.

"You've got it under control," Strange said nonchalantly without looking away from the light. When he pulled back the drapes, he read the inscription plaque fixed upon the crystal ball's stand out loud: "Upon this cutting of the Great Oak of Knowledge sits the Orb of Impending Doom. Beware the day its eyes are opened, for when the screams of guardians past gain their voice again shall be the final lament that foretells of the end of days..."

Strange rose his eyebrow in though, his arms folded around his midriff, one anchored up to rest his chin upon, "That doesn't sound very comforting."

"Wong! Hold down the fort!" Strange shouted from the other room as he opened a portal.

Between deep pants, Wong nodded his head, "Hold… the… fort! Right, no problem… it's not like that wasn't exactly what I've been trying to do!"

APPALACHIANS, 00:40 am

Strange stepped through the portal, his cloak dethatching itself to hover to a humanoid looking figure a few feet away.

"This better not be aliens," Strange hoped.

The Cloak wrapped itself around a sleeping woman’s frame and lifted her off the ground like a hammock.

The portal, still open, let out orange shimmers, making the snow appear like it was set aflame. On the other side of it, the loud shouts and shattering noises coming from the Sanctum permeated through the cold air.

"So… this is the bringer of the end of days," Strange pursed his lips in thought. "Huh, I pictured something a little more… Well, more. Let's bring her with." He told the Cloak.

"Strange!" Wong's shout trickled out.

"First things first. Let's go deal with that Centurion."

SANCTUM SENCTORUM, 06:30 am

Wong used magic to make the clean-up efforts go faster while the rest of the sorcerer's carefully levitated the now deactivated Centurion towards the vault in the basement.

When he was done, Wong made his way to the communal resting area where their newfound guest slept on a couch while Strange -floating cross-legged- looked through several hovering books open on different pages simultaneously.

"Anything?" Wong asked.

Strange just furrowed his brows.

"Maybe we should just ask her?"

"What if her waking up creates more problems than it solves?"

"Then, just like earlier, we'll deal with it." Wong was a bit bitter from earlier.

Strange set down from his sitting position and placed the palm of his hand on the sleeping woman’s face, "Wake."

Despite his awakening spell, the woman stayed asleep.

"That's unusual..." Strange uttered.

Then he felt the cloak tap on his shoulder and point at something at the end of the room.

Wong and Strange were surprised to see a copy of the exact same woman, partially translucent and standing with the edge of a coffee table passing right through her knees. She was incorporeal.

"Det er et bord som stikker ut av meg!" The projection shouted frantically.

"This is new," Strange stood from the girl’s unconscious body and walked closer to the semi-transparent version.

Wong cast a translation spell as the projection kept shouting and pacing about, "I think she's astral projecting."

"Who are you?" Strange asked after she passed through him. The feeling was odd.

"Polarlys, Goddess of Limbo and soothsayer to the restless dead. But my Uncle's call me Aurora," she said matter-of-factly.

"I'm Stephen Strange and this is Wong."

The Cloak swatted Strange's hand.

"And this is the Cloak of Levitation," He added.

The Cloak made a waving gesture.

"Greetings," Aurora said with a pleasant sing-song voice that made Strange and Wong stifle sudden yawns.

"Would you mind telling us why the Orb of Impending Doom thought you'd somehow be responsible for the end of days?" Strange asked when the outside world was overcome by an ethereal green hue, blocking out the sun and turning the sky a bluish-green colour.

"What is happening?" Wong said as he peered out the Sanctum's circular windows.

"That would be the impending doom you speak of," Aurora said with bulging eyes.

Out of the corner of the room, rainbow streams of light beamed down like a flashlight as Loki stepped out of the bi-frosts portal perimeter.

"Aurora, would you mind explaining to me why Helheim's gates are opening? And while you're at it, would you also explain why you're on Midgard?" Loki questioned with his finger waggling about, staring at her with disappointed brows.

Aurora shrugged like a teenager, face pulled into a long pout making her doe eyes seem even more pronounced. Immediately, Loki's expression changed into one less scary.

"Ah, Loki," Strange greeted.

"Imposter," Loki replied in greeting.

"You know her?" Wong asked.

"She's my concern, and the reason all mortals on your realm have fallen into an endless slumber.

"What?" Both Wong and Strange said completely unaware of that last sentiment.

"You're probably conscious because you possess magical attributes, or at least what humans pass for magic anyway," Loki said with his nose pointed high.

Wong conjured several birds-eye-view portals around him to confirm Loki's words, and sure as day, through each portal he could see countless humans slowly beginning to fall into a slumber causing chaos to erupt around them.

"I'll gather the apprentice's and other sorcerer's and try and contain the situation," Wong assured Strange before he made for the other room.

"Come on Aurora, get back in your body so I can take you back," Loki ordered.

"No!" Aurora pouted again, arms folding around herself. "You can't make me?"

"Yes, I can and I will," Loki inched further to her. "Now get back in your body or so help me I will--"

Having grown impatient with Loki's interaction, Strange had opened a portal to Timbuktu and swept Loki through it, forcing him out of the room.

"Now that we have some peace and quiet, mind telling why you're causing everyone to fall unconscious?"

Aurora sighed, "It's a protection spell..."

"Why do you need a protection spell?"

"It wasn't my idea. My mother is a little overprotective."

"Your mother?"

Before Aurora could elaborate, Wanda and Vision flew into the Sanctum through the open observatory window.

"Hello, Doctor Strange? Monk wizards? Anybody home?" Wanda asked the seemingly empty space. "Viz, you sure you detected an anomaly here?"

"I'm positive Wanda," Vison replied.

"We're in the back!" Strange shouted.

Suddenly, Loki rematerialized angrier than before, "Do that to me one more time, mortal and I'll have your--"

Strange accepted the challenge and swept Loki away into another portal.

Loki rematerialized just as quickly as he had disappeared, "That's it!"

Loki was about to charge at Strange when Wanda used her abilities to separate them to either side of the room when a subtle rumbling caused the walls and floor to trail cracks.

Several skyscrapers were threatening to topple into one another when Wanda shouted, "Viz take care of that, I've got things handled here!"

With a crack and a thunderous streak, a tear was sliced through the sky as a woman dressed in black and green with a helmet affixed with several sharp prongs sticking out of it descended from the sky -hundreds of swords materialising to form a circular perimeter around the Sanctum.

Wanda let go of Strange and Loki before she jumped out of the Sanctum and landed by an empty park in full view of the ethereal looking woman.

Loki and Strange followed suit.

"Wait for me!" Aurora groaned as she shimmered to their location.

"Who is that?" Wanda asked.

"I believe, that's Hela, Goddess of the Dead," Strange said knowingly.

"That's my adoptive older sister," Loki corrected.

"That's my mother," Aurora said with a deep exasperated sigh.

Everyone but Loki turned to her.

"What? Nobody's family is perfect!" She protested.

Loki chuckled as he summoned his sceptre, "Oh, she doesn't look happy."

"Aurora! I warned you about travelling to Midgard without my permission! You're in big trouble young lady."

Aurora's projection gulped, "Uh-oh..."

"Can't we just reason with her?" Wanda asked.

"Not when she's lost her temper," Aurora warned.

"So what's the plan?" Strange asked.

"We tire her out until her ears aren't blocked by all the blood rushing to her brain!" Loki said sarcastically.

Red, green and orange. Uniformly, Strange, Wanda and Loki took defensive stances as their signature magic colours wisped to life.

“Why couldn’t it just be aliens?” Strange whined as several magical swords embedded themselves into the tarmac and soft grass.

***

Permatags: @gruffle1 @thechickvic @notawarriorjustyet @savethehoneeybees @500daysofbecky

#wanda maximoff #loki #doctor strange #Hela #Original Character #Marvel Magic #fairy god parents #Aurora as sleeping beauty #Hela as Maleficent #maleficent #marvel imagines #fairytale #one shot #sorta a request

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protectorsofthewood · 5 years ago

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Abby and Wendy - Episode 36

AN UNUSUAL MEETING

Lluvia slowly steered the canoe toward the right bank. A wide view of Evansville opened up before their eyes. The river seemed to grow and spread out, creating space for many docks lining the shoreline. The tall buildings were all on the left side. On the right-hand side a long finger of parkland extended along the shoreline all the way from Half Moon. The Evansville College of Arts and Sciences was nestled among tall trees like a town of mostly low buildings. Beyond the college, Riverside Boulevard ran all the way to River City.

Docks owned by the Parks Department and the College clustered together, creating a marina of boats, all quite small by ocean standards. The depth of the river was only about 5 to 8 feet, and varied radically with rainfall and the tide. No large yachts or ferryboats could safely navigate the river until the Maywood River joined the Half Moon a few miles downstream. At that point the river became wider, deeper, and crowded in a more urban landscape, climaxing at the great metropolis of River City.

Lluvia maneuvered the canoe along crowded docks to a separate, spacious area owned by the college. They tied the boat to cleats in the wooden platform and a young man in a college tee shirt gave them a hand up. Lluvia told him their business and departure time Sunday morning. He wanted student identification, and for a moment they were stuck, unsure what to do.

Then they heard Abby’s name called, and Sara came rushing up the dock. She was obviously nervous and impatient. “Where have you been?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Phoebe answered. “An emergency, and my phone is gone. None of us have a phone. I’ll tell you more later.”

“Hi Bill,” Sara greeted the dock attendant. “They’re all with me, meeting in the energy building with Professor Richardson. He’ll approve it.”

“We picked up a stray boat,” Lluvia said. “It was floating free a mile upriver. Can you look for an owner?”

In a moment the three visitors and Sara were hurrying across a wide pathway onto the college campus. Old buildings, generally only two stories, were spread out among trees and lawns, and connected by flagstone paths. Abby had never seen anything like it. Wisteria grew up old stonewalls, and discreet signs were posted to guide visitors. The scene was calm and lovely in the early evening shadows. But Sara led them at a furious pace. Phoebe lagged behind, pulling her right leg stiffly forward.

Abby checked her timer. “Hey Sara,” she called. “It’s only 6:30.”

“We’ve reserved the private meeting room starting at six. Ricardo Richardson and a grad student and Freddy Baez are there already. We’ve made a dinner reservation for seven o’clock. This is a big deal. And we’re running out of time.” She’s the organizer, the mover and shaker,Abby told herself. Just follow along.

They practically ran through a maze of buildings where students walked in and out of dormitories and gathered in groups on the lawn. Cars full of arriving students and their luggage jammed the courtyard. Finally, Sara led the group to a modern one-story building with a picture window, glass doors, and wings built out from both sides. A limestone porch with benches and potted gardenias surrounded the main entrance. An elegant bronze sign read, ‘Energy in the Age of Climate Change’.

Groups on the benches said hello to Sara and stared as they hurried by, practically running down a carpeted hallway to wooden double doors. A quiet living room spread out before them. Lamps on poles, couches and easy chairs, bookshelves, paintings, and a sideboard of refreshments were scattered around a wide area. Three men stood to greet them.

Sara took charge. “Professor Richardson, Evansville Record editor Freddy Baez, and assistant professor Henry Tims, this is Abby, Phoebe, and…” Sara waited for the name.

“Lluvia,” Abby told them. They shook hands.

“Call me Ricardo, please. We’re here to talk as equals. Can I get you some coffee, wine, tea, club soda?” The visitors asked for coffee, and Ricardo served them himself.

Freddy showed them to a long couch with a coffee table, and looked at his watch. “Can we delay dinner half an hour at least?” he asked Ricardo. “We need the time.”

“Henry, see if they can give us until 7:30. Tell them we apologize, but it’s important.”

Ricardo Richardson, the host and head of the department, wore a dark tailored suit and a pale blue tie. He was tall and lean, in his forties, brown skinned, with black hair cut very short. A gold ring with a small blue stone glowed on his right ring finger. Freddy Baez did not seem to be concerned about his appearance. He looked just the same to Abby as he had appeared in Reverend Tuck’s office: balding, in his fifties, needing a haircut around the ears, a bit overweight, wearing a shabby pale suit with no tie. He sipped his wine and glanced around impatiently.

Henry Tims looked maybe 25 or 26 years old, very young for an assistant professor. He was short and light skinned, with wispy blond hair falling over his forehead, and a vulnerable baby face free of wrinkles. His jeans and pinstriped shirt were clean and ironed, giving him a bit of formality.

“Yes, right away,” he said, and hurried out the door.

Abby and Phoebe were struggling to keep their eyes off the blue stone in Ricardo’s ring. It’s dreamstone, its dreamstone!Their thoughts were buzzing, and they met each other’s eyes with a look of elated recognition. Here’s someone on our side, they thought. Abby glanced at Lluvia and noticed her wide-eyed look. She knows.

Sara retreated to a corner of the room and made a quick phone call. She wore her usual uniform: STAFF tee shirt, jeans, and wide red headband. “Amy will be here in a minute,” she told them.

“Ah! Excellent.” Ricardo gave a sigh of relief. “Let me give all of you a chance to drink your coffee and relax.” He spoke slowly and gently, with the hint of a Spanish accent. “I want you to know how grateful we are to see you here on our home turf. It’s a tremendous favor. I know you’ve overcome obstacles to be here… you folks are under a microscope these days. But now we have a chance to put our minds together in hopes of a better future. This is a moment blessed by fate.”

Henry returned, nodded to Ricardo, and pulled up a chair.

“We’re just getting started,” his professor told him. He was silent for a minute as the young women drank coffee.

Well, well…thought Abby. Quite an introduction. She was determined to play her role with all the concentration at her command, and bring in Phoebe and Lluvia to offer all those things that she could not.

The door suddenly opened and Amy Zhi walked into the room. Sara hugged her, and introduced her to Lluvia and Phoebe. Amy waved to all and sat in an upholstered armchair to the side of the couch. Henry hurried to get her a cup of coffee.

The professor met everyone’s eyes and began: “I think we’ve all done a good job of arranging this off-the-record meeting, and I think we can count on each other’s confidentiality.”

They nodded.

“Please bear with me while I give a brief description of our situation. We’ll be discussing renewable energy developments that are still in an early, fragile stage, but are becoming too prominent to ignore. As you know, tomorrow the Evansville Board of Trustees will be responding to our student/faculty declaration of climate change commitments. I realize that this document is technically open to change and negotiation. But most of us, including the trustees, are aware that we are drawing a red line, a firm position that we intend to implement with all the influence we can find.”

He paused and drank from a glass of wine. “Okay, now here’s some news. We’ve obtained through the grapevine a summary of the trustees’ response. They will point out that not only our college, but also our city and state, are nowhere near ready to achieve %100 renewable energy. Therefore they – the trustees – will not promise to withdraw all fossil fuel related investments. They will say we are decades, thirty years at a minimum, from banishing fossil fuels from our economy. Therefore, they must continue to invest in enterprises that are currently essential to the welfare of our population, such as fossil fuel heat, transportation, electricity, fertilizer, plastic, and so on. We know that this argument is shared by many of the powers that be in our world, and could have merit, except that over the past thirty years they have done nothing except continue business as usual. And the business interests that the trustees represent have no wish to change, and are ignoring the perilous consequences of delay.”

“Hurry it along, Ricardo!” interrupted Freddy Baez. “We’re from the news business, we’re used to rushing. And in twenty minutes we’re supposed to be eating dinner.”

“I understand, Freddy. But tonight, I don’t care if all the food is overcooked or stone cold. I’ve been waiting a long time for this day. Everyone will get a chance to say their piece.”

He took another swallow of wine. “In maybe ten years, with supporting policies like an escalating carbon taxes, regulations, and investments into solar and wind projects, electricity could be just about 90% renewable. But as we know all too well, our state and nation and most of the globe, do not have the political will to achieve anything drastic at the moment. We don’t have the batteries yet to store enough energy to get through days with no wind and winters with little sun. Without the invention of better batteries, generators will need to continue using natural gas at least part of the time. We don’t have the grid, the heating and cooking equipment, the cars and jet fuel and household appliances to move to 100% renewable, even with a carbon tax and enormous subsidies. And for all those places off the grid the situation is hopeless. Propane tanks populate the countryside like mushrooms. And world-wide, that adds up to an insurmountable problem…except for one thing. The problems look different if you include biogas.

Ricardo looked around the room. “That’s what we need to discuss tonight. We know that all organic material can produce biogas, mostly methane. We know that landfilled organic material gives off methane into the atmosphere where it becomes a greenhouse gas. We know that landfilling organic material is expensive. We know that biogas is much more environmentally friendly than burning wood and related materials. We know waste organic material can be collected from a village or a city or a farm. We know the production of biogas can be a local enterprise or a colossal industry. We know that fracking can be banned as soon as we have better batteries for electrical storage and biogas for furnaces, stoves, and generators. Millions of families already use it all over the world. And tonight, we need to talk about the little-known fact that biogas is used by thousands of households right here in the Half Moon Valley. How did this happen, given the political and business support for fossil fuels? Why can’t we study and discuss it?”

The participants looked at each other, but no one answered. Ricardo waited, and then went on: “We’ve discovered that one of our trustees, Herbert Irving, is alarmed that his Valley Fuels distribution network is losing customers. He’s already investigating the production of biogas by our Parks Department. We know he will convince the governor and his allies to close down that operation unless they meet very strong resistance. We know that Rivergate is already 100% renewable, and Half Moon maybe 50% renewable, and Middletown is rapidly getting into the act. Why can’t we replicate this process? Why can’t we argue that with intelligent biogas production – by intelligent, I mean refusing to grow crops for biofuels on land suitable for food crops, refusing to cut down forests… in other words, producing biogas only from waste, organic garbage, wood that is already being chipped by the Parks Department as a matter of ordinary maintenance, grasses grown on land with soil too poor for human food… Why can’t we study, publicize, and argue for intelligent biogas production?”

He looked at his watch. “Thank you for your patience. The ball is in your court.”

“We’ve got a problem among the students,” Sara replied. “They’re all fired up about Abby’s interview, the mysteries surrounding Middletown, the gender and spiritual issues… but… it seems that they don’t understand biogas very well. It’s not clean and pure like solar and wind. It burns and gives off carbon dioxide, just like fracked gas.”

“Mmmm…” Ricardo smiled. “Tell them the squirrels and the dogs and humans give off carbon dioxide. The tree that falls in the forest and turns into compost gives off carbon dioxide. Cow manure gives off carbon dioxide. But the fracked gas didn’t have to give off itscarbon dioxide. It’s been safely underground for millions of years, and could have stayed there, if we didn’t mine it and burn it. We’re adding carbon to the life cycle, carbon that has been sequestered for eons. That’s the problem. We should stick to our basic talking points: KEEP IT IN THE GROUND. BAN FOSSIL FUELS. And by the way, the organic material that produces biogas has a desirable byproduct: solid compost, pure and ready to use as fertilizer. It’s far better to make biogas out of organic material than to burn it.”

“It seems to me,” Sara retorted, “that you should get those professors in first year earth science to do a better job. The facts seem self-evident to you, but not to most other people.”

“Good point. Yes, a better education is essential. But that will take time, a year at a minimum. We need to act over the next couple of months.”

Freddy Baez leaned forward. “I’m sorry to say this, but you’re all on the wrong track. Sure, improve education, explain the issues, argue your case. But we’ve got hot news here, very hot. That interview with Abby… it’s gone around the world. The attention of the public is at a peak I’ve rarely seen. This wave of interest must be fed, or it will break and disappear. News items are stories. What story should we tell? I ask you, Abby… what story would you recommend?”

She had been waiting for this moment. Her mind was well prepared, the words on the tip of her tongue. “I agree we have to move fast. This public attention you’re talking about… it also includes the wrong kind of attention. It alerts our enemies, and they investigate and create their own story. That’s natural. They’re threatened. This Herbert Irving you mentioned who runs Valley Fuels, he’s losing money. Large parts of this whole system will lose wealth and power, and strike back. And fossil fuels are a cultural as well as an economic problem. The self-esteem of part of our population seems to be married to fossil fuels. If we don’t get our story out there in a powerful way, we’ll be crushed.”

#ecofiction #Environmentalism #teenagers #green energy #live music #climate change is REAL

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magicdrabbles · 6 years ago

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Isekai Lucio AU

This was done for @junkpilestuff and their awesome idea of Lucio waking up in our modern era world and I HAD. TO. JUMP. ON. THAT. Here’s the finished product. Warning: This is pretty long and it’s dialogue heavy but whatchya gonna do? Read under the cut~

A flash of red, burning pain throughout my body...my vision go black...then...

Darkness...swirling around in darkness...but I feel so...light. I’m...fading…my senses are mixed and...and...

…..

And what’s that horrible smell?!

Lucio’s eyes flash open and he jerks up with a heavy gasp, sweating. He squints away from the blinding light, settling himself down from whatever just happened.

It was probably just a weird dream...but why do I smell...whatever that is? Ugh! Dirt!

He opens his eyes, adjusting to the bright light and recoils his hand from the ground shaking away any residue that was on it. He scowls at the filth around him before finally getting up and wiping the dirt off his now grimy white suit. He looks up and his mouth drops. He’s standing in an alleyway next to a large trash can covered in graffiti, skyscrapers towering above, taller than his beloved palace. The unfamiliar sound of sirens and cars fills his ears and he quickly runs out the street. Everywhere, people everywhere.

Absolutely...FILTHY people! And why are they dressed so...bad?

The New Yorkers stare at him and his attire. It’s not completely unusual for the Big Apple to see weirdos like this. But his look is so...outlandish that many thought he might just actually dress like that. Lucio was twirling, back and forth, trying to take in his surroundings. The last thing he remembers before waking up here...Nadia. She killed me...that absolute BITCH! Lucio stomps down his heeled foot like a child. He growls, anger pulsing out of him like heat before he is almost bumped into the street by a burly man in a faded suit.

“Hey! Watch where you’re goin’ bub!” the man yells back at Lucio.

“YOU sir, were the one who hit me! How dare you! Do you know who I am?!”

“Not a clue,” the man laughs, “what a weirdo…” he chuckles to himself, disappearing into the crowd. Lucio huffs, and twirls to face whatever is before him. He scans the area, eyes falling on...what are those?

Large windows displaying colors and people lined up and down the buildings showing beautiful people just...staring and smiling, sometimes holding perfume or fine jewelry. Lucio stopped when he saw him. On the...I think I heard someone say...jumbotron, Lucio saw one of the most beautiful men he had ever seen, almost as beautiful as him. Hmph, I could beat that. If Nadia doesn’t want me in Vesuvia then I can be the best here. Everyone can love me, he thought immediately.

With his large golden claw, he grabs a passerby on the shoulder and turns them toward him.

“You! Who is that up there?” He points his fleshed hand up at the screens. A stunned young man, scrawny and red-eyed looks at the advertisement for Calvin Klein underwear.

“Uhhh I don’t know man...just some model dude?” He takes a sip of his soda he had been holding, not breaking his somewhat impressive eye contact with Lucio.

“A model? How do I do that?”

“Uhhhhh lots of dudes just get famous on Instagram really or like...make a youtube channel”

“A wha-youtube? Instagram? Quit being so obscure! And just tell me damn it!” Lucio grabs the guys shirt with both hands and shakes him a bit. “Okay okay! Jeez, my dude, I have a buddy who does photos for a living I can introduce you...but I don’t know if he’ll wanna take your picture since you’re such a...douche”

Lucio’s eyes widen, “A WHAT?”.

“Nevermind, just follow me” and the young pothead leads Lucio to his friend’s apartment.

“By the way, that’s a siiiiick arm, my man. You cosplayin’ someone or…”

“This is my arm and yes it is quite...sick? I’m assuming that’s good in this world” Lucio said matter of factly.

“Hehe...yeahhh...super sick”

“What is your name? It’s not that I care but I have no idea what to call you.”

“Ah it’s Jesse my liege,” he tips an imaginary hat at Lucio and do a little bow “and yours?”

“Count Lucio of Vesuvia. Grand ruler, military leader, excellent lover…” He smirks down at Jesse, running his claw through his blonde locks.

“Heh, schweet love the confidence, my man”

They continue down a few more blocks before they arrive at the apartment of Jesse’s friend. Jesse knocks a little tune on his friend's door before it cracks open just a smidge. His friend’s eye peers through the crack.

“What’s the password compadre?” Jesse’s friend asks ominously from behind the door.

“Lmao, the password is SUCK MY WEENUS! AAAAAYYYYY”

“AYYYYYY” they yell in unison. The door slams closed. Locks on the other side jangle as they fall off the door and unlock. The friend opens the door with large arms wide open.

“My dude, Dan, let me introduce THE Count Lucio”. Dan, the man behind the door, stares at Lucio and his grandeur.

“Yo, you’re mega hot not gonna lie” Dan praises. Lucio blushes for a split second before his signature smirk returns to his face.

“Ha! Of course, I am,” Lucio parades past Dan into his too small apartment. He lands, light as a feather onto the tattered and stained leather couch, “And that’s why I’m here dear Dan. YOU are going to have the privilege of photographing ME!” He extends his body seductively along the couch, leg raised straight up high and an over exaggerated pout on his lips. Dan raises a quizzical eyebrow and looks over at Jesse. Jesse, taking a drag of his vape (Where did he pull that from, Dan thought) just shrugs his shoulders and blows the vapor into his friend’s face.

“Dan, the man...you are the man and you take awesome photos. This dude wants to be a model and I thought ‘Well I’m bored and I bet Dan is up to nothing so why not?’ so now we’re here and I’m high and I’m vaping and you’re staring at me and that flamboyant weirdo is excited to model so, like, why not?”

There’s silence...Dan just slowly looking back and forth at his friend and then at Lucio. Lucio blows him a kiss and winks. With a sigh, Dan resigns to the requests.

“Fine. But only because I’m bored!” Lucio jumps up and claps his hands together.

“Excellent decision Dan! Now, what should I do? I should pose like some of my portraits maybe? Do you have a skull from an enemy I can hold? Maybe some fine jewels I can lavish myself in?”

“Uh no...but like, you can just take off your shirt. Ladies LOVE a shirtless dude.” He extends his fingers into small, pudgy finger guns and waves them at Lucio.

Lucio obeys immediately. It’s not every day people ask him to strip. He enjoys the attention. This is going to be FANTASTIC.

A while later, Dan and Jesse had set up the lights, the camera, and simple white background for Lucio to model in front of. Lucio had stripped down to just his pants, although Dan and Jesse had to stop him from going past that. After explaining he did NOT need a skull to stand on, and that most models just pout and pose fairly naturally, Lucio began to get into the groove of it all, displaying his muscles the best he could and giving the camera winks every now and then. Dan uploaded the photos to his Instagram after doing a bit of filtering and face tuning, and they waited for the responses to start flooding into the comments section. Lucio paced back and forth, his heeled boots click-clacking on the hardwood floor.

“What are we waiting for? Surely I should be on that big screen by now!”

“Ahh, that’s not how that works my dude…” Jesse explained flatly, not taking his eyes off the TV screen. Just as Lucio’s face turns red with impatience at these...fools... a high pitched “Ding!” resonates from Dan’s little device. And then another...and another and another...soon Dan is launching himself across the couch to silence his phone.

“Yooo what the fuck...you’re blowing up Lucio!” His eyes widen at the screen, his greasy finger scrolling through all the comments and likes on his photos. “Oh my god...GIGI HADID SAID SHE THINKS YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL!” Lucio waves his hand absently “Yes, yes I know I am. I don’t care who this Gugu is, am I FAMOUS now?”

Dan’s jaw drops. In his direct messages are requests for Lucio to model for big brands. Other models are asking who he is, designers are wondering how Dan discovered him.

“My dude, you’re gonna be famous” Lucio delivers a flashy smile to Jesse and Dan. Jesse goes in for a fist bump but Lucio slaps it away with his claw.

Months later, and Lucio is signed with some of the biggest modeling agencies in the world. He’s walking for Valentino, Gucci (his personal favorite), Prada, you name it, he’s modeled it. The extravagance he receives from his work is unmatched to that of Vesuvian riches; it’s BETTER. Fine clothes, drunken nights with the world’s most beautiful people, all the men and women he could dream of being with, everything! He has it all. He was even on the jumbotron. He hid his face from others, a single tear rolling down his cheek. He had made it. Lucio’s face and body were gracing every major advertisement medium- commercials, magazines, runways, even the sides of buses. One day, however, his lust for himself gets the best of him.

While walking down the busy city streets, paparazzi began flanking him.

“Lucio look over here!”

“No Lucio look here, look over here darling!” Lucio complied, striking pose after pose, strutting down the street. With a sexy smile and wink, he began to walk backward, arms up wide in pride. “Yes, New York! This is your COUNT your GOD! I AM THE BEST MODEL IN THE WORL-”

A bus slams into him.

A collective gasp from all the photographers is followed by silence, then by the flashing of lights and cameras. The bus, displaying Lucio’s own image, is the last thing the Count remembers seeing before blacking out.

Head pain...swimming in agony and...riches….darkness is creeping up again

Do I smell bath salts?

Lucio startles awake. He’s lying on a soft, luxurious bed, still dressed in his silk Gucci attire. A scream startles him and he looks to his side seeing a palace servant screech and run out of the room. Moments later, Nadia enters, her face at first shocked, then replaced with a scowl.

“You’re supposed to be dead Lucio, we were fixing you for a funeral. That was the least- actually-the most I could do for you” She crosses her arms, not at all pleased in the slightest. “And what are you wearing?” she asks coldly.

“It’s Gucci, bitch”.

#Lucio #Nadia #Modern AU #i made this for YOU #junkpilestuff #did I overdo this?#yes #do i love this?#absolutely #my drabbles #I hope you all enjoy!#the arcana

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btsfanficss · 8 years ago

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Stay Professional! Final

NSFW! Work AU! Explicit smut, some fluff and slight angst? : Jungkook x Reader

Part 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13

Summary: Jeon Jungkook’s persistence landed him a place in your heart- although a special spot for him was already there to begin with. He was more than just a pretty face. Not only was he exceptionally skilled in bed, he’d gotten to a point where he lived to spoil you... in more ways than one.

A/N: This is the last chapter of Stay Professional! Quite possible that it’s the most steamy chapter too! Please be aware that this chapter involves explicit smut! NSFW! Derogatory terms, dirty talk, over-sensitivity, spanking.. just full on rough and kinky fucking. Read at your own risk! DomJungkook! x SubReader

You opened your eyes slowly due to the blinding sunlight that pierced through Jungkook’s polished glass windows. You patted around the king-sized mattress, in search of a warm body that’d hugged you all night long. A small smile spread upon your lips at the memories of the passionate love-making the night before.

“Jungkook?” You called out in an unusual nasal morning voice and waited for a response as you stretched and bathed in the morning sunlight.

A quick shuffle of feet trotted from across the hallway and Jungkook immediately made an appearance, an effervescent grin on his radiant face.

“Yes?” He beamed and crouched over your small frame to plant a loving kiss on your forehead.

You couldn’t help but let your grin grow as big as his from the loving actions he’d spoilt you with. You suddenly noticed that you weren’t wearing anything underneath the white sheets so you pulled them up higher above your chest and Jungkook’s grin turned into a smirk.

“You can’t suddenly get shy now, can you?” He licked his lips and briefly brushed them over yours, a quick peck to temporarily satisfy his growing desire to relive last night.

“Don’t tempt me again, sweetheart.” He planted raspberries down your neck and you giggled at the sensation of his soft lips and puffs of air from his cheek. “This time, I really will punish you.”

You raised an eyebrow at his cocky attitude and Jungkook merely kissed it.

“Are you hungry?” He asked as he started to rummage through some of his clothes in search of something comfortable for you to wear.

“A little bit, yeah.” You hummed and stared out of the glass windows to fully admire the gorgeous view Jungkook woke up to every morning. A forest of tall skyscrapers painted the scenery in beautiful gradients of greys and whites and really accentuated and aestheticised the ‘rich’ part of town.

“This is such a beautiful view. It’s picture perfect.” You complimented and Jungkook’s voice grew soft with affection.

“I know..” He smiled whilst never shifting his gaze off your amazed features as he admired your side-profile.

You shifted your gaze from outside the window to catch him staring at you and you couldn’t help but get a little flustered at his cheesiness.

“I was talking about the view outside.”

“I know but I’m talking about my view.” He whistled and gently placed a large white oversized top next to you.

“As much as I love my current sight, I can’t afford to let you catch a cold so please change into that shirt.” He pointed at the comfortable looking shirt and made his way out the door to leave you with some privacy.

Jungkook’s ears perked up at the sound of the shuffle of your feet down his rather long hallway towards the kitchen. He stood across the counter with a freshly brewed cup of coffee in his hand.

“Good morning.” He hummed and took a small sip of his daily caffeine intake. Jungkook immediately beamed at the sight of you in one of his t-shirts.

The oversized design made the shirt look even bigger on your small frame and the soft cloth barely managed to stay on your small width of shoulders. He licked his lips at the sight of your visible collarbones and noticed the traces of pinks down your neck from the night before.

“Good morning~” You whistled innocently and reached for the other cup of coffee placed on the counter.

“Do you have work today?”

“Actually no, I don’t. I took today off to spend some time with you.” His smile grew past his ears as he stealthily wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling your body closer to his. Coincidentally, he’d trapped you between the counter and his masculine body.

“Are you sure you’re allowed to do that?” You had a raised eyebrow but the happy smile on your face clearly indicated the joy from Jungkook’s decision to take the day off.

“It doesn’t matter.. I need to spend more time with you before I lose my composure again.” He kissed your forehead and you wrapped your arms around him in return as you nuzzled up into his neck with a giggle.

“And speaking of losing myself- we need to talk about last night.” He pulled you away from his warm chest and you looked up at him with an innocent gaze.

“What about last night?” You simply smiled at him and Jungkook scoffed at your attempt to override the obvious elephant in the room.

“Baby girl, please. I made it clear to you that I was going to take things slow between us because I really don’t want to mess this up..” He ran his hand through your hair and pat some strands into place.

“You being uncooperative isn’t going to help my urges.” He lectured and frowned at you, his tone had sounded a little lower to evoke a more serious atmosphere within the room.

“Your urges?” You purred and leaned in on his chest to listen to the quickened pace of his heart. Jungkook managed to quickly peel your away from him again and held onto your wrists this time.

“We both know what I’m talking about. Last night was my mistake, I’m really sorry. I couldn’t hold myself back but please don’t misunderstand.. I’m completely serious about you. You’re too special to me and I don’t want you to think that you’re only here for the sex.” Jungkook’s voice sounded incredibly smooth as the grip on your wrists softened.

“Jungkook.” You held onto his hand and intertwined your fingers with his. “Last night wasn’t your mistake. To begin with, it wasn’t a mistake at all. You have no idea how long I’d waited for you to make a move... and since you were being such a stubborn and proper gentleman, I couldn’t resist my urges anymore.”

You could see the uncertainty on his face as he chewed on his bottom lip.

“I don’t want you to hold back.” You admitted. “I’ve had enough of fantasising about you. I know on your behalf that you’re trying to take things slow to prove a point but..”

“I’m only hesitant because I really don’t want to do anything that could potentially mess things up between us.” He interrupted and suddenly hoisted you up the kitchen counter with ease. You sat on the cold marble counter with legs swaying like a child and spread them a little so Jungkook’s body could fit in between.

He closed the gap between your bodies and you wrapped your bare legs around Jungkook’s back. A small sigh of relief escaped from Jungkook’s lips as you tightened the intimate embrace.

“Trust me, you’re doing more damage by not letting me fulfill my desires.” You whispered sweetly into his ear and you could feel the vibrations of his chest as he laughed.

“It was the same pain for me, okay. You have no idea how many crazy fantasies I had of you... and one actually involves this very counter.” He murmured in between suggestive yet gentle kisses down your neck.

“I’m more than happy to grant your wish.” You encouraged and spread your legs wider to provide him with more access to close the gap between your excited bodies.

“Was I too rough last night?” He stopped to ask in a concerned tone and you groaned at the lack of contact of his soft lips. “Jungkook..” You ran your hand down his upper-body and your finger hooked onto his shirt revealed a hint of his toned chest. “Less talking, more kissing.” You pleaded and Jungkook quickly got the idea of the way you liked it in bed.

“I can’t believe I agreed to this.” You grumbled and Jungkook looked a little confused at your rather sour behaviour.

He sat from across the table, decked out in one of his finest Giorgio Armani suits. His hair was neatly parted to the side and gelled to perfection. A thin black tie sat around his neck and the matching black skinny-fit suit jacket enhanced his chiseled jaw and ridiculously handsome features.

The dimly lit candle lights and the soothing hums from an orchestra further intensified the romantic atmosphere. You’d finally allowed Jungkook to pick a place for dinner- any place he wanted, this time. And of course, it’d have to be a Michelin star restaurant that overlooked the festive night-life of Seoul.

“Sweetheart, why are you in such a bad mood?” He lovingly rubbed your knee over your floor-length gown and your bit your lip with nausea.

“I feel really out of place.. As much as I appreciate you taking me out to indulge in these luxuries... It kind of adds to my discomfort in a way.” You swirled the golden Champagne with a small twist of your wrist and watched as the bubbles danced within the glass.

“I just don’t like being reminded of how much I don’t deserve you.” You spat out and placed the glass back down on the silk tablecloth. Jungkook raised an eyebrow in confusion and asked for you to continue. “What do you mean, Y/N?”

“I don’t want to be constantly reminded of the gap in our social status and I hate being bombarded with the thoughts that perhaps, you deserve someone so much more.. you know.. someone much more powerful or even...wealthy..”

Jungkook looked taken aback. His lips were parted slightly and both eyebrows were raised at his realisation.

“So this was the reason?” He muttered under his breath as he finally put together all the puzzle pieces. “This was why you were so hesitant on me taking you out?” Jungkook asked as he reached for your hands.

“I know it’s selfish and hard to comprehend... but--”

“--Y/N.” He interrupted in a stern voice. Despite his gentle expression, his low voice sounded suddenly very intimidating.

“I’m going to make this very clear to you right now.” His serious stare made you shift your gaze frantically to anything that wasn’t his piercing eyes.

“I could not care less about the difference regarding our social status. I don’t care if you’re poor, I don’t care if you’re a billionaire. But I do care about how you see yourself around me. I’m not comfortable with the idea of you thinking lowly of yourself. I’m not going to sit here and let you see yourself as anything less than the most beautiful and forgiving individual I see you as.”

Jungkook took in a deep breath. “So please, don’t think that wealth is a problematic factor because it definitely isn’t. Y/N, wealth can’t possibly teach me the lessons I’ve learned from you.” He soothingly grazed his fingers over the back of your hand.

“Before, I’d often brooded over all my problems alone and I was too scared to open up to anyone but your warmth changed that. I didn’t even know I was capable of feeling these ecstatic and addicting emotions. Arguably, if I was being completely honest here with you-- I don’t think I deserve someone nearly as beautiful and forgiving as you.”

It was almost as if Jungkook knew what you’d been wanting to hear this whole time regarding the issue about his social status in comparison to yours.

“No stop! That’s not true Jungkook. Please don’t think that. You’ve changed --” You interrupted and tightened your grasp on his hand.

“-- I have thanks to you but one trait that hasn’t is my persistence.” Jungkook’s comely smile was too radiant.

“Please allow me to be selfish and let me ask you to stay by my side.” Jungkook brought out a dark navy velvet box from within his suit jacket. He opened the box and inside was a gorgeous pair of Swarovski crystal earrings.

Your lips parted at the sight and you find it difficult to articulate a response.

“You don’t like them?” Jungkook chuckled and pushed the jewellery closer to you.

“That’s not it no! They’re... so beautiful but...I can’t possibly accept this.” You admired as you feasted your eyes on the expensive earrings.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Y/N. I personally picked them out to match your dress for this evening.”

“Jungkook these are the most beautiful earrings I’ve ever seen but I really can’t. You’ve already done so much for me and I don’t want to feel like I’m a burden on you or anything--” You pushed the box away from you with a muted smile.

“--Baby girl,” Jungkook’s call sounded borderline angry as his voice had grown deeper than before. Yet, there was an irresistible sultry twist in the way he spoke.

“You should get used to this. I’m allowed to spoil you however I want, got it?” He muttered in a dangerously low tone and you couldn’t help but clench your thighs together at the sexy sound.

“This is too much though.. You’re already paying for everything tonight and--” You insisted and Jungkook just clicked his tongue to shut you up. At that point, it was obvious that Jungkook had become a little angry.

“It’s going in the bin if you’re going to be so stubborn about this.” Jungkook threatened and closed the box before you reached over to stop him. You knew that he was being completely serious.

“No! I’m sorry. Please don’t throw it away.” You protested and Jungkook’s deeply knitted brows softened.

“I want to spoil you.. don’t think too much about these things and please just enjoy it. I have every right to treat you and remind you of just how lucky I am to have you.” You interrupted Jungkook’s sigh by leaning over the table to plant an unexpected small peck on his lips.

“Thank you.” You couldn’t help but smile at his dulcet confession.

Throughout the dinner, Jungkook’s gaze stayed fixed on your glamorous appearance. It was rare for you to dress-up since.. to be fair, you never really owned anything expensive. The evening Jungkook planned covered for your evening gown and professional make-up just so he could take you out to this restaurant.

You were wearing a floor-length dress that was the most magnificent shade of dark blue. It had beautiful ‘star like’ gem embroidery at the hems that made the dress look like the twinkling night sky.

“Since you’re my lover, I have every right to spoil you and treat you the way you deserve to be treated.”

“May I come in?” You gently knocked on Jungkook’s office door.

Jungkook’s head immediately looked up and his face brightened at the sight of you. “Of course, Y/N. This is a surprise,” Jungkook said through an airy chuckle, “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I can’t concentrate because all I can think of is how good you can make me feel..” You purred and strutted over close to Jungkook.

He could sense the desire in your voice and see the lust in your eyes. He knew immediately why you were here and the thought made his heart skip.

Boldly, you sat yourself on Jungkook’s work desk, your skirt suddenly hitched much shorter-- a delicious view of your legs for Jungkook’s eyes.

“Are you really busy?” you asked as you started to thread your fingers through his noir locks. Jungkook smirked at your suggestive behaviour and admired your bravery.

“Well.. I am but I guess it’ll have to wait..” Jungkook whispered into your ear as the distance between your faces slowly diminished.

You soon locked lips with him and you couldn’t help but melt under his touch. Jungkook stealthily wedged himself right in between your legs and worked his tongue with skill to further excite your lustful state.

Jungkook broke the heated kiss. “Aren’t you afraid we’ll get caught?”

“I don’t work here anymore so it’s fine.. plus, you’re the big boss here so why should you care.” You slurred suggestively and fiddled with the tie that sat tight around his neck.

Jungkook gently grabbed on your hands to stop you from loosening his tie. “You’re right, sweetheart.” His expression changed into an attractive and lustful one.

“Since I am the boss here, be a good girl and listen to my instructions.” He whispered harshly into your ear and it sent shivers down your spine. “I have to at least make sure my appearance stays professional today so no touching.” He cockily smirked as you frowned at his words. Regardless, you listened to him.

“Of course~” You sung in an innocent voice that drove Jungkook’s testosterone levels off the roof.

“Spread your legs for me.” He hummed as he began to unzip your skirt. Jungkook slid down your panties that were already soaked with your juices. His tongue immediately circled around your clit as his long fingers pumped in and out of you at a fast rate.

Jungkook was a fast learner-- so he picked up on how to pleasure you so quickly. A minor orgasm made your body tremble in pleasure but the two of you were interrupted by a loud knock on Jungkook’s door. Jungkook’s eyes immediately widened and your mouth dropped open in panic.

“It’s Jimin here.” Your boss’s voice sounded muffled through Jungkook’s mahogany door.

Jungkook quickly mouthed some instructions for you to get underneath his table and thus hide from Jimin. You quickly obliged and curled up into a small ball under Jungkook’s desk. The two of you were so lucky his desk was a work station and so you were successfully hidden due to the plank of wood that decorated the front of the table.

“It’s good to see you’re actually doing your job.” Jimin appeared from behind the door with a handsome smirk that creased his loveable crescent shaped eyes.

“Well.. what can I say,” Jungkook nervously blabbered out and rubbed the back of his head, which was something he did only when he was extremely anxious.

You could feel the sweat form on your forehead due to the excitement of the situation. Jungkook’s anxious facial expression added to your mischievous intentions. You were in control and he was the one that was going to be squirming. And the thought of that had your stomach churning with arousal once again.

Jimin sat himself down on the couch a couple of meters away from Jungkook’s desk. You heard a small curse escape Jungkook’s lips and you could hardly hold back a giggle.

“Why are you here?” Jungkook asked with a forced smile and Jimin raised an eyebrow in response.

“I’m going to cut to the chase here-- that’s how I’ve always been.” He coughed and you stealthily slid your hand up Jungkook’s thigh at a painfully slow rate.

You’d forced yourself to press your lips together incase a giggle escaped. You couldn’t help but exhale silently to calm down your excitement after seeing Jungkook flinch from your hand stroking up his thigh.

“Of course.” Jungkook nodded and fixed his gaze on the paperwork on his desk. It took him every ounce of energy to hold back his excited grunt and he couldn’t help but look a little uncomfortable.

“I’m just here to say I’m glad you’re back to normal.” Jimin quickly muttered under his breath.

It was rare for Jimin to be so soft.. especially on Jungkook so he didn’t know how to react tohus unusual statement so he just swallowed loudly.

You’d decided to start slowly start massaging his tense thigh and Jungkook poked his tongue through his cheek- a sexy symbol of his annoyance.

“I mean-- thank god you’re back to normal. Your reports are actually readable now.” Jimin coughed and crossed his leg due to his nerves.

“Uhh.. thanks hyung. It’s only because I sorted things out with Y/N!” Jungkook’s voice suddenly raised mid sentence from the sensation of you suddenly palming his hard length through his boxers. Jimin looked terribly confused at Jungkook’s weird behaviour.

“Yeah I realised... speaking of Y/N, has she contacted you? She left work early today because she wasn’t feeling well.”

Jungkook’s gaze quickly shifted to you hiding underneath his desk. You quirked up a brow and placed a finger over your lips, a mischievous smile poking through.

“Oh..” He acted surprised. “I’ll make sure to check up on her.” Jungkook smiled through trembling lips as your finger that was hooked onto his boxer started to trail down his legs. You teasingly undressed him of his boxers and admired Jungkook’s clenched jaw from underneath.

“Are you alright?” Jimin asked in a suspicious tone.

“I-I’m fine.” Jungkook exhaled loudly as you managed to free his hardness from the confinements of his boxers.

“Are you sure..? Your face looks a little red.” Jimin commented and squinted his eyes in disbelief.

“Yeah don’t worry about it.. I might’ve caught the cold from Y/N.” He lied and out of the blue, yanked on your hair to get you to stop. You couldn’t help but let out a small noise of disapproval but his action just turned you on even more.

As revenge, you stroked his throbbing length at an insanely slow pace and Jungkook coughed loudly in response to hold back a grunt. He’d been hard for so long it was getting really painful for him.

“You have to take care of yourself, Jungkook.” Jimin’s curious stare lingered on Jungkook’s face.

“I will, hyung. Thanks for caring.” Jungkook chuckled nervously and kept his replies short and sweet-- to quickly end the conversation.

“On a side note..” Jimin continued and Jungkook’s breath hitched again as your hand developed a tight grip around his cock. “There’s a get-together over in the US with all the stock-holders for your company. It’d be a good chance for you to expand your professional networks. What do you think?”

You started to jerk him off very slowly. “T-that sounds good. It also gives me a breather and some time t--”. Jungkook stopped mid-sentence to fully indulge in your quickened pace.

“It gives me some time to think about how I can improve my performance.” Jungkook lied completely and that one was way too obvious. He’d never actually spoken like that to Jimin before.

You slowed down your hand that was jerking him off and also softened the tight grip. You continued the slow pace with one hand and with the other hand, you couldn’t help but touch yourself briefly as the situation was just too thrilling.

There was nothing you wanted more than to be fucked so hard, roughly like two animals in heat.

You were soaked once again and you collected your warm juices that endlessly dripped down. Jungkook gulped and was given the time to think from your slowed pace. Jimin couldn’t help but wonder what in the world was wrong with Jungkook, though.

“Alright...” Jimin raised an eyebrow again. “Do you want me to book your flight... then?”

With the hand that you’d touched yourself with, you swapped hands so that your warm juices were transferred onto his cock and you watched it clench immediately. Jungkook knew exactly what the wetness was and he clicked his tongue loudly as he was beyond tempted to kick away the table and fuck you senseless.

“Sorry I have a migraine right now and it’s really painful.” Jungkook lied once again as his hips automatically started to thrust into your hand.

“I’ll go to the meeting don’t worry. Will you be coming with me?” Jungkook asked while placing his hand over yours to speed up the pace.

You admired the sight of his hard member coated in your slick juices and the view had you hungry to taste him. The air grew musky with the smell of sex but that didn’t stop Jungkook from thrusting into your hand.

“I will be going yes. I suppose I should leave you to... rest..” Jimin’s eyes suddenly widened at the realisation but thankfully, he got up and walked towards the door with a smirk plastered across his lips.

“Thanks for visiting.” Jungkook could barely hold back from breaking out into a loud moan.

Jimin had his back facing Jungkook when he momentarily stopped at the door. He wasn’t stupid-- his astute mind was beyond bright and his quick witted personality didn’t allow for any lenience.

“Can’t you two at least wait until after office-hours?” Jimin chuckled devilishly before locking and closing the door behind him.

Jungkook immediately let out a frustrated grunt at the fact that Jimin had just caught the two of you and you giggled loudly as you continued to pump his hard length with a tenacious grip. Out of no-where, Jungkook pulled you up from underneath his table so roughly with an unforgivingly tight grip on your wrist.

You stopped pleasuring him as you were forced to stand up and you unraveled from the shrivelled position that allowed you to fit under his table. Your knees were suddenly shot with stings of pain as the hiding position previously made you kneel mercilessly on the floor. The stinging sensation ran up your leg and you struggled to stand up properly.

Jungkook noticed and grasped on your hip to steady your waver. His ruthless smirk grew mercilessly. “You’re really asking to be punished, aren’t you?”

Jungkook let go of your wrist to run his hand tenderly through your hair. It was gentle and therapeutic until his grip suddenly changed. He harshly grasped onto your roots and pushed you down onto the cold tiles.

“Kneel, bitch.”

You cursed as another wave of stings crept up your knees but it seemed to turn you on even more.

“Suck me.” He commanded and loosened his grip on your hair roots. “You’re such a needy slut.. You could’ve waited just a couple more minutes..” He murmured with his head cocked to the side.

You licked your lips hungrily and opened your mouth slowly before Jungkook slammed into it at full force, making you choke from the unexpected roughness. He’d never been this rough with you before. The other times you’d slept with him, when he felt like he got too rough, he’d check with how you were feeling but this time-- he was really rough.. But he could tell you were really enjoying it from the way your tongue wrapped itself around his throbbing length despite sputtering for air.

“Suck me harder.” He whispered harshly and used his large hand to guide your head’s movement as you hollowed your cheeks ever more than before.

Jungkook continued to thrust into your mouth at a fast and unforgiving pace. Each time, he’d hit the back of your throat causing you to gag in response and he loved the sight-- you on your knees with drool down your chin as your eyes screamed at Jungkook to slow down. He could practically see the wet pool that developed on the floor due to your overwhelming excitement in between your legs.

He pulled out quickly and admired the quick heaving of your chest as you inhaled quick, sharp breaths to take in much needed oxygen. He yanked on your hair and pushed your head back so you were forced to face him with an erotic expression that pushed all of Jungkook’s buttons.

“Do you like sucking me off?” He asked with a lob-sided smirk.

“Yes Daddy.. I love it so much.” You murmured and the new kink seemed to push Jungkook beyond his limits. His smirk grew wider with confidence at the sound of his new title because he fucking loved the sound of it.

“What did you just call me?” He bit on his bottom lip so hard in satisfaction it looked as though it’d start bleeding.

“Daddy~” You purred as you licked his sensitive tip and Jungkook could only shudder in response to your bold and new kink. Previously, when the two of you involved yourselves in dominant and submissive role plays, you’d always refer to him as ‘Sir’ so when Jungkook heard the new and improved title, he became harder than he’d ever been.

“That’s right sweetheart, know your place. Show daddy how sorry you are for being so impatient..” Jungkook hissed and began to thrust into your mouth again.

“Jimin’s never going to shut up about this..” He scolded and you gagged on his hard cock as he shoved it so far down your throat that it was impossible to not contract around his length. Jungkook sighed with content as tears continued to stream down your face.

“Look at you..” He admired his view of you, completely submitting to his dominance. “What a dirty slut you are.”

You tapped on his tense thighs to let him know the burning sensation in your lungs were becoming unbearable. Jungkook pulled out of you mouth and stared at the way your saliva dripped from the tip.

“I’m... only a dirty slut for you.. Daddy..” You muttered in between catching your breath as you wiped away the saliva that dribbled down your chin. Jungkook couldn’t get enough of his sight.

“Yes but you need to control yourself.” He lectured and signalled for you to get up from the floor. You weakly stood up and clung onto his masculine body for support as your knees were in shocking pain.

With a swift and rough movement, Jungkook twisted you around and pinned you down onto his work desk. You cheeks were pressed up against his papers and your arousal grew even more intense from the sound of his belt he picked up from the floor.

Jungkook maintained a strong grip on both of your wrists that were pressed into your back. He used one hand to keep them in place as you tried to wriggle free and occupied his other hand with his belt. Before you could protest at his tight grip, a sharp sting ripped through your butt-cheek and you screamed loudly at the painful yet exciting sensation.

Jungkook smoothened his large and cooling hand over the spot he’d just whipped.

“That’s right, scream for me. Let everyone know that you’re being punished here for being such a needy and impatient slut.” Jungkook bent down to whisper the dirtiest profanities into your ear and it further intensified your desire to be fucked by him.

His wrist danced in repetitive motions as he continued to whip you with his black leather belt. Your moans grew even louder than before and it became obvious of what was happening in Jungkook’s office.

But at that point, you couldn’t care less. You were in no condition to think straight because all you could concentrate on was the juxtaposition of the burning feeling from his belt and the cooling sensation from Jungkook’s soothing rubs.

“Daddy I’m sorry..” Your muffled cries were barely audible over the sound of leather slamming onto your skin.

“Are you really sorry?” Jungkook stopped and leaned back down to indulge in your small whimpers.

“Y-Yes.. I’m so sorry daddy..” You moaned at the sensation of Jungkook leaving blossoms of pink and red galaxies down your back and torso.

“Please hurry daddy.. I learnt my lesson.. but right now I can’t wait any longer to be fucked by you.” You pleaded with tears that streamed down onto his paperwork and Jungkook also couldn’t wait any longer. It was becoming all too painful for him.

Jungkook let go of your wrists and flipped you over so that you laid on your back. He ripped open your white blouse with full force and a couple of buttons became unattached to the shirt due to the violent stretch. He stealthily undressed you of your blouse and freed your breasts so he could watch them dance as he rammed into you.

Before you could even process his fast hands, the next thing you felt was a crash of his teeth as he passionately dominated the kiss by overpowering your tongue. Jungkook kissed you while he trailed his hands down to once again meet your drenched core.

He mercilessly rubbed on your sensitive clitoris with his thumb as his three fingers plummeted in and out of your slickness. Before you knew it, another orgasm hit and you moaned at the intense pleasure and also the pain from the sensitivity.

Jungkook then rubbed his hard girth against your wet folds and you bit your lip in frustration.

“Please d-daddy.. slow down.. the sensitivity is killing me.” You whimpered and Jungkook smirked at your request, suddenly shoving his whole length in one swift snap of his hips.

Jungkook slammed his hips into yours so quickly and pulled out even quicker-- he then again slammed back into your dripping heat without giving you any time for you to adjust to his impressive size. He pumped into you so roughly that your breasts danced back and forth in time with the table. Jungkook stared in amazement at the sight of your bouncing breasts and gave in to the loud and high-pitched screams that escaped your lips.

“Daddy!” You screamed loudly. You tried to slow down his mind-boggling pace by pushing on his chest but it was useless. Another orgasm began to build up within your body as Jungkook nailed to hit all your sweet spots inside.

“Isn’t this what you wanted, kitten?” He hummed and you opened your eyes to admire his face drenched with sweat from the fast speed.

“You were begging and asking me to fuck you so hard before so why are you telling me to stop now?” Jungkook chuckled and you could only whimper beneath his drilling hips. You were sure that there would be bruises tomorrow but the pleasure was too heavenly to think about anything else.

“You’d been begging to cum right? Well I’ll make you cum until you can’t fucking walk.” Jungkook threatened through his rough panting and softly bit on your ear.

“Mmm! ‘m about to cum again..” You moaned and Jungkook continued to slam in and out of your entrance. Your walls began to contract around his throbbing length once again and Jungkook couldn’t hold himself back this time.

You clamped down on his cock so hard it was hard for Jungkook to pump into you at a fast rate. “Fuck!” He cursed and roughly bit down on your shoulder to quiet his grunts. “You’re so fucking tight I’m losing my mind.” Jungkook complimented and thrusted into you even deeper than before.

With a skilful thrust, Jungkook had you unravelling underneath him for the 3rd time. Jungkook lost himself in your warmth and heat gripping his member that he released his seed within you as he let out a string of curses.

Your chests heaved heavily and until Jungkook fully got his breath back, he stayed on top of you- resting his head in between the crook of your neck. He pulled out his softening member and watched as the sinful combination of your juices trailed down onto his paperwork.

He diligently collected the mixture that continued to flow out of you with his sensitive tip and thrusted it back into your throbbing pussy. You whimpered due to the overwhelming sensitivity and a long curse filled the atmosphere.

“It’s not over yet.” He panted and slowly shoved his fingers back into your cum-filled pussy.

“D-daddy p...please... I can’t anymore..” You could barely articulate your words as you felt completely overwhelmed from the painful sensitivity. It felt as though you were about to black out from the intense orgasms he’d provided you with.

“Sweetheart, you asked for this... daddy’s going to keep fucking you since you’ve been such a needy bitch.” He increased the speed of his fingers and all you could do was try to even out your breathing before another wave of pleasure started to coil within your body. He bent his fingers in all the correct spots so you were bound to be a moaning mess once again.

“Can you hear how wet you are?” Jungkook questioned and you could barely hear anything because your ears had started to violently ring.

He took out his fingers from within your squelching heat then trailed kisses from down your stomach to your core. His tongue skilfully flicked your overly-sensitive nub and you tried to wriggle your hips away in pain but his hands held your hips down in place. He lapped up some juices but made sure to not lick you clean. Suddenly, Jungkook inserted 3 of his digits up to his knuckle into your pussy and began to draw circles over your clit with his tongue.

“Fuck!” You screamed out as your heartbeat became dangerously fast. He’d made you cum again through the use of his mouth and fingers. You couldn’t help but let your tears stream down due to the intense pleasure and pain.

“Look at the mess you made.” Jungkook snickered and shoved the sinful combination up your fucked out pussy. “You better keep my cum inside you, Y/N.” He removed his face from your womanhood to place a gentle kiss to your lips.

He awed at your completely fucked out and tired expression temporarily before breaking out of his ‘daddy’ persona.

“How am I going to explain these stains on my paperwork?” Jungkook teased and you still had your eyes closed in exhaustion. Jungkook lovingly kissed your forehead and your unresponsive state was starting to freak him out.

“Y/N? Are you still alive?” He pulled you up from his desk and sat you up so that you could lean against his firm chest. He hugged you gently and pressed soft kisses down your neck.

“I..I loved.. that.” Your hiccuped as some tears still streamed down your face. Jungkook chuckled and blew raspberries across your collarbones as you weakly hugged him back. “T..that was so intense... I feel like.. I’m about to faint.” You giggled and Jungkook planted another loving kiss on your forehead.

“That’s what you get for being so impatient, sweetheart.” He smirked and pecked your swollen lips.

“So much for staying professional~” You joked and Jungkook rested his head upon your shoulder.

“You’re right. The whole office is going to tease me so much now.” Jungkook chuckled and ran his fingers through your hair to tranquillise your sensitive state.

“Let’s run away together.” You could hear him grinning up to his cheeks. “We’ll run away into the country side and we can live together on a farm with no one else there to bother us.. We can be as loud as we want and we definitely wouldn’t need to stay professional.”

Your hazy state allowed you to only giggle at his bewildering suggestion as you started to fall asleep, sat up on his chest. You could hear soft sounds of shuffling due to Jungkook putting on his boxers. “That sounds like a dream..” You mumbled as you started to drift off to sleep.

Jungkook struggled to dress you back into your work clothes as your half-conscious state made it incredibly difficult. He realised then that he probably shouldn’t have ripped your blouse off you but the action was so sexy, you didn’t mind. It took him some time to flimsily dress you again but he somehow managed despite you falling asleep on him completely half way.

Jungkook pulled you into his body and effortlessly lifted you up bridal style. He carried you over to the couch from across his desk and placed you down gently upon the leather sofa. You were in a deep sleep at that point due to the exhaustion and tiredness.

He took off his suit jacket and used it as a blanket to cover your upper body. Jungkook crouched down to linger his gaze over your peaceful features before planting a soft kiss on your nose.

“I really hope that dream comes true..” Jungkook’s soft whisper grazed over cheeks as he kissed your cheek another time. He couldn’t resist keeping his lips off you since you were so irresistibly cute to him.

That was the final chapter of Stay Professional! 😁 There’s a couple of things I’d like to say here so I’d really appreciate it if you were kind enough to stay and read my thanks. 💖

First of all, Stay Professional is my first ever long and COMPLETED series! So YES! This is a major achievement for me~ If you’ve been following me long enough-- you might notice my terrible habit of starting something and never finishing it :’)) so without further ado, I’d like to thank YOU! It was due to your love and support that I was energised enough to finish. SP will always hold a place in my heart because this series marks my first ever smut and Au :)

Special thanks to @jeonjungrude and @jeonjowaaan for always keeping me motivated. These two have been so supportive and loving I can’t thank you two enough for your love 💞 I’m so thankful I got to meet these wonderful people!

On a side note-- I recently hit 2k followers! Just this morning actually :) I’ll also be uploading a mood board I made for this series 🤗

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sometimeshere · 7 years ago

Text

magdalena

Bellarke World War 2 AU

The year is 1942. The place is San Mariano, Philippines. The war will start with Clark Air Field and end with the deaths of millions. But Bellamy Blake doesn't know that yet. All he knows is that the Japanese is marching towards them, his sister is missing, and these newcomers seem to be his only hope for a family. But with a noose tightening around his neck, Bellamy must put country and people over everything else - even his heart.

Even Clarke Griffin. (read on AO3)

“Blake, Bellamy.”

Bellamy felt the eyes of the other prisoners on him as he walked up to the desk. He kept his back straight under the weight of their stares and the questions hidden behind them. That’s a white man's name, they were thinking, so what’s he doing with brown skin? Bellamy shrugged off their queries like a dirty coat. He couldn’t give them the man who’d given him his name or the woman who’d given him her skin, and he’d only be left to wonder along with them if he stopped to think about it too much.

There were about twenty others in the dark-paneled room with him, all looking as young as he was – some even younger still. They stood along the far wall near the windows propped open to let in the smell of the countryside – and the blood from the nearby camp. The Japanese had taken most of the other towns in the region, but not San Mariano. At least not yet. The higher-ups were desperate, because they knew the Japanese were coming and the vanguard was falling, and so that was why Bellamy was here.

They’d taken out prisoners from the local jail to fight in the battalion. Of course, Bellamy would probably be dead within two seconds with a gun in his hands, but that was better than rotting away in a dingy prison cell for the rest of his life or getting hanged to make space for another petty sap whose only fault was trying to survive. He didn’t want to think about where he would be now if he’d stayed in his cell. The Japanese would take this town soon enough. He would’ve been found in his cell and killed without ever seeing O again.

Every way he looked for choices, it always ended up with him dying. Might as well die fighting and with the slimmest chance to find O than none at all.

The wooden floorboards creaked under every step but finally he reached the front of the tiny hut the army had commandeered for “government purposes.” He wondered where the original owners were, if they were even still alive. He knew the Americans were less ruthless than the previous ones who'd taken hold of his country, but colonizers were still colonizers, no matter how pretty the packaging.

“I’m Bellamy,” he said to the woman behind the desk. She was an American in a dark-green uniform, with brown hair spilling out of her cap. “Bellamy Blake.”

She smiled at him, which was unusual. Usually, when a Filipino introduced himself with a name like that, he’d get tossed to the ground and asked where his loyalties lied. Another question he couldn’t answer.

“Hello, Bellamy. My name is Gina, I’m the San Mariano battalion’s glorified secretary.” She wrote down something on the stack of paper she’d been working on for the past hour and then handed a sheet to him. “Write down your basic information, and you’ll start duty tomorrow.”

"'Glorified secretary?'" Bellamy repeated with a wry smile.

"I'm a busy woman," Gina said, feigning irritation but not managing to hide an answering grin.

Bellamy reached for the paper the same time the door of the hut creaked open. An black-haired American soldier ran in, looking around wildly until he found Gina.

Gina stood, the hardened seriousness of a soldier replacing her cool good humor. She told Bellamy to keep calm as the soldier ran towards the desk, ignoring the murmuring that had started up with his grand entrance.

“Murphy,” said Gina in lieu of greeting.

“I need ten men,” Murphy replied curtly. His eyes fell on Bellamy. “You. Pick nine others and meet me at the base.”

“I don’t start until tomorrow,” Bellamy said.

Murphy scoffed, looking at him with the same look of distaste Bellamy had gotten his entire life. “Change of plans, rookie. You start today. A Japanese spy was caught around base – and he’s holding our Chief Surgeon hostage in the woods. We need all hands on deck. You have five minutes.”

The tip of the scalpel dug painfully into the skin of Clarke's neck. Not hard enough to draw blood, but one wrong move and Clarke would be bleeding out on the forest floor. She'd die in this forgotten part of the Philippines all because she wanted to play doctor.

Don't think like that, she thought, digging her fingers into the spy's arm, desperately trying to give herself room to breathe without skewering herself on her own scalpel. You’re better than this.

Her boots skidded against the leaves as the Japanese spy pulled her along deeper into the woods, barking harsh one-word orders in her ear. He was breathing hard. Perhaps he hadn't expected to get caught so soon, and by a woman at that. She'd been alone in the medical tent, sorting out the supply cabinet. She remembered thinking about home and where Wells could be stationed. The war had only started a few weeks ago, but it already felt like forever, and all she wanted was to be back in New York, laughing with her best friend and drinking bitter tea with her mother and spending lazy afternoons in her fiancé's loft. Dissatisfied and bothered by the heat, she'd slammed the glass cabinet closed a little too hard, and that's when she saw him – in the reflection on the glass, halfway into the tent. There was a brief moment when they just stared at each other, confused, and then Clarke had shouted for help. There was a soldier wandering about the tent just then, and he managed to disarm the spy's gun before getting himself killed. Unfortunately, that left Clarke the only hostage he had if he wanted to get out of the camp alive. So he'd taken a scalpel from the table beside one of the cots and led Clarke out of tent at scalpel-point.

She wished she could say she hadn't gone with a fight, but she'd only managed a small scuffle before the spy had her by the hair and was using her to get out of the camp without anyone trying to shoot him.

And how could they? She was their only surgeon. The San Mariano base wasn’t a priority and they'd only been awarded one surgeon, two nurses, and two engineers. If she died then (or now, she supposed), the base would be severely compromised.

She just hoped the spy didn't know that, too.

“Okay,” he breathed into her ear in a thick Japanese accent. “We’re far. They will not find us.”

If only he knew how desperate the camp was to get her back. Playing doctor may have gotten her into this, but it would also get her out. She was invaluable. They would send for her. She had to hold on to that no matter what. Hopelessness was not an option – Clarke knew enough of war to know that that was what got you killed in the end.

The spy pushed her down into the ground and pulled out a roll of rope from his pocket. “Tree,” he directed. When Clarke merely stared at him, he grabbed her roughly by the hair and pulled her through the dirt to the nearest tree. He tied her flush against the trunk, her arms pulled painfully backwards until he could tie them to each other, securing her to the tree.

Satisfied with his work, he sat in front of her, close enough that Clarke couldn’t move an inch without him noticing. He looked her up and down, once, and then nodded to himself. Without the threat of getting stabbed to death, Clarke’s mind stopped racing for once to finally realize how young her captor was.

A teenager. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen.

“You’re young,” she said, unable to stop herself.

“So are you,” he snapped. “Shut your mouth.” He took out a tiny leather-bound book from the inside of his coat and began flipping through it. Clarke saw maps and large blocks of text in Japanese and understood that he was just as lost as she was.

As he worked, Clarke looked around. Nothing distinguished this part of the forest from the rest of it: there were trees and underbrush and birds. So many birds. Realization dawned slowly on Clarke.

They would never find her.

No, she thought violently, trying to see through the foliage above. They will. They have to. The engineers were smarter than anyone else she knew, even the engineers she’d known in her first battalion in the US, and Murphy – bless his weasel heart – would never let any Japanese soldier slip past his guard. And her mother… Her mother would never let them stop trying to find her.

But her mother wasn’t here. She was in the field, with the general. They’d trusted her with the base and she’d gotten herself kidnapped. San Mariano was her first responsibility, however unofficial it was, and she’d failed. More than that, she’d probably die out here. If not from the scalpel, then by the forest.

The sun was setting. The sky she saw through the foliage was a deep scarlet – sunset. She didn’t have much time left before the forest was teeming with beasts. She wasn’t familiar with Philippine predators, but her imagination provided her with enough images to know that she didn’t want to be caught out here in the dark.

Think, Clarke, think. She pulled on her bonds. No good. She glanced at the spy. Still as lost as she was, judging from the crease of his brow as he skimmed through the book of maps. She calculated how much time had passed between now and from when she’d been taken from the base. Thirty minutes, at least. They would be scouring the forest for her now – but none of them knew this forest enough to ensure they wouldn’t get lost along with her, not without a sign.

Which left Clarke Griffin, Head Surgeon and kidnap victim/hostage, only one call.

Like she did in the tent, all she could do was scream.

“Her name is Clarke Griffin,” Murphy said as he paced in front of the recruits.

Bellamy stared the woman in the picture he’d been handed. When they’d told him he’d be looking for the camp’s head surgeon, he’d expected to be looking for a craggy old bastard already doddering off to his grave – someone he wouldn’t trust with a scalpel within a mile around him. He wasn’t sure he could trust her either.

She was just so… well, young. The picture was of a young woman with short, wavy hair leaning against a tank. She was wearing a buttoned dress that Bellamy knew was the fashion overseas, and she was laughing – eyes closed, arms a blur of motion. There were two men with her in soldiers’ uniforms – one who looked much like Murphy with tussled black hair and pale skin; the other more darker-skinned than even Bellamy, his arm around the woman who was, apparently, the Head Surgeon of the San Mariano base.

One of the other searchers, a small slip of a thing with spindly arms asked, “Are you sure we’re not looking for someone else? All this for one girl?”

Murphy found him in the crowd and glared him down. “Did I bloody stutter, rookie?” When the boy shrunk into himself like a wilting flower, Murphy continued, “Clarke Griffin is the general’s little princess. She’s valued not just by the people she’s stitched back together, but by the general and his personal adviser and chief surgeon, Abigail Griffin.”

Bellamy passed the photo along to the boy next to him and tried to shake the image of that laughing girl out of his mind. “We’re supposed to find that ‘little princess’ out there in that forest?” He pointed to the large expanse of woods near the base. Even years of hunting hadn’t gotten him halfway through with that ground. “They could be anywhere.”

“Well, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Murphy said roughly, looking out at them all. There were the ten from the prison cells and twenty others from the camp. Overall, they totalled to ‘not enough.’ “We have to retrieve Clarke Griffin, alive, or the general will skin us all alive and parade our sorry hides around on poles – and that’s not including what the Doc will do.”

“We shouldn’t waste any more time,” someone – an American soldier – piped up from the back. “The sun’s setting. She could get eaten by wolves.”

“There aren’t any wolves in the Philippines, you dolt.” This came from Reyes, one of the engineers of the camp. She was standing apart from the group, her eyes wary. She was covered in oil and dirt, and the look she shot every man around her was filthier still. She didn’t trust any of them, not even the ones from her camp, to find her friend. It was evident, at least to Bellamy. He knew a thing or two about not trusting anyone else with the people he loved. “But the dolt is right. We’re losing time. Murphy, damn it, why did it take you so long to get help?”

“Whatever, Reyes,” Murphy spat.

Reyes ignored him and addressed Bellamy. Somehow, during the few minutes it had taken to assemble this ragtag group, Bellamy had become its de facto leader. “Blake, right?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “She’s a fighter, but she can’t hold out long with supplies or a sharp enough weapon. Bring Clarke home.”

Bellamy hadn’t recovered yet from the shock of being addressed to with such authority before Reyes turned on her heels and walked past the gates of the San Mariano base. ‘Gates’ was being kind to it – having been taken by surprise, all the Americans could put together was a haphazard imitation of fences out of scrap metal and whatever they could find in the woods. Stole from us again, didn’t you? Bellamy thought bitterly, looking around at the trees near the base with their branches shorn off.

“Blake.” It was Murphy, with that same sour look he’d maintained for the past quarter-hour. “Go. Don’t come back with Griffin.”

Bellamy nodded, blood boiling. How many times would he have to continue taking orders? He’d been following rules all his life, and when he’d broken them once, he’d been sent to rot in jail and then handed over to the very people who took his country away from him.

It wasn’t fair.

But then again, nothing was – in love and war.

Without much of a choice, he gestured towards the part of the woods where the spy had disappeared with the surgeon and said, “Let’s go.”

When they got to the edge of the forest, Bellamy stooped down to inspect the ground. There. Track marks through the leaves that had fallen off the trees. He turned around and realized everyone – even the Americans – had stopped behind him, wide-eyed and waiting orders.

Feeling like he was wearing a part that was way too big on him, he said, “Alright. Break off into ten groups, three people each. That way, we can cover more ground. You, you and you, pick a team and head north; you and you, south; you…” He continued until they were neatly ordered, and then waited for them to form their groups.

They did as they were told like a rusty machine. The boys from the jail didn’t want anything to do with the American soldiers, and vice versa. Bellamy sighed as they started breaking off into the woods in groups of three – three groups of all-Filipinos and six groups of all-Americans. That left him with two American soldiers.

One of the boys from the photo was one of them. The white one. He was hard-eyed and hard-jawed, his shoulders set like stone. He was way too high-strung to be worried about just another colleague and, judging by what Bellamy could remember of the photo and how this guy had looked at Griffin… well. Perhaps he was looking at the Head Surgeon’s boyfriend.

The other one was a tall, scrawny kid who looked way to excited to be traipsing through the forest at sunset. He held his gun almost as if he was planning on swinging it around like a baton, and he had goggles on his head like those pilots that had come through town a few months ago.

“We take this way,” Bellamy said, pointing to the place where the track had vanished. “This is the likeliest place they headed.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” said the excitable one, grinning from ear to ear and bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Okay, cool, off to look for Mama Clarke. Good.”

“Jasper Jordan,” the other American drawled. “Are you fucking high?”

Apparently-Jasper looked aghast at the very notion. “Me? High? At a time of crisis and great stress? A life-or-death scenario with high stakes? Me – yeah, I’m high. Stop looking at me like that, Collins.”

Apparently-Collins started to say something else, but Bellamy cut in. “I don’t give a shit if he’s high, we have to go.”

Collins nodded gravely. “I’ll lead the way,” he said.

Bellamy raised an eyebrow at him and his freshly-polished boots and newly-pressed uniform. “You? No. I know these woods better than anyone. For once, you follow me.”

The sour look on Collins’s face matched Murphy’s, but he didn’t argue any further. Surprised that worked for once, Bellamy started leading the way deeper into the forest.

They’d given him a small gun – a pistol, Gina had called it – when he’d been enlisted, and it was a foreign weight in his hands as he pushed through the low-hanging branches of the forest, looking around for signs of struggle. There was a broken twig just above his head and – there. The tracks on the ground had started up again.

Reyes was right. Clarke Griffin was a fighter. The spy practically dragged her away from camp.

Bellamy followed the impressions of boots on the ground until they disappeared again, then looked for more clues. Upset underbrush, disturbed rocks – anything. He’d been hunting all his life and this was second nature to him, but the woods around him were getting less and less familiar with every step he took.

Jasper was giggling behind him and he could practically feel Collins’s apprehension in the air, but Bellamy focused on his work. That was something O was always praising him for. His focus.

‘You get this look on your face,’ she’d told him once, scrunching up her small face in some vague approximation of what Bellamy’s face was apparently like when he was focused. ‘Like this. Like you hate everyone and everything around you.’

‘I don’t hate you,’ he’d replied.

‘I know,’ she said knowingly. ‘I don’t hate you, either, Bell.’

That was the closest they’d come to love.

Thinking about O made his stomach turn, but Bellamy ignored that, too. He spotted scratch marks on one of the tree trunks and followed its path around to the left, and that was when he heard the scream.

“Clarke!” Collins shouted back, like an idiot, because of fucking course.

Bellamy clamped his hand down on Collins’s mouth and pushed him against the tree, looking around them for any sign of an ambush. Jasper had brandished his gun. He wasn’t laughing now.

Collins struggled against Bellamy’s grip until Bellamy let him go, satisfied the spy hadn’t heard Collins’s stupid proclamation.

“What the hell?” Collins demanded, shoving Bellamy backwards with fire in his eyes.

“Are you trying to get us killed?” Bellamy hissed. “Hey, here’s an idea, moron, maybe shout a little bit louder because I don’t think they heard you back in Kyoto.”

“How would you know where Kyoto is?” Collins spat.

“I’m a survivor, Joe, that’s what I do,” Bellamy replied. “I know, I adapt, I survive. You wouldn’t understand that, though.” Before Collins could reply, Bellamy walked to Jordan and plucked the gun out of his hands.

“Whoa!” Jordan argued.

“I don’t trust you with this,” said Bellamy. He traded him his pistol. “Here. Keep it pointed away from your comrades next time. We move forward. That shout came from somewhere here. Follow me.”

Years of hunting down animals that were easily-spooked had made Bellamy’s footsteps feather-light, but Jordan and Collins’s bulky boots broke leaves and snapped twigs no matter how they tried. Bellamy prayed the princess’ captor was too busy doing damage control to notice them creeping up on—

Clarke Griffin.

Through the break in the trees, he could see her. She looked just like she did in the photo, and just as stubborn as Reyes described. She was tied to a tree in a clearing, glaring defiantly up at someone who was yelling in rapid-fire Japanese, their voice cracking with panic.

“Clarke,” Collins breathed. Bellamy felt him start to move and whipped around to push Collins back.

“You stay here,” Bellamy snapped. “You’re a risk factor I can’t control. If anything happens to the princess, it’ll be my head to roll, like always, so you sit here and babysit Jordan while I go think our way out of this mess.”

“She’s my responsibility,” Collins argued.

“No, she isn’t,” Bellamy spat back. “Step back. You have to trust me, Joe.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Can’t remember your name,” Bellamy said. “Sit still. I have an idea and I can’t pull it off if I have to think about your noisy ass, too. Do you want me to save your girlfriend or not?”

Collins glared at him for a long while before nodding. Bellamy couldn’t help but notice that he hadn’t protested on the ‘girlfriend’ bit, which proved his suspicions. Collins was too close to this girl to be much help. Bellamy had to do this himself.

He looked up through the foliage. The starts were coming out. The sky was part-night, part-scarlet. If he wanted to save Clarke Griffin and get them all back home before something worse than a Japanese spy hunted them down, then he’d have to move quick. He left a seething Collins with Jordan, who had gone very still, staring wide-eyed through the trunks at Clarke Griffin.

“I’ll be back,” said Bellamy, crouching low.

“Not without her,” Collins reminded.

Bellamy nodded, and was gone.

Clarke Griffin knew that there was a very big probability that the spy was going to kill her. He was shouting at her in Japanese, forgetting in his anger that she couldn’t understand him. She pulled at her hands again, hard enough to draw blood from her wrists, and it hurt like hell but there was no way she was going down without a fight this time.

She was Clarke fucking Griffin, and she didn’t come from halfway around the world to get killed with her hands behind her back.

The spy finally stopped his tirade, breathing heavily. He seemed to realize then that if Clarke’s scream hadn’t attracted anyone, then his two-minute long monologue would have. Clarke tried to hide a smirk and failed.

“Bloody Christ,” she said. “You really are just a child.”

“I’m no child,” he growled, in English, and lunged for her with the scalpel.

Clarke turned her head just in time, and the scalpel lodged itself into the tree right beside her ear. Without waiting for the spy to recover, she twisted her legs around his torso and bucked, knocking him to the ground on his back. The scalpel was still in the tree, so Clarke turned her head again and, using her teeth, pulled it free.

Now, the tricky part. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, hard enough that she could barely hear anything beyond her own harsh breathing and the ringing in her ears. She ignored everything, ignored how much time she had left before the spy would be back on his feet, and spat the scalpel behind her.

Her hands patted the ground desperately, looking for the hilt. When her fingers met only damp leaves, her heart fell – and then there it was, the cool, familiar blade, grazing her left pinky finger as if in greeting. She inched the scalpel nearer with her fingers, craning her neck back to see as far as she could, and finally managed to place the scalpel in her hands. Clarke barely suppressed a sigh of relief as she began sawing at her bonds.

That was when the spy, groaning from Clarke’s blow to his stomach, got to his knees, his arms around his middle. He was muttering something too low for her to hear – curses, no doubt – as he unsteadily tried to stand over her.

Clarke’s legs snapped out again, but with her hands busy and the spy already anticipating her attack, she barely grazed his shoulder before he caught her ankle with his hands and glared down at her with a vicious fire burning in his eyes.

And that was when the bonds snapped free.

With a feral scream, Clarke kicked her way out of his grip and rolled over, bring the scalpel down on an arc and into his leg. It hit home, and the spy fell back down to his knees with a shriek.

Clarke scrambled to her feet, ignoring the salty tang of blood in her mouth. He would not catch her. She wouldn’t let him. He was shouting at her, but with that scalpel lodged at just the right place, he wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.

Clarke began running. She couldn’t breathe – it was so hard to, like swallowing down shards of glass, but she was going to run, damn it, because she would not die here, not now. Her feet were aching, her arms burning, and exhaustion had settled deep into her bones. But she ran.

And that was when she saw him, emerging from the shadows with a gun pointed straight at her.

“Get down,” he growled.

No, no, no – she didn’t fight so hard just to be cornered again.

“Please,” she said. It was all she could say.

“I said get down!” The force of his words made her knees, exhausted from the fight, finally crumple. She fell.

And he pulled the trigger.

Bellamy Blake had seen a lot of odd things in his life. There was that one night, when the stars started falling and he’d thought it was the end of the world. Then he’d seen O, when she was barely six, scale a tree tall enough that the older kids couldn’t even climb halfway up. He’d once gotten glimpse of a horse so big it would’ve crushed him effortlessly under one hoof. He’d seen the beginning of the war, had heard stories of the first one that were too whimsical to have been true. He’d been told stories of fairies and witches whose severed, winged torsos hunted down pregnant women.

But he had never, not once, seen something as strange as it was delightful as watching Clarke Griffin, Head Surgeon and small woman, take down a military-trained spy with her hands literally tied behind her back.

He sat there, between two trees and in front of a bush, as Clarke Griffin kicked the spy down. He heard Collins scream from where he’d left them, but it appeared as if neither Clarke nor the spy had noticed.

She couldn’t survive long. The spy was already getting up, and there was no way she could get free of the rope tying her to the tree. Bellamy stood, heading to help her, and that was when something flashed in her hands, glowing silver in the new moonlight, and she’d buried a scalpel into the spy’s leg, right over where even Bellamy knew would hurt like all hell.

Holy shit, Bellamy thought, his mouth falling open. Holy shit!

Clarke began running towards his direction, not once looking back. She was halfway through the clearing when the spy, with a strangled yell, pulled the scalpel free of his leg and limped after her.

He was faster than Bellamy would’ve given him credit for, especially with that wound, trailing blood across the forest floor. And Clarke was exhausted, too. She was, after all that, still human, despite what Bellamy wanted to believe. Before long, the spy was almost on her, and Clarke Griffin hadn’t noticed—

Bellamy broke free from the trees. Clarke skidded to a halt, her eyes wide. They were green.

Huh, Bellamy thought. It suits her.

“Get down!” he shouted, desperate. The spy was right behind her—

“Please,” she whimpered. She was not afraid, just tired.

Fear twisted in Bellamy’s gut as the spy raised the scalpel over his head, running straight at Clarke.

“I said get down!” he screamed, desperation knotting his words until they were almost unrecognizable.

Clarke dropped to her knees, and Bellamy pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out, louder than he’d expected, and for a moment there was just that ringing in his ears and the tremble of his fingers.

He’d never fired a gun before.

He knew how to load it. He’d been watching the soldiers all his life. But he’d never fired one.

Until now.

Clarke was looking up at him, terror in her eyes and her hands instinctively at her ears. He didn’t like seeing her afraid of him, not after she’d just faced down a spy with her hands tied and with nothing but a scalpel.

“Who…” She looked slowly behind her, and scrambled away from the sight of the spy, lying lifeless on the ground, the blood pooling around his head like a blooming red flower. “Oh, Christ,” Clarke whispered, her voice sounding fragile. “Oh, what have I done?”

“You didn’t do anything,” Bellamy said. His mouth tasted strange, as if he’d just inhaled a glass full of ashes. He ignored the unsteadiness of his own feet and offered Clarke a hand, not taking his eyes off the corpse.

Corpse. He was young. Too young. Younger than even O had been, before she’d disappeared. And Bellamy had killed him, shot him through the head—

A cold hand wrapped around Bellamy’s own, bringing him back to his mission. Why he was here in the first place. Clarke Griffin. She was staring up at him, her mouth slightly open as if she was trying to make sense of him.

“Aren’t you going to help me up?” she said.

Bellamy pulled, and she rose to her feet. She glanced back at the body, and when she turned to Bellamy, her face was soft. She was older than the picture had made her out to be, probably early twenties. Twenty-four? Twenty-five? Right around Bellamy’s age.

“We should give him a proper burial,” she said.

Bellamy looked up at the sky. The stars were out in full, and so was the moon. Something howled in the distance. The ringing in his ears was replaced by the insistent screaming of the crickets of the forest.

Bellamy shook her head, feeling his muscles tighten at the thought of having to touch a body he’d just put a bullet through. Bile rose to his throat, but he pushed it down forcibly as he looked back at Clarke.

“It’s getting late,” he said. “I need to take you home.”

“But—” Clarke gestured vaguely, trying to find her point. “He deserves at least a prayer, don’t you think?”

“He held you hostage,” Bellamy pointed out, more to himself than to her. “He almost killed you. And you want to pray for him?”

Clarke set her jaw stubbornly. He had a sense that that was how her face was usually arranged. “It’s the least I could do.”

Bellamy shook his head.

“Clarke!” Collins suddenly burst out of the underbrush, a tussled-haired Jordan following unsteadily behind him.

“Finn?” Clarke barely managed before Collins caught her by the waist and pulled her close, burying his face in his neck. She couldn’t have smelled that good, after almost an hour getting dragged through the forest, but Collins inhaled her scent as if she was doused with the best perfume in the world.

Clarke’s arms went around him almost instinctively, and they held on to each other for dear life.

Jordan stumbled towards Bellamy, his wide dark eyes on the corpse of the young spy. “Man,” he said. “You – You killed –”

“It’s war, soldier,” Bellamy said, but it felt like a lie. It wasn’t supposed to be war, not for him. “I thought you of all people would understand that.” He slung the gun off his shoulder and tossed it to Jordan. “Let’s go!” he called out, and Clarke and Collins sprung apart as if he’d just tossed them a grenade. He took one last look at the corpse before leading the way out of the forest, not looking back once.

They told her his name. Bellamy Blake, whispered Finn, carefully, almost as if saying his name out loud will make him disappear. He certainly felt like a dream. He walked ahead of them, his footfalls silent and sure as if he’d already carved his way through this forest a million times and was simply bored of the act, though the tenseness of his shoulders would suggest differently. If Clarke squinted at just the right angle, he almost disappeared into the trees like a ghost, as if the woods were the true home of his soul and this human form was merely a disguise.

Clarke had heard stories like that before, from some of the children in the town that had not yet been discouraged to talk to “that yellow-haired American lady.” One of her favorites was of Maria Makiling, a goddess who lived in a hut deep in the forest and ruled every tree and rock and drop of water. She was said to be generous and fair, with hair as black as night, and whose name alone could stop storms. Bellamy Blake sounded like a name powerful enough to go against the rule of nature, and if Clarke hadn’t left all her painting tools behind when she packed for war, she would’ve painted the both of them – Bellamy Blake and Maria Makiling – their dark edges blurring into the green backdrop of a Philippine woodland.

Deities, she would call the painting. Or maybe Saviors.

As they walked through the forest, Clarke found herself unable to say two simple words. Thank you. Thank you for saving my life. Thank you for coming for me. Thank you, Bellamy Blake. They were necessary, and it was what had to be said, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. The words stuck in her throat every time she dared speak them, and eventually the silence got so heavy that she could barely hear herself think.

Bellamy had warned them not to speak unless absolutely necessary. The woods were getting darker around them and every sound apart from their footsteps was a potential predator on the hunt. Despite Bellamy’s earlier incentive to go ahead, he now hung back with them, as if unknowingly trying to protect them. They moved forward like a pack, Bellamy ahead, Finn behind, and Jasper and Clarke in between. Clarke’s knees were still shaky from the fight, and she couldn’t wish away the image of the dead boy in the clearing, but she found herself placing one foot over the other without much doubt over the places where Bellamy’s feet had been.

He was not a soldier – at least not yet. Finn had given her a brief rundown and she knew Bellamy was more civilian than fighter. They were supposed to be protecting him, not the other way around.

A howl sounded in the distance, and the four of them froze, looking to one another.

“Blake?” Finn said. Somewhere along the way, Bellamy had become the de facto encyclopaedia.

“That didn’t sound near,” Bellamy replied curtly, but hurried his steps.

They cut through underbrush and pried branches up to duck underneath them. It felt like hours, but Clarke knew it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes.

“Are we lost?” Finn asked irritably after a few seconds. “This seems farther than the way we took to find Clarke.”

“We’re taking a detour, Joe,” Bellamy replied breezily without turning or stopping. “That place we went through before is full of nocturnal snakes. They’d be awake at this hour, no doubt out on the hunt. Can’t have Miss Griffin dying of a venomous bite after I went through all that trouble to save her.”

“How do you even know all this?” Clarke asked, the first thing she’d addressed to him in a while. She ignored his surprise at the sound of her voice. “How do you know they’re even venomous?”

In the dark, Clarke couldn’t be sure, but Bellamy’s jaw seemed to have tightened at her question. “Experience,” he replied vaguely.

They didn’t ask him any more after that.

Two minutes later, Jasper said, “Wait. Snakes are near our camp?”

“Don’t worry, Joe Jr.,” Bellamy assured him. “They don’t wander that near to San Mariano.” After a brief pause, he added, “At least not usually.”

The cryptic way he said it made Clarke shiver. Perhaps it was just the cold starting to settle into her bones.

She looked up. The sky was puckered with stars. She could give up all the light of New York just for a slice of the Philippine sky. Thinking about New York made her think of Wells, and thinking about Wells made her feel anxious and numb so she shut out all other thoughts of home and instead focused on camp.

“Is that…” Jasper’s face brightened. “Is that the others I hear?”

Indeed there were voices floating up towards them, and a golden light shining through the breaks in the trees. Jasper started waving, his mouth half-open in a yell, when Bellamy suddenly moved – faster than Clarke would have expected – and pulled the three of them down with him into the bushes.

“What—” Clarke started, but Bellamy put his hand over his mouth and squeezed hard. The universal indicator for ‘shut up or we die.’

Clarke’s heart began to pound. Bellamy’s wrist pulse, where it rested against her cheek, was equally as loud. She could hear Finn’s harsh breathing somewhere to the left and Jasper’s soft mutterings, and then, just below that, the rough scrape of unfamiliar voices using unfamiliar words.

The owners of the voices were passing just up ahead. If Bellamy had wasted even a second, they would’ve seen the four of them. Judging by the seriousness of Bellamy’s face, she could tell these were not allies. In fact, she didn’t think Bellamy knew what they were aside from the fact that his instinct had told him to get down and hide.

There were more or less ten of them, their voices overlapping, speaking in Tagalog. Clarke had only been in the Philippines a few months and had the most basic grasp of the Filipino’s language, but she caught familiar-enough words.

“Supremo,” and “Amerikano.” “Manila,” and “namatay.”

Bellamy’s mouth fell open slightly as he listened to their words. He was the only one of them who could understand what was being said, and apparently it was a story that Clarke didn’t want to hear.

“What’s going on?” Clarke dared. Bellamy’s hold on her had loosened just enough to let her whisper.

Bellamy’s eyes followed the path of the strangers’ torches through the forest until they were gone, and darkness fell again. He waited until their voices were drowned out by the insistent crickets, and then spoke, leaning against the tree behind them with exhaustion written all over his face.

“Your government had sent over an entire ship filled with reinforcements from the Navy,” Bellamy began. “Somehow, the Japs caught wind of it and waited for them at the bay. It was a bloodbath. They said the Americans were too surprised to even fight back. There were no survivors, judging by what they saw. So we’re alone again.”

The Navy? thought Clarke. And then, “Wells.”

“No,” Finn whispered. “No, don’t – don’t think like that, Clarke. Wells – maybe he got deployed somewhere else…”

But Clarke knew that if they had asked for soldiers to fight in the Philippines, Wells would’ve been the first volunteer. He would have been first on that ship sailing East. “Towards the sun,” he’d said when she and Finn had been deployed. “Don’t stop until you start to burn.”

Wells. Clarke felt a sob building in her throat and fought to stamp it down. Wells. Damn him and his bravery, damn this entire bloody war. Wells. She didn’t fight so hard just to lose a piece of her heart now. Wells.

Her best friend, her greatest ally in the entire world. Wells Jaha.

Wells was gone.

“Clarke.” She looked up. Finn was kneeling beside her, her face in his hands. She hadn’t even realized that she’d started crying until Finn wiped her tears away with his knuckles. “Hey. Don’t worry. Wells is stronger than that. He wouldn’t go off and get himself killed right off the bat. And that’s only if he’d been on that ship—”

“You know he was.” Clarke shoved at him, suffocating on his forced positivity. She couldn’t handle him right now, couldn’t handle being held together when all she wanted to do was break apart and take everyone down with her. “You know he was!” she repeated. “You know how he was, how he wanted to come and fight with us. You know that if he had a chance, he would be here with us. You know he would be on the first boat out! ‘Towards the sun,’ remember? Remember?”

Finn’s face was weary. She felt hands on her shoulders and a quiet, “Calm down, princess. You’re going to get us all killed. Looks like you and Joe have a lot in common.”

Princess? Clarke thought wildly, spinning around to face Bellamy. “My best friend,” she said. Her own voice sounded foreign to her. “Wells. Wells Jaha—”

“We don’t know that,” Finn begged again, but her eyes were on Bellamy.

His face was carved of stone – grim and immovable. Clarke stepped back, wary of his sudden coldness and the tight set of his jaw.

“We’re near camp,” Bellamy said simply, and shouldered his way past them to lead the way again. Clarke didn’t understand the sudden shift of attitude, how a savior could pull away so fast and so soon.

But deities were always two-faced. Benevolent one moment, cold the next. And in these dense woods, the line between man and god were blurred. Clarke thought about the life lost, taken as if by some vengeful hand from a boy that was too young, and wondered if there was any line at all.

#bellamy blake #clarke griffin #bellarke #fic #ww2 au #magdalena #bellamy x clarke #t100

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clarenecessities · 7 years ago

Text

The Dread Pirate Ladybug, Ch 11

Chapters: 11/13 Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Implied death, may contain horses

Chapter Summary: how’s our hero gonna get out of–oh. oh god. Chapter Warnings: ASSAULT, actual violence, blood tw, blade tw, attempted murder, successful murder, psychological torture, character death, needles (okay, a precursor to needles), comparatively mild rage

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Adrien paced from one end of his chambers to the other, his head slightly bowed, his hands clasped behind his back. He wished he could scowl, but since his return he had been appointed a ‘face choreographer,’ who expressly forbade the display of emotion, lest he give himself wrinkles. The only thing that surprised Adrien about this was that he hadn’t already had one assigned; although having only recently reacquired the ability to feel a full range of human emotions, it was distinctly possible he just hadn’t deviated from his moping default over the past few years.

As it was, he contented himself with watching the patterns in the ornate rugs over the ornate floors, walking along invisible lines he drew between pieces of furniture. Despite his new training, and the surge of festivities since his return (there had been no fewer than eight balls thrown), Adrien looked a mess. His hair was wild, tossed carelessly over his eyes despite his groomers’ best efforts, a rats’ nest of golden silk around a waxy, pale face. His summer green eyes, no longer glassy but sharp and bright, were ringed with purple bags, which admittedly did bring out the color, but were hardly acceptable for the so-called Most Beautiful Man in Florin.

Adrien found himself growing resentful of his appearance, watching his reflection in the mirrors that littered the castle, staring at the fake smiles in his portraits, upending any bowl of water that dared cross his path. His mother’s eyes were no longer enough to stay his hand; his was the face of a betrayer, a heartless monster who cared only for himself. It should look as ugly as the soul it contained.

His hands tightened behind his back as he thought of Marinette, and the look on her face when he had chosen to leave her. She hadn’t even looked surprised. She’d just been… sad.

He had tried to make it easier for her, to downplay what he would be enduring. He’d expected her to look shocked, or angry, or even heartbroken—he’d rather break her heart than lose her to death yet again—but she had stared at him like she saw right through him, just as always.

She must have been so disappointed in him.

He groaned, whirling on his heel as he reached the window, the curtains flapping in his wake. How could he? Didn’t he have faith in her? She must be so upset. He’d taken her choice away from her—but she was so stubborn! She would have chosen to fight, to the very last, and she wouldn’t have been able to make it out. Not that time. Not torn apart by smoke cats and worn out from saving him left and right. She had kept him safe, not just in the fire swamp, but for the entire kidnapping ordeal, and how did he thank her? He married someone else. All because he was too selfish and cowardly to lose her a second time.

He’d never see her again. She would be back on her ship by now, sailing across oceans he could only dream of, conquering whole worlds now that she was free of him. He’d been holding her back, keeping her centered here in Florin while she watched over him and her family. Well, her parents were out now. Adrien was no longer her problem. Marinette was finally free.

He stopped his pacing for a moment, swaying slightly as he closed his eyes, picturing her. Raven hair loose on the wind, the vast sky echoing the blue of her eyes, freckles and sea spray tossed with abandon…

Even in his imagination, she didn’t smile. She just looked out at the horizon, that same sad expression in place.

Prowling his rooms like a caged animal, Adrien didn’t smile either. He had done all he could to save her, but it came at the price of his future.

He wished he had more to give.

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Alya had awoken to an empty clifftop, her hands bound, Trixx loose at her feet, and had immediately realized she was (to put it delicately) absolutely screwed.

She’d been beaten. She, Alya Césaire, renowned across the world for her skill, her unrivaled expertise, had been defeated by a pirate named after a bug.

If that had been all, she might have been able to bear it—it was even a little exciting, to think that there was someone out there who could still pose a challenge. She hadn’t had a duel like that in years. No, it was more the matter of her employment that weighed on Alya as she flipped Trixx close enough to her waiting grasp to slice through her bonds. Papillon had hired her because she was the best. If she were no longer the best, then he had no use for her. If she dared show her face, he would know that not only had she lost, but she had lived to tell about it—and that was inexcusable.

With a heavy heart, she’d headed south. Or at least, what she assumed was south. Frankly, she was just following the coast until she could find a city. Guilder wasn’t exactly a hotbed of criminal activity, but maybe she could wrangle some kind of guard job. It didn’t pay as well, and it wasn’t as interesting, but it was about time she moved on anyway. The six-fingered woman obviously wasn’t in Florin, so she needed to look elsewhere for her quarry.

As it happened, the first city she came upon was a harbor. A small merchant vessel was looking for protection from pirates—an irony Alya couldn’t resist. Maybe she’d even get a rematch with Ladybug.

It never hurt to get in some practice.

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The first thing Marinette noticed was the smell.

It was a dank, musty smell, like a humid room had been left in the dark too long, and was just on the cusp of growing mold. The room she was in didn’t feel humid—it was large, and cool, but from the feel of the air probably underground, like a cellar.

She opened her eyes.

Or a dungeon.

She was laying on her stomach, her arms hanging loosely over her head, her hands and feet bound to the table she had been placed on. Her hair was down, fanned out behind her, but pulled off of her injured back, which felt as if it had a bandage applied but was otherwise exposed to the cool air. Though her boots seemed to have been emptied of concealed blades, and her belt and baldric (and associated weapons) had been removed, she was largely wearing the clothes she had passed out in. Her ruined blouse had been taken, but they’d left her undershirt and some semblance of modesty—though the strap had been pulled down to facilitate the bandage, and she couldn’t feel the familiar weight of her necklace.

Her cheek was resting on lacquered wood, and from the size and number of buckles she gathered the table was designed to restrain prisoners. The straps were loose enough for her to rotate her wrists and ankles, but not so loose that she could bend her knees or elbows to any real degree.

She licked her lips. First aid was unusual for a dungeon. The wounds themselves didn’t feel any worse, so it was unlikely to be a form of torture in itself. It could be that they intended to brand her somehow, something requiring a blank canvas that an infected wound would ruin—although her arm seemed to have some kind of salve applied to it as well, so maybe not.

Whatever they were up to, it couldn’t be good.

“Ah,” came a pleased voice, and dim lamplight flared and moved closer to Marinette’s exposed back. “You’re awake! We had to sedate you, your head might feel a bit muzzy. Just try not to move too fast, it will wear off soon.”

“Why?” asked Marinette, surprised to find her voice wasn’t the least bit hoarse.

“Well, even unconscious you were reacting to your wounds being cleaned,” said the voice, still outside her range of vision. Its owner seemed to be checking her bandages. “It was primarily to keep you still for the stitches.”

“No,” said Marinette, “Why heal me?”

“Oh! The Countess insists on it. You see, she loves breaking things, taking them apart—but, as she puts it, where’s the fun in smashing an empty egg? This is to put your yolk back in place, so to speak.” The owner of the voice finally moved to where Marinette could see her, and the prisoner blinked in surprise.

The girl she was faced with looked about her own age, with dull copper hair and a pinched look around her chalky skin. Her eyes were pale, a washed out blue that nearly faded into her sclera, and her pupils were dilated unnaturally in the flickering lamplight. She was small, and seemed somehow brittle; though obviously well-muscled, her stature and knotted fingers gave Marinette the impression that she would snap at the slightest touch. It was apparent that she hadn’t left this dungeon in a very, very long time.

“And when my yolk’s back in place?” she asked, wary.

“Well,” said the wraith, “you’ll be scrambled.”

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Nino had awoken with a pounding headache and a pounding heart. He surged to his feet, swaying dangerously when the blood rushed to his head, and looked around wildly for Ladybug.

Bile rose threateningly in the back of his throat, and he staggered backwards to lean against one of the boulders as he took stock of the situation.

He was alone.

Truly, completely, bitterly alone.

He’d been defeated. It seemed impossible, but it must be so. His last memories were of Ladybug’s arms around his throat, and the old and familiar taste of failure. He could hardly believe that he was even capable of being matched, let alone bested, and yet here he found himself, alive for a reason he couldn’t imagine.

Papillon was going to be so angry.

Nino swallowed nervously at the very thought. Papillon had made it perfectly clear that Nino was only valuable because he was the strongest, an immovable mountain of a young man—who realized suddenly that he had been moved.

He scrambled up the side of the down, desperate for a chance at catching up to Papillon—he had to at least make his case against rejection—but at the crest of the slope he slowed, his feet heavy with dismay.

Papillon wasn’t going to be angry. Papillon was dead.

Numb, Nino approached the corpse, checking it for signs of life despite its obvious state. He shook it wordlessly, even slapping it around some—but there was no response.

Nino mulled over his options, considering going to check on Alya—Ladybug had said she was alive, hadn’t she?—but as he turned his head towards the coast he saw a column of hounds swarming across the moor.

Swallowing, Nino turned and ran.

He only stopped when he reached the coast, his pounding headache worsening into a debilitating throb that was a cold reminder of his limited supply of medicine. Without Papillon, and his stock, Nino’s days were numbered. While this headache was not a symptom of his size, it was only a matter of time before those returned, leaving him useless and, worse, a burden on whatever establishment dared take him in.

What had Papillon said to do? Head back to Florin? Stay in Guilder?

He’d said to kill the woman in red, and Nino hadn’t, and now he was dead, and Nino himself was as good as. Why did he never listen? Why did he try to think for himself when all it ever did was leave him stranded and alone, a stupid boy with stupid muscles and a stupid brain and no friends?

Nino groaned, holding his head in his hands. He’d really done it now.

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Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately) for Marinette, the healing process was a slow and laborious affair. Her bandages were replaced twice a day, and the salve reapplied wherever it was deemed necessary. She was given water after each of these occasions, as well as along with her thrice daily meals—bread in the morning, a thin soup in the afternoon, and some kind of meat in the evening. It was impressive fare for a dungeon, and when the unearthly guard asked if it was satisfactory she could reply honestly that it was.

She was unshackled several times a day and advised to exercise, to prevent clotting in her blood. Though her hands and feet were bound together with metal cables, Marinette used these occasions to unabashedly explore the dungeon. She ran her fingers along the stone walls, inspected the tree roots running through the rough-hewn ceiling, rattled at the grate over a small channel of water. When she had exhausted the smaller avenues, she turned her attention to the dungeon as a whole.

It was respectable, certainly—the narrow stream gave Marinette the impression it had once been a natural cave, expanded by someone or something to better fit human inhabitants. A huge tree’s root system formed the bulk of the ceiling. The markings in the stone were made with two different kinds of tools, and the fixtures were placed nearer one kind of toolmark than the other. The devices were rudimentary dungeon fare—her table, a whipping post, stocks, a rack—the only unusual thing was that everything seemed new. It led Marinette to believe that either the dungeon itself was new, which was unlikely given the condition of the wraithlike guard, or none of its prisoners lasted long enough to wear things down.

It was a mutli-leveled chamber, the biggest and lowest tier being the one where Marinette spent most of her time, containing the channel and the majority of the fittings.

The second level, up a few stairs, maybe at chest height if she were to stand against it, was where the wraithlike woman dwelt. She never left the dungeon, as far as Marinette could tell—she spent most of the day copying data meticulously into a huge, leather-bound book. Her bed was under the roots, near the fire, where she prepared the food. She ate the same as Marinette every day, though indulged in some wine here and there. She never drank enough to incapacitate herself, and had in fact offered to share, but Marinette thought it best not to partake, under the circumstances. She needed her wits about her.

The third level was much higher, up a narrow staircase to the only door, entirely iron and bolted from the outside. There was a sliding window in it that was always kept shut, except for when food was passed through.

Marinette’s primary concern was biding her time. She needed to heal before she attempted an escape with so many unknown variables—as it was, she could take out the wraith, but then what? She’d have a few more hours a day unshackled, a soft bed, and no food. There was no lock to pick on the inside of the door, and the hinges were inaccessible, so unless she could devise a plan to circumvent the exit without her usual tools, she needed to be at full strength.

The channel which ran through the cavern seemed to be her best bet, although there was a grate on both ends. Where the water entered the cavern, she could see a ways up into a tunnel of sorts, presumably leading to a source. Since there was air above the water, she was confident she wouldn’t drown along that avenue, even if it should happen to only lead to an underground spring. Worst case scenario, she’d get stuck in a cave and they’d have to come in after her, which would presumably present other opportunities for escape.

Or they’d just leave her in there to starve to death.

Could go either way, really.

She focused what time she could on filing away at the grate with the woven wires linking her wrists together. It was difficult to do without drawing suspicion from the wraith, and she inevitably became soaked by the water, but it was the only plan she had, and with every hair’s breadth filed away she grew closer to freedom.

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The doors to Adrien’s chambers were mahogany, carved with vines and flowers around inlaid panels of gold foil. The hinges were well-oiled, but the doors were heavy enough that the posts creaked under their weight when opened, thereby alerting Adrien to any intrusion.

He had retired to his bedroom following a long afternoon of being paraded around Florin City, waxy skin bronzed in the beaming sun. It made Adrien feel rather like a piece of chicken that had been sent back for being undercooked, so it was with no small amount of irritation that he lifted his head from the window frame at the sound of an unwelcome visitor.

“I would appreciate it if you knocked—” he began, pushing himself off the wall he’d been leaning against, walking into his sitting area only to stop abruptly when he saw the Countess running her six blade-thin fingers over his desk.

There wasn’t anything in that desk that was his—frankly, there wasn’t much of anything in the castle that he felt a connection to—but his irritation flared at the sight. He wasn’t especially prone to being territorial, but seeing his least favorite member of the court sifting through his belongings like she owned the place made him feel belittled in a way her snide comments rarely did.

“Is there something you want?” he asked stiffly, years of etiquette training quashing his instinct to tell her to get out.

The Countess looked up at him, her sharp features impassive. She abandoned his trinkets with a disinterested air, rounding the couch between them with leisurely, narrow steps.

He watched with wary eyes, stock-still as she prowled around him, circling him like she were inspecting an animal. She stopped uncomfortably close to him, so near he could feel her breath on his collar. She was tall compared to most, nearly Adrien’s height, and what she lacked in inches she made up for in force of personality. He glared at her, unwilling to back up despite his discomfort, too tired and irritated to give her that measure of satisfaction.

“Is there something you want?” he repeated through gritted teeth.

She smiled coyly, leaned forward, and kissed him.

His first reaction was shock. He went rigid beneath her, hands clenching into fists at his sides. Maybe it was just because he wasn’t responding, but the feeling of her lips against his was too forceful, too harsh.

Too sharp.

Everything about her was too sharp. Adrien finally tried to pull away, only to be reeled in by six fingers against the back of his neck, sharp nails scraping the base of his scalp, a second hand pressed too firmly into his chest. His mouth curled away in disgust, his own hands pushed futilely against her shoulders—he didn’t have the leverage he needed—and when he made a noise of protest, she bit him.

The pain helped clear his head, lancing through the shock and confusion with a sudden dose of fear. He shoved with all the strength he could muster, not budging her an inch, but breaking her grip on his spine. He staggered backwards, putting as much space between them as he could in a few short steps, chest heaving as adrenaline coursed belatedly through his veins.

The Countess didn’t appear perturbed in the slightest that he’d escaped her clutches; in fact, she looked rather smug. Her breathing hadn’t changed at all, and the only visible evidence of her assault was his blood on her lip.

“I wanted to remind you of your circumstances,” she said smoothly, her tongue running along the stain, returning her completely to her usual appearance.

“…What?” asked Adrien, voice hoarse with stress. His pulse throbbed in his lip, leaving him hyperaware of just how fast it was running. Though he was breathing harder than ever, it felt more difficult, like a weight was sitting on his chest. Like her sharp fingers were still biting into his ribs.

“Your circumstances,” she repeated, gesturing around the room. “You see, everything around you is a privilege. A gift from Her Highness Princess Chloé, to ensure you live in comfort, wanting for nothing. She—and to a lesser extent, I—have saved you from a life toiled away in obscurity and squalor. Your former employers were given the very best, you were educated, clothed, fed—and yet, it’s not enough for you, is it?”

He stared at her, speechless.

“Ever since that kidnapping business, you have ceased to be her Highness’s perfect doll. You have become insufferably emotive, spoiled countless occasions with your sullen conversation, and you’ve let your appearance—the only necessary thing about you—go fallow. I have had quite enough of your ungrateful attitude. You know—and I know—that what transpired in the Fire Swamp was not enough to put that woman from your thoughts, so let me make this perfectly clear: You are never going to see her again. You have chosen this life: Rich, pampered, with a beautiful fiancée who will one day be Queen, and anyone would envy it. The Dread Pirate Ladybug wants nothing more to do with you.”

Adrien’s breathing, still heavier than it ought to be, hitched in his chest.

“She made it perfectly clear how she felt about your betrayal, and made no secret of her contempt. She not only renounced her claim, she renounced you. If you decide that a life of luxury isn’t enough for you, there will be no Ladybug waiting for you beyond those walls,” said the Countess, chartreuse eyes flat with distaste. “You are alone here, Your Highness. With the removal of your former employers, you have no one. Either you behave yourself appropriately, or privileges will be removed accordingly.”

She returned to his desk, plucking a single orange lily from one of his vases, and left without another word.

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Marinette didn’t stir as the door to her cell opened. She was restrained at the moment, and until she knew the identity of this mysterious visitor, it was in her best interest to be quiet and unobtrusive.

“I trust things have been going smoothly,” said the intolerably familiar voice of the Countess.

“Oh yes, Lady Rossi,” the wraith answered, sincere and proper as anything. Marinette could practically see her scattered curtsy. “Her wounds have healed enough to begin tonight, if you wish.”

“Excellent,” said the Countess, “make the necessary preparations. I’ll have the prisoner brought down.”

Marinette stirred in spite of herself. The prisoner? Wasn’t she the prisoner?

The Countess relayed slightly muffled instructions to someone (presumably a guard) stationed outside the door, then approached Marinette where she lay strapped to her table.

“I do know you’re awake,” said the Countess, pulling Marinette’s shirt away from her skin to examine the mostly-healed injury on her back. Though the scratches had been deep, the wounds themselves were narrow and closed quickly.

Marinette fought the instinct to tense beneath the ministrations. “I wasn’t exactly pretending,” she said instead. “There just isn’t much point in opening one’s eyes when one happens to have a choice between ‘view of table’ and ‘view of rock’.”

“You’re right,” agreed the Countess, and to Marinette’s surprise, she produced a set of keys. “We had better adjust you. It looks like your back can handle it.”

She unlocked Marinette’s hands, and the urge to attack her flared powerfully—but the wraith was standing by with a fierce glare, and as slimy as the Countess might be, she wasn’t foolish enough to unleash Marinette with no plan.

“Thank you,” said Marinette, turning and rubbing at her wrists. “I take it we’re going to be making use of one of the other devices?”

“Oh, no,” said the Countess, with a small smile. “Not for you. You’ve caused quite a bit of trouble, you know.”

“Have I?” Marinette asked idly, as she was pressed back against the same table, this time facing out into the room. Her arms were bound by her sides now, hanging loosely on either side of her. A belt of sorts was fastened around her waist, and her ankles were secured; the entire table ratcheted downwards, so that it was almost vertical.

“Oh yes,” the Countess confirmed, sounding almost bored as she adjusted everything. “That boy has become downright insufferable.”

“Kidnapping will do that to you.” Marinette kept her voice and expression carefully neutral under the Countess’s narrowed gaze, leery of revealing too much. She still wasn’t certain what was intended for her, but if Adrien was at any risk, she had to downplay her feelings.

“It wasn’t the kidnapping,” the Countess disagreed. “It was you. I have it on good authority that he was behaving perfectly well until at least your little tea party with Papillon—well, barring one awfully thoughtless escape attempt.”

“Was he supposed to just sit quietly and—” Marinette’s dry retort turned to ash in her mouth. “…Whose authority?”

The Countess only smiled.

Marinette lunged, as far as her bonds would allow her, getting within a few inches of the Countess, who didn’t so much as flinch. She strained against the cuffs on her wrists, leather straps creaking from the sudden abuse, but to no avail. “Countess,” she rasped, voice shaking with ill-suppressed rage and desperation. “Whose authority?”

“The proper form of address for Her Grace is Lady Rossi,” said the wraith, looking mortally offended, a white shadow behind her smirking benefactor.

“Oh, there’s no need for all that formality,” said the Countess, turning her smile over her shoulder. “After all, we haven’t been calling her ‘Captain,’ have we?”

Marinette’s eyes darted from the wraith to the Countess, struggling against her rising panic.

They knew who she was.

It could be worse, right? Piracy was executable sure, but from the sound of things she was in for a lot more than just death as it was. Yeah. It could be worse. It was really more how they knew that she was concerned about. Was ‘the prisoner’ one of Papillon’s henchmen? She hadn’t thought they would talk. They had both been so willing to help her for honor’s sake.

Her confusion, however, paled in comparison to her captor’s apparent connection to the team hired to assassinate the love of her life.

“Did you hire him?” she managed, as calmly as she could.

“Whom?” asked the Countess, the picture of innocence. “Papillon? Who’s to say? Certainly not him. You took care of that, didn’t you?”

“He took care of that himself,” said Marinette, gritting her teeth.

“Have I touched a nerve?” asked the Countess, smiling again. “Here I thought the Dread Pirate Ladybug was renowned for taking no prisoners. Or have you changed your tune over the past twenty years?”

Marinette didn’t answer.

“Did you think no one would notice?” asked the Countess, turning away from her and walking to the wraith, who passed a sheet of parchment obligingly on. “For the past… two years and four months, the Dread Pirate Ship Boucles has attacked exclusively vessels of the state.”

“Wow,” said Marinette, “That’s quite a coincidence. Perhaps she was going for the ships with the shiniest hulls.”

“This is after an eight month period of attacking mixed vessels, following a seven year period of exclusively mercantile victims.”

“So what you’re saying is, she’s going senile.”

“What I’m saying is, the DPS Boucles is no longer sailing for profit, but to further a political agenda.”

Marinette laughed breathily, meeting the Countess’s eyes with an almost daring smirk. “And what has this to do with me, Lady Rossi?”

“Well, the punishment for treason is of course, execution,” said the Countess. She didn’t so much as turn when the door to the cell opened, and a middle-aged man in shackles was escorted down the staircase by a guard easily half his age. “As is the punishment for piracy. So for you personally? Not much. If, however, you possess as large a role in this little rebellion as I suspect, it means your crew is out there scrambling to piece things together without you. Why, there hasn’t been a single attack since your capture.”

“Capture is a strong word,” said Marinette, watching the new prisoner be tied the wrong way to the whipping post, his arms behind him, bewildered face pointing in their direction.

“I suppose ‘surrender,’ is probably more accurate,” said the Countess, with a simpering smile.

“What makes you so certain that the Boucles is a part of the rebellion at all? Perhaps the merchants have simply upped their security, while the state hasn’t.”

“Oh, little things,” said the Countess. She unfurled a bit more of the scroll in her hands, which evidently contained statistics. “I’ve had Sabrina here keeping an eye on things, and it is primarily a matter of timing. The Boucles strikes like clockwork, just as the ships get into open waters, having apparently had prior knowledge of the vessels’ departure. Even in cases where the journey is kept only amongst high-ranking government officials.”

“So—a spy, looking to make a quick buck.”

“A spy, looking to weaken Florin from within.”

The guard, a burly youth with no helmet over his dark hair, finished securing the man to the post, saluted, and left the chamber without a word.

“There is also the matter of the periods without attacks,” the Countess continued, nodding at the wraith—‘Sabrina’—which set the latter scrambling off to her table. “They coincide remarkably with assaults on Florin City itself, and unrest in the countryside.”

“Unrest?” echoed Marinette, voice caught between innocence and confusion.

“Revolts. Uprisings. Royal agents being attacked while on duty; their posts raided and emptied, their assets distributed illegally amongst the people.”

“Are you suggesting the crew of a pirate ship is using its free time to do charity?”

“I’m suggesting the crew of a pirate ship is using its free time to incite a rebellion.”

The wraith returned, bearing a small canister which appeared to be fashioned from a quill and some kind of bladder, offering it to the Countess on an open palm. The Countess accepted it, unclipping a small copper vial from her belt and holding it up to draw a thimbleful of liquid. It gleamed tar-black in the lamplight, thick as quicksilver; it did not stick to the inside of the quill, which was left filmy but transparent against its illumination.

“The incident with Papillon was akuma powder, no?” asked the Countess, recapping the vial while the wraith held the peculiar instrument gingerly in front of her.

“It was,” said Marinette, keeping a wary eye on both women.

“One of the deadlier poisons, certainly.” The Countess took the instrument from the wraith, lips quirking upwards in amusement. “Perhaps even the deadliest the natural world has to offer.”

“Is this the part where you dramatically reveal you’ve created an even deadlier poison, killing me instantly?” asked Marinette, deadpan.

“No, this is more of… a venom, I suppose. To be injected intravenously,” said the Countess.

“What, like a snake?”

“Or a spider,” supplied the wraith.

“I’ve been calling it Cataclysm, myself,” said the Countess, as though confessing a great secret. She turned to the restrained man behind her, whose shaking was visible even from Marinette’s vantage. “It’s an apoptoxin I’ve been working to develop. You see, we’ve been conducting trials here and there, and they’ve all been satisfactory—but at the end of the day, one can only learn so much from an animal. Well—I suppose we’re all animals, in a way. Wouldn’t you agree, Xavier?”

The prisoner trembled. “Y-yes, Your Grace,” he managed, “I—that’s what I’ve been trying to tell everyone. They’ve every right—”

“Xavier here was arrested for feeding birds in Florin Square,” the Countess explained, looking back at Marinette over her shoulder. “He’d been told not to, you see, but the poor dear couldn’t help himself, could you, Xavier?”

“No, Your Grace,” said Xavier. He licked his cracked lips. Marinette saw a spark of hope spring to life in his eyes at the Countess’s evident understanding. “They were terribly hungry, Your Grace. No creature deserves to starve when there’s food enough for all.”

“And they arrested him!” said the Countess, as though she couldn’t believe it. “For sharing his own bread with a few pigeons. When he couldn’t pay the fine, they sentenced him to community service; and here we are.”

“You conduct your community service in dungeons, Lady Rossi?”

“I conduct most services in dungeons, Captain Ladybug.”

Xavier started at the name, looking to Marinette with wide, curious eyes, and the Countess approached him with a conciliatory pat on his shoulder.

“We’re just going to do a little experiment. Please do be honest about how this feels,” said the Countess to her prisoner, whose eyes were now shining with relief.

Marinette stiffened.

“Wait—” she began, leaning forward, “wait, there’s no need for that, you know how it works—”

“—Sabrina here is going to make a small incision in your arm… Yes, just there, thank you Sabrina—”

“—Countess, this is meaningless, you can’t—you can’t do this! Just for feeding birds?—”

“Oh, Ladybug,” said the Countess, looking up from Xavier’s arm with apparent surprise. “This isn’t to punish him. Think of what we’ll learn! The things we’ve been discovering about apoptosis are extraordinary.”

“Then… then this isn’t just… it’s not you breaking eggs?” asked Marinette, sagging a little in her bonds. Perhaps she had misunderstood. The word toxin had made her jump to conclusions. It was strange that they should conduct their business here, but…

The Countess smiled. “How I feel about the experiment is irrelevant. The important thing is, we’re taking notes.”

She squeezed the bladder, and Xavier went rigid. His face flashed white, then red, and finally settled on washed-out green.

“You see, Ladybug,” she said, her voice prickling like the hair on the back of a neck, “this isn’t to punish him. It’s to punish you.”

Xavier screamed.

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“I can’t do this,” announced Adrien, bursting into the room without preamble.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Chloé, her hair whipping behind her as she wheeled around to face him. She was dressed in her usual flowing white, holding a cornucopia brimming with flowers in the crook of one arm; he’d interrupted her in the middle of one of her portrait sessions.

“I can’t—uh—” he stammered, looking between his fiancée and her bewildered painter. She wouldn’t even hear him out if he embarrassed her. “I… I beg a private audience, dear Princess. You… look… beautiful?”

It sounded more like a question than a compliment, but the Princess preened all the same, flashing the painter a simpering and apologetic smile. “Do excuse us, won’t you?” she crooned. “It seems the Marquis can no longer contain his affections.”

Blushing, the painter stammered his canned words of parting and showed himself out in a flurry of half-formed bows.

The instant the door closed behind him, the smile dropped from Chloé’s face.

“What on earth could be so important?” she snapped, setting the cornucopia with more force than strictly necessary on the table behind her, which was laden with similar tokens of wealth and power. “I’ve told you not to interrupt me!”

“I… I know, and I’m sorry, I just… I can’t do this,” he said lamely.

It had all seemed a grand idea in his room, sweeping dramatically into the royal chambers, tendering his resignation as prince-to-be, riding off into the sunset to find his true love, or at least her family—but here, presented with the stark reality of a very spoiled princess who was occasionally rather fond of him, he felt… almost guilty. It wasn’t Chloé’s fault he was in love with someone else. True, she was something of a brat, but no one had ever taught her any different. She wasn’t malicious or anything.

“Do what? Let me sit through a modeling session in peace for once?” asked Chloé, though her irritation seemed to be fading to resignation. “What is it now, Adrien? Have you recalled some other woman you’re madly in love with?”

“Just the one,” he supplied with a weak attempt at a smile.

The Princess loosed a heavy sigh, turning from the table and crossing the room to the abandoned easel, staring almost forlornly at her unfinished portrait. Adrien came to stand beside her without a word.

“They never can capture it all, can they?” she asked him after a long moment. “The opulence, the radiance. I’ve thousands of portraits now, and none of them are ever as beautiful as they’re supposed to be.”

He looked at the canvas. To him, it seemed a good likeness: The fullness of her lashes, the haughty tilt of her chin, the elegant waves of hair.

“I’m never as beautiful as I’m supposed to be,” she said, and he felt almost sorry for her, despite the petty dissatisfaction in her voice. “No one can really capture it, can they? How beautiful I am?”

“I suppose not,” he said at length, when she turned to him for an answer.

“No one can ever capture how beautiful you are, either,” she said, sighing again, “You see? You’re the most beautiful man in all of Florin, probably in all the world, and that’s why you’re the only one good enough for me, and I’m the only one good enough for you. Whatever idea is rattling around in that handsome head of yours, lay it to rest, Adrien, please.”

“I just can’t go through with it,” said Adrien, grimacing. “I can’t, Your Highness, and you shouldn’t. You have to see that we’re… that this isn’t worth it.”

“I told you when this all started that I didn’t expect you to love me,” she reminded him, “That I didn’t even want you to.”

“And I told you I would never love another, and I meant it. Even when I thought she was… was dead, I loved her, and I love her now, and I always will. It’s useless to even pretend anymore. I love her. That’s—that’s how it is.”

Chloé’s face twisted into something unpleasant and bitter. “I told you I didn’t want you to love me, but I’m beginning to change my mind on that, if we’re being honest. What’s so great about her, Adrien? What has she got that I haven’t? I’m rich and powerful and beautiful, and she’s… what? A shabby little sailor?” She raised a hand when he opened his mouth to object. “No, don’t. Don’t tell me it’s her heart, or her mind, or whatever. I can’t do anything about that and you know it. I’m talking about assets. I have everything.”

“It’s not about assets,” said Adrien, shifting uncomfortably beside her. “It’s… it’s not about anything. I love her as much for the things she lacks as the things she has. She has a good heart and a good mind and a good whatever, yes, but it’s… it’s stuff like the way she makes decisions too quickly, or how she holds her fork weird, or how she flails her arms around when she’s panicking.”

“You love her for being less than you deserve?”

“I love her for being her,” he corrected. “I don’t deserve anyone. No one is entitled to another person.”

“Well, I am,” said Chloé, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I deserve the best, and you’re the best, so you’re mine.”

“You don’t even like me,” said Adrien.

“I like you better than most men,” she disagreed, “although granted, you’ve become even worse since that kidnapping business. Here I thought the moping was annoying.”

“But you don’t love me. You’ll never love me, and I’ll never love you. You want to live the rest of our lives like this? Ranging between tolerating and being irritated with one another? Forever?”

Chloé didn’t say anything.

“What about when we’re married?” he asked, plunging recklessly on. “You can’t tell me the prospect brings you any joy. The wedding, perhaps; you do love parties. But look me in the eye and tell me you want to kiss me, for anything other than show. Tell me you want to spend the rest of your life trying to find a painter who can make me look the way I’m ‘supposed’ to. Tell me you want children with hair like crystallized honey and faces like angels’, whose parents can’t bear to look at them.”

“It’s not like I have a choice, Adrien!” she snapped at him. “I have to get married. I have to have an heir. It’s the law. It’s my family’s lineage. I have to.”

“It doesn’t have to be with me,” he said quietly.

“What, you just don’t want to be dragged down with me?” she spat. “You think I’m going to be unhappy? I have everything I could possibly want! It’s you who wants to drag me down. You’re so set on pining and mooning after that silly girl that you’re refusing to see how much better off you are without her. With me.”

“So cut me loose!” he shouted, rising to the challenge in her voice, “If I’m so annoying then just break the engagement, find someone else who will appreciate you. Someone who would be thrilled to marry you and love you and give you an heir. It doesn’t have to be me!”

“Yes it does!” she insisted. “You’re the best, and I only take the best! Lila looked all over the country, and—”

“That’s another thing,” he growled, fists clenching at his sides at the mention of the Countess. His tongue ran over the cut in his lip. “If I ever see her again, I’m going to cause a scene. Mark my words.”

“What do you mean ‘if,’ of course you’re going to see her again, she’s going to be at dinner tonight—”

“Then I’m not. I mean it.”

“Adrien, stop being a child! I know you two like to harass one another, but—”

“Harass?” he repeated incredulously. “She full-on assaulted me this afternoon! She bit my face!”

Chloé’s expression darkened. “I’ll have a word with her. She knows better than anyone to leave your face alone.”

Adrien stared at her in mounting disbelief. “My—What about the rest of me?” he demanded.

“What?”

“Do you not care that your best friend kissed your fiancé against his will?”

“She wouldn’t do it if you didn’t rile her up like that,” said Chloé, frowning.

Every drop of sympathy Adrien had for the Princess evaporated instantly.

“I can’t marry you,” he said, biting back the desire to shriek his frustrations to the ceiling. He couldn’t talk about this anymore. He couldn’t do this anymore. “I would… I’d rather die.”

“Fine!” snapped Chloé. “Fine. We’ll… compromise.”

“A compromise between marrying you and not marrying you?”

“Yes,” she said through gritted teeth. “We’ll go and find this woman of yours, wherever she’s gallivanted off to without you, and we’ll find out if she still wants to be with you—”

“She does.”

“—and if she does, fine, fine, you can go off and get married or whatever, but if she doesn’t, you marry me. Alright?”

“Even if she doesn’t, I don’t—”

“Consider marrying me, then. As an alternative to death.”

Adrien considered. The Countess’s words rang in his ears.

She not only renounced her claim, she renounced you.

There will be no Ladybug waiting for you beyond those walls.

He knew it wasn’t true. He knew. The Countess loved to lie. It was probably her second favorite hobby, after causing pain. Yet her voice stuck in his mind like a smoke cat’s claw, hooked and sharp as the rest of her.

This is true love, he reminded himself, closing his eyes. Marinette will always come for me.

“Deal,” he said at last, blinking down at the Princess. “Deal.”

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It took Xavier a long time to die.

By the end of it, Marinette was exhausted. It had become rapidly apparent that there wasn’t anything she could do for the man, but she had persisted in struggling against her bonds on the off chance she could at least provide him some comfort.

Her wrists were chafed and bleeding from the biting edges of her cuffs, and her legs could no longer bear her weight, leaving her sagging in defeat and despair as she listened to his pained, rattling breaths.

Through it all, the Countess watched. She took notes and passed them to the wraith at intervals, presumably to be copied into the larger book. Her eyes bore into Marinette like drills, leaving her feeling raw and exposed and far too vulnerable.

Finally the only sound in the stone chamber was the scratching of her captors’ quills. Slowly, Marinette raised her head from where it drooped against her chest, staring with dull eyes at the lifeless corpse across from her.

“Well,” said the Countess, from her seat at the desk, “that was illuminating.”

Marinette turned her head to look at her. Her eyes wouldn’t move the way she wanted them to; everything felt heavy.

The Countess got to her feet, walking leisurely down the stairs to where Xavier lay sprawled. His face was still twisted in a ghost of the agony he’d spent hours screaming to end.

There were few apparent indicators of what had killed him; everything visible he had done to himself. There were long scores in his arms from where he had raked his fingernails, as if trying to claw the apoptoxin from his veins; his neck and shoulders were bruised from thrashing against the floor and whipping post; the whites of his eyes, most chilling of all, had been stained crimson—he had burst several blood vessels with the force of his screams.

Marinette watched the Countess catalogue what injuries she could find, six narrow fingers almost caressing the dead man’s face as she opened his mouth, lifted his eyelids, turned his jaw this way and that, and allowed herself to feel what little she could bear.

She felt responsible. She knew it wasn’t her fault, not really—the Countess would have killed the man anyway, and she would have experimented with Cataclysm anyway. Her being there had likely changed only the location of the execution. And yet, what if? He was an innocent man, guilty only of caring too deeply for the local vermin. What if her coming here had facilitated his selection as guinea pig? What if it was her fault?

She felt sick. Sick and hurt and so, so tired. Her whole body ached from her attempts to reach Xavier, and tremored from aftershocks of witnessing the incident. Her pulse throbbed in her wrists, and dried blood stuck to the inside of her elbows in an irritating crust. She longed to sleep, but dreaded the terrors that doubtless awaited her.

She felt angry. Furious, even. That she, the Dread Pirate Ladybug, should be reduced to a spectator of whatever gruesome horror this vicious creature could conjure up—she wanted to rip free of her bonds and throttle her, watch the life drain from her eyes like she’d watched it drain from her victim’s.

And, despite her best efforts, she felt confused.

For all that she loathed the Countess, the woman certainly did have a way of getting into people’s heads. To track the attacks of the Boucles, and to interpret that data with such accuracy… it was like facing everything she had feared Papillon would be.

Discovering Marinette’s overdeveloped sense of justice had probably owed more to instinct than facts. A pirate renowned for being merciless would hardly strike anyone as the ideal candidate for a ‘punish by killing people in front of’ experiment, yet the Countess seemed to have stumbled upon it all the same.

The silver lining was that the Countess had overplayed her hand—Marinette was now certain she had orchestrated Adrien’s kidnapping. She was somewhat less certain of whether the Countess had planned his assassination, as she had to have been aware of Papillon’s bumbling bravado—but surely even she couldn’t have accounted for Marinette’s own intervention. She may have intended for Adrien to escape, or be rescued in some other manner; why she would want Adrien dead, Marinette couldn’t decide.

In any case, the Countess’s motivations were unlikely to have an impact on what she did to Marinette, so it was all secondary to her main concern: Escape.

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Adrien hesitated to even go to dinner the eve of the wedding, but hunger won out in the end; the kitchen staff had been sneaking him food for the past few days, but tonight had been forestalled by the installation of a bodyguard at his door, a hulking but entirely silent man who glowered at anyone venturing too near.

So with a growling stomach, Adrien lingered in the doorway of the royal dining chamber, peering with unabashed suspicion into the room.

“Sit down,” the Princess told him impatiently from the head of the table, where she sat in her father’s place. The aging King had been seated at her right hand, and his attendant (the congenial butler whose name Adrien still didn’t know) beside him. She gestured impatiently to the empty chair at her left, usually occupied by the Countess, who seemed mercifully absent. Perhaps Chloé had actually listened to him for once.

“You’re in Lila’s place, she’s working late tonight,” she added, when he didn’t immediately comply. “She says she has a lead on the rebellion, but I don’t know that I believe it, to tell you the truth.”

Gritting his teeth, Adrien took his seat without a word. Chloé prattled on, oblivious.

“I suppose she’s more qualified than I to identify rebels, what with all those ridiculous accounts she keeps of everything, but she doesn’t know what to do with them, the silly thing. She gets so excited about her little experiments that she loses her head entirely, and then we’re back where we started.”

“Lose her head!” the King chimed in, smiling in excitement towards his daughter. She sighed impatiently at the interruption. “Are we having a beheading?”

“No, Your Majesty,” said the butler, “at least, not a public one. You know how the Countess gets on.”

“Is—is she killing people?” Adrien asked, drawing back in surprise.

“Of course she is,” said Chloé, rolling her eyes. “What did you think I meant by experiments, Adrien? Try to keep up.”

He swallowed thickly, looking between her and King Bourgeois, who looked enchanted at the possibility of an execution. He supposed it wasn’t really… a shock. He knew better than most what the Countess was capable of, and yet—he hadn’t expected that the royal family would be so emphatically on board.

“It’s only ever criminals, anyway,” said Chloé, waving a hand in dismissal. “Rebels and pirates and things. Nobody important.”

“…Pirates?” Adrien echoed hoarsely.

Chloé blinked, seeming to catch herself. “Well yes, but not your pirate, obviously.”

“Obviously,” he repeated, staring at her. She frowned uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

“That reminds me. We’ve, ah—that is to say, I arranged for our ships to scour the Channel,” she told him. “I do hope you’ll forgive me for thinking it of her, but I didn’t imagine she’d stray far. Either the woman had disavowed you entirely and fled the armada, or she was so stubborn she’d be lurking quite nearby for a chance to steal you away, despite your stated hopes.”

“Of course,” said Adrien. He looked away, down to his hands, folded neatly in his lap. Marinette wouldn’t flee from an armada, he knew, but she might well have fled from his cruelty. If—if he was right, and she did still care for him, then she would be as close as she dared, regardless of his hopes. She’d stay until she was assured this was what he wanted. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

Would she?

“…Adrien, the ships have returned,” said Chloé, with what passed for gentleness. He raised his head sharply, staring into her cold blue eyes. He imagined for a moment he even saw a glint of sympathy. “I was right about her staying nearby, but… She wouldn’t come.”

She pulled something from the folds of her dress and laid it on the table with a soft click.

Adrien stared down at the necklace he had made Marinette when they were children, and the room seemed to narrow to that single point.

“I’m sorry,” said Chloé. Her voice sounded far away, or maybe it was just that Adrien’s head was suddenly full of cotton.

He didn’t feel the emotions he knew she was waiting for, not out of spite, but because they simply weren’t there. It sort of felt like he wasn’t there—but it was his eyes and no one else’s locked on the smooth, dark stones, tracing the schiller as it flickered with the candlelight.

He focused on finding his lungs and took a slow, mechanical breath. He felt the wood of his chair against his fingertips. He listened for the sound of his heartbeat, abnormally loud against his muffled ears.

He was almost queasy, with a thick film sitting along his tongue, but as he came back into himself all he really felt was acceptance. He was almost reassured.

“No, you aren’t,” said Adrien, when he could speak. “But it’s alright. She’ll come.”

“Adrien—”

His hand closed over the necklace, and he stood from his chair without waiting to be excused. “You don’t get it,” he said simply. “Marinette will always come for me.”

“Adrien, don’t be a fool,” she snapped. “She’s told them she doesn’t want you anymore.”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Adrien, sit down—”

“Why?” He barked out a cold laugh, without a drop of humor. “So you can lie to me? Try to break my heart and snap me up when I’m in pieces? It won’t work, Your Highness. You can craft all the stories you like, give me all the evidence you can produce, but I won’t ever believe it. Marinette will always come for me.”

“She won’t!” said Chloé, exploding to her feet with a stamp of her golden slippers. “I’ve just told you she won’t! I am the one in charge here, Adrien! I sent the ships! And I am telling you, she doesn’t want you anymore! So you are going to marry me tomorrow, because I am rich, I am powerful, I am beautiful, and most importantly, because I said so!”

Adrien stared at her for a long, measuring moment. He took in her perfectly styled hair, the color of crystalized honey, and her intricately embroidered gown that drew out the color of her eyes like sapphires held up to the sky. He looked at her clenched fists and her pearl-white teeth, bared in a snarl.

“You are rich and powerful,” he allowed, “but if this is how you live your life, you’ll never be as beautiful as you’re ‘supposed’ to be.”

He walked out without another word.

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Marinette had never been one to idle. Even after she heard the news of Adrien’s engagement and was overtaken by a wave of listless apathy, she had kept herself busy managing the affairs of the ship. She forced herself into action wherever possible, resting only when pressed by her crew, determined to work off whatever emotion was most recently troubling her.

So in the wake of Xavier’s death, she was galvanized into officially attempting her escape.

The body was removed following the Countess’s examination, though whether for disposal or further study had yet to be decided. The Countess apparently wanted to observe the effects of Cataclysm on decomposition, citing some experiment she’d done with mercury and arsenic.

Luckily for Marinette, this meant a guaranteed day or so without her intense scrutiny, and she intended to take advantage of it. While the wraith studiously copied the Countess’s notes into the leather-bound book on her desk, Marinette put every fiber of muscle in her body into sawing at the grate in the channel.

It was slow, grueling work. She fought to keep her breathing quiet and even, glancing over her shoulder every minute or so at the diligent wraith. Marinette was being allowed extra time unshackled to keep her from being a distraction, which worked just fine for her.

In the dark of the dungeon, the only way to tell time was to keep track of how low the fire burned in the hearth. Marinette had been filing away at the grate for two and a half logs before she made it most of the way through the first bar; three to make it through the second. The third bar she sawed through even less than the first, and after resting her arms for half a log or so, she began to pull.

It would have been faster to kick it in, certainly, but she couldn’t risk that the clanging would alert the wraith to her activity. She was lucky that there was only one crossbar, likely to have been added to the grate for spacing rather than bulk.

This was their own fault, really; if you furnish a dungeon with shoddy equipment, you’re going to lose a few prisoners here and there.

The bars were made of a more flexible metal than she had anticipated from the oxidization—she had expected iron, but it was closer to tin than anything. Snapping the rest of the way through was the work of a moment.

Slowly, trying not to make a splash, she bent the grate upwards around the crossbar, peeling it back as if skinning an animal. Her shoulders, sore from straining against her restraints yesterday, screamed in protest, but she persevered. The metal bit into her hands, her cuffs bit into her wrists, the rock bed of the stream bit into her knees, but she was doing something. She was taking action.

Marinette levered out and lowered herself into the water, having to turn her head to keep her mouth clear, and began to wriggle through—until six blade-thin fingers caught in her hair and pulled.

The Countess hauled Marinette bodily from the water, keeping her off balance with a few well-placed wrenches of her skull, yanking on her loose black hair like a misbehaving dog might get its leash wrenched.

“You sneaky thing!” she laughed, genuine humor coloring her normally frigid tone. “Why, another minute or so and you’d have been off like a fish!”

Marinette was, to put it mildly, exhausted. She’d spent the better part of yesterday trying to get to Xavier, gotten less than a wink of sleep, and then close to a full day of sawing through solid metal. She was soaking wet, chilled to the bone, and weary as only a captive can be. So she didn’t really think to check her surroundings; all that mattered in that moment was the Countess, and escape.

“Never much cared for fish,” said Marinette conversationally, breathing hard through her nose to dispel the water she’d been dunked in. “They’re a little too slippery.”

It wasn’t that she was desperate—she was just very cranky.

She twisted suddenly in the Countess’s grasp, jabbing an elbow into her ribs and turning to face her, bulling immediately into her diaphragm, knocking them both sprawling. The Countess half released her, wheezing, still tangled in her hair but no longer clinging, and Marinette took the opportunity to pull free, aching muscles falling automatically into familiar holds, knees pinning the Countess to the floor before either had even caught their breath.

She drew back like a cobra, grabbing the Countess’s hair in turn and using the purchase to slam the back of her head into the cold floor of the dungeon, teeth bared in a snarl as she fought to deflect flailing arms.

The Countess writhed savagely beneath her, her own teeth stained red where they’d sliced into her lip, her eyes wild and wide, but without a trace of fear.

Marinette punched her in the face.

Distantly she remembered she was supposed to keep her head during a fight, supposed to breathe through the surge of adrenaline and think about what she was doing—but all she could think was that she wanted to see the Countess be afraid. She wanted to hurt her. Kill her, not for the greater good, but just to watch her die. She wanted her to suffer like Xavier had suffered, like dozens—maybe even hundreds—of others had suffered at this woman’s hands. So she didn’t really care about keeping her head.

Maybe that was her mistake.

As she lifted the Countess’s head to slam it back into the ground, a stout fist buried itself in her kidney, and she relinquished her hold with a cry of pain, turning to her attacker.

The wraith.

Swearing, she staggered to her feet, kneeing the Countess in the stomach as she went. The wraith didn’t give her time to find her balance, launching herself in a full tackle that caught Marinette around the shoulders, forcing both of them back into the stream. The wraith came out on top, trying to force Marinette’s head under the water, and the fear in her eyes was so unmistakable it cleared Marinette’s head.

She didn’t have time for this.

For all that the wraith was built like miner, she was clearly inexperienced at fighting. Marinette slackened her grip, swallowing a lungful of air and letting her face be pushed under, and when the wraith began to relax, she struck.

With her full strength, she pulled her knees up to her chest and kicked the wraith away, flipping over and scrambling for the bent grating, intent to escape and return with weapons, or a plan, or something—

But the Countess barred the way, and she was anything but inexperienced.

Marinette ran her tongue over her upper lip, wiping water from her eyes with the back of her hand. It was tricky to do wearing the cuffs, one hand spread awkwardly wide in a warding gesture no one would heed. She needed a moment, just a moment, to come up with an angle of attack.

Then the wraith was on her again, wrapping a cord around her throat and forcing her back out of the water, back towards her shackles, and Marinette bucked wildly to throw her, to no avail. She slammed her elbow back into the wraith so many times she lost count, stamping for her feet and attempting a very poorly executed head-butt that failed to connect.

The wraith held her in place, absorbing the abuse like a sponge, unflinching, and the Countess hooked her back up to the table, dodging (most of) the flurry of blows. Her arms were pinioned to her sides, the cuffs dangling from her left wrist, and the Countess swore when they hit her in the struggle.

“That’s enough,” she hissed as they finally restrained her. “That’s enough!”

“Tapping out this early, Your Grace?” Marinette panted through a fierce grin. “Too bad. I’m just getting started. What do you say? Ever wanted only ten fingers?”

“Your circumstances are not as secure as you seem to believe, Captain,” said the Countess, and her eyes were smoldering with fury.

“Your cell isn’t as secure as you seem to believe—”

The Countess silenced her with a punch to the face, in the same place Marinette had punched her earlier.

“The only reason you were kept alive,” she spat, “the only reason you were fed, and doctored, and allowed free roam, was to keep you in the best of health, so that you might prove interesting. You are an experiment, and as such, will only be tended to in the event that you are useful. Do you understand?”

“Well, I guess the experiment’s failed, then,” Marinette spat back. “I don’t care what you do to me. I’m never going to help you. You are the most despicable creature I have ever had the misfortune of encountering, and I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

The Countess’s eyes gleamed. The anger in them faded to a dull resentment, replaced by a vicious sheen. Marinette glared back at her.

“Well now,” said the Countess, “you have a point.”

“Your Grace?” the wraith asked in evident concern. Her face was a mess of blood and sweat, and the color made her cheeks look almost ruddy under her pallor.

“A wise combatant does not grant clemency to a formidable opponent,” said the Countess. “Fasten the auxiliary restraints.”

The wraith obliged immediately, while the Countess turned on her heel and strode to the desk. Marinette clamped her teeth around the building panic, counting her breaths, measuring her heartrate. She may have misunderstood. It may not be too late.

The Countess returned with the small chest containing the quill and bladder canister, passing it to the wraith and drawing the vial of Cataclysm from her belt, setting it atop the chest while she turned to Marinette.

There was a short knife in her six-fingered hand, and Marinette almost wished she would just kill her like a common criminal. She almost wished she could just die here, now, instantly, rather than face what she knew lay ahead.

But she couldn’t wish that; she had to live. She couldn’t die here in grimy dungeon, soaking wet and trussed up like a roasting ham. She had to get to Adrien.

She didn’t flinch as the Countess’s blade opened the crook of her elbow, but she did glare balefully at the woman. Marinette had always thought, privately, that Princess Chloé was too good an actress. That she couldn’t be half the evil mastermind the inner workings of her Kingdom revealed. She had a malicious streak, certainly, and she was well on her way to bankrupting the royal family with her exorbitant purchases, but she had not yet demonstrated a fraction of the cunning required to exploit and oppress an entire nation so thoroughly.

It had been easy to hate Chloé, thinking of her as someone who simply played the fool, who had stolen Adrien away and ruled in luxury with no regard for her people—but watching the Countess fill the device with her poison, more than five times as full as she had for Xavier, Marinette realized she had been right all along. The true evil of the Kingdom had been lurking in Chloé’s shadow from the beginning.

“Have you any last words?” asked the Countess, smiling as if they were sharing a joke.

“Only this,” said Marinette evenly. “One day very soon, justice will come again to Florin, and you will be stopped.”

“What a pity you won’t be here to enjoy the spoils,” said the Countess. “I’ll take good care of the Marquis for you, shall I?”

“His name is Adrien,” she answered, closing her eyes.

The Countess made her injection.

Marinette screamed.

She couldn’t help it. The hot pulse of her own blood running down her arm was eclipsed instantly by the feeling of Cataclysm coursing through her opened vein. Her hand went numb for a moment, stunned into an unfeeling haze before it caught ablaze, every nerve ending stabbing and shocking and tearing away at her. Her stomach revolted at the feeling, bile forcing its way into her throat as she contorted what little she could around the wound.

She stared at her hands in consternation when she could finally wrench her eyes back open. She couldn’t believe there was no external indication of her agony. A thousand needles forced their way through every inch of her being, and her flesh melted like candle wax over the searing heat of bones that had turned to molten lead.

She had to get out of here. She had to end this, to find Adrien and run as far from the Countess as they could get. There was too much left to do. There was too much left to see.

It wasn’t fair.

Her thoughts grew slow and heavy, circling the memory of Adrien’s face like a drain, and quietly, sluggishly—Marinette died.

#clare's writing #[wheezes]#miraculous ladybug #the dread pirate ladybug

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aleinnilatibae · 7 years ago

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The Orange Yeti

Hey @maximoffended, I was your delayed secret friend. I took this thing that you animated and wrote something based on it, it kind of spiraled out of control but I had fun. Hope you like it!

The morning was a clear one, sunlight streaming in through Sportacus' airship window, undeterred by the thin clouds lazily drifting by.

Perfect conditions to train a little bit of soccer before dropping in on LazyTown.

"Soccer ball!" Sportacus called, and the airship obediently shot a ball at him.

He juggled it between his feet and knees, did a few easy kicks, before he REALLY let loose and kicked it as hard as he could.

Of course, in his small airship space, that meant it would rebound off of the ceiling and come right back to him at a high speed, but he was certainly up for the challenge.

Jumping and flipping and kicking the ball around as it bounced off the inside of his airship, he couldn't stop himself from grinning. He was nailing his routine, and that fact alone was making joy bubble up in his chest.

He landed a perfect single backflip that left him feeling almost weightless.

"Hah!" he exclaimed, as he sent the soccer ball flying back toward his bed wall with another backflip kick, "What a wonderful way to greet the day!"

But, as luck would have it, the day greeted him back as many others had before--with a flashing and beeping crystal, and the distant sound of a child screaming in terror down below.

"Someone's in tro-ow!" he exclaimed, the soccer ball bouncing back in his moment of distraction and hitting him straight in the head.

Shaking off the pain, he focused on finding the fastest method of getting down to ground level from his current altitude.

"Rope!" he called decisively, and a spool of large, heavy rope rose up from one of the floor compartments.

Sportacus lowered his goggles, grasped the knot at the end with both hands, and prepared his running stance.

"Door!" he shouted, and he sprinted toward the now-open doorway and leapt out of the ship into the open air.

Sometimes, the simplest solutions were the best.

And the most thrilling!

But, since he was there on business, he tried not to enjoy his faux-skydiving TOO much.

As he plummeted toward the town, the spooled rope grew taut and stopped his descent, forcing him to swing back under the ship like a pendulum.

Perfect.

Like a monkey swinging on a vine, he waited until the rope swung as close as it could get to the sports field before releasing it from his grasp, managing an unusual three front flips before he stuck the landing on solid ground.

"SPORTACUS!" came a scream from across the field.

Sportacus turned around just as Ziggy raced to his side, panting heavily from running.

"What happened?" Sportacus asked, bending down and placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I-I-" he gasped, trying and failing to get his breath back.

Up close, Sportacus could see that Ziggy was white as a sheet, and his breaths sounded closer to panic than exertion.

This was what was setting off the crystal, he just knew it.

"Slow down your breathing, it's okay," Sportacus said, locking eyes with the terrified young boy and exaggerating his own breaths as an example. "Just like this, that's good."

Ziggy made an effort to slow his breathing, until he could announce that-

"There's-there's a-there's a YETI!!" Ziggy exclaimed.

Sportacus involuntarily gasped. His last encounter with a yeti had NOT gone well.

"A yeti? Where??" he asked, his own voice a little less calm than he would have liked.

Before Ziggy could answer, Stingy ran up to the pair of them, also breathing hard.

"Don't...be...STUPID...Ziggy," he panted, "Yetis are not orange!"

He looked up at Sportacus. "Phew. I never knew that this candy child could run so FAST," he sniffed, jabbing his thumb at his friend.

Ziggy hardly had time to register Stingy's backhanded compliment before Stephanie ran up to join their little gathering as well.

"Ziggy is right! I saw the yeti too!" Stephanie announced, eyes wide with urgency.

"Everyone, stay calm," Sportacus said, holding his hands out against the children's fear as he looked around. "Is this yeti...attacking anyone? That you know of?"

"Uh, no," Stephanie said, tilting her head. "Would it, Sportacus?"

Sportacus smiled, reassuringly. "No, uh, of course not. What, um, what did it do?"

"Well," Stephanie said, crossing her arms, "It was very RUDE to me! It said, 'Out of my way, little girl,'" she imitated, in the deepest growling voice she could muster.

Oh heavens above, it could speak.

It was one of those.

Sportacus tried not to let his panic show outwardly. "Where-where did it go?"

"It was headed to the outside of town, you know, where Robbie lives!"

Sportacus gasped. "Does Robbie know that there is a yeti in town?" he asked frantically.

"No, I don't think so, we haven't seen him," murmured the children.

"I have to warn him!" Sportacus wasted no time in doing his signature move, sprinting between flips to the outskirts of town, hoping and praying that Robbie hadn't had an encounter with the beast yet.

The "hidden" entrance to Robbie's lair was open when Sportacus got there, which wasn't very reassuring.

He swallowed hard, adjusted his hat, and climbed down inside.

"Mr. Yeti?" Sportacus called as he carefully lowered himself down to the floor of Robbie's home. Best not to startle a yeti.

Sportacus' breath hitched in his throat as he heard a low growling noise, coming from the main room.

"I don't mean to bother you," he said carefully, tiptoeing toward the main room, tone friendly yet eyes and ears wide open. "But you really did scare the kids today. And, you have found yourself in Robbie Rotten's home, who is our friend too!" the noise abruptly stopped, making Sportacus' heartbeat kick up a notch. "I-I would like it if you were to leave them all at peace, and we will do the same to you."

That growling noise started up again as he crept into the main area. Now closer to the source, Sportacus could hear it much better.

"Snrrrrrzzzz...snrrrzzz..."

Sportacus narrowed his eyes. Something wasn't adding up here. Aside from that noise, it was deadly quiet in Robbie's main room. Normally a growling yeti would make other, more aggressive noises too. And, come to think of it, it sounded less like a growling animal and more like-

"Robbie?" called Sportacus softly.

"SNORT-snrzzz...snrzzz..."

Sportacus blinked a few times. That was NOT a yeti noise, there was no doubt about that, it was DEFINITELY Robbie Rotten snoring. But, where was he? His beloved chair, while extra fluffy, was empty. But the snoring still seemed to be radiating from within it.

Sportacus furrowed his brows. What was going ON here?

He slowly, and curiously, approached the snoring chair, until he was close enough to prod it with his finger.

The chair SHRIEKED.

Sportacus flew backwards, landing unceremoniously on the floor, watching the living chair writhe unnaturally.

To his horror, an orange mass disentangled itself from the chair, rose up to its full height-

And threw back his hood.

"Huh! What!" Robbie said, shaking his head as he blinked away disorientation, looking down at the man on his floor. "Sporta-what are you doing in my HOUSE?"

Sportacus opened and closed his mouth a few times, taking in the scene above him. Robbie, wearing an enormous fluffy coat, the exact same texture and color as the chair in which he napped every day.

"Well??" Robbie demanded, gesturing with his gigantic furry sleeves.

"I-I'm sorry, Robbie!" Sportacus said, finding his words again. "The kids told me that there was an orange yeti in town, and it was headed toward you, and I didn't want you to get hurt, and-" he suddenly cut short his rambling as Robbie crossed his arms, and fixed him with a stare.

"An...ORANGE yeti?" he asked, squinting suspiciously down at Sportacus. "One that was possibly...oh, I don't know...walking through town earlier, or uh...scaring a candy boy, being rude to a pink girl, THAT sort of thing??"

Something clicked in Sportacus' brain.

"Oh..." he nodded slowly, finally comprehending the situation.

Robbie rolled his eyes. "This little brats, I could understand," he said, starting to gesture and pace around, "How is it that YOU, a fully-grown Sporta-SportaHERO, never considers that all the STRANGERS and the BEASTS that appear in this town are always-" he swiveled to face Sportacus, dramatically shrugging his robe to the floor as he pointed at himself, "ME!"

Sporatcus grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, Robbie. I should have known."

"Yes, you should have," Robbie grumbled, then sighed. "I wasn't even TRYING to be a yeti today. I just wanted to enjoy my new COAT!" he picked it back up from the ground, and wrapped it around himself protectively.

"It is very nice, Robbie," Sportacus conceded, "But, when it comes to a yeti sighting, I never want to take any chances."

Uncomfortable with how long he had been seated, he leaned back and kicked his legs, springing back up to his feet.

"Because I remember the LAST time I-" he cut himself off, "Nevermind."

"Last time?" Robbie asked, cocking his head to the side.

Sportacus waved a hand, embarrassed at his slip up. "Forget I said anything."

"What?! But-but, I CAN'T!" Robbie whined, "I'm just too CURIOUS!"

He clasped his hands under his chin and leaned forward, the absolute picture of a perfect listener. "Pleeeeease?"

Sportacus chuckled, oddly endeared by the sight, and relented. "Okay, okay. It was-"

He was interrupted by his crystal going off again.

"Someone's in trouble!" he gasped.

"What?! You can't leave me hanging like THAT, SportaCLIFFHANGER!" Robbie protested.

Sportacus smiled as he did his signature move. "Another time, I promise!" he shouted, as he ran to the ladder and climbed up and out of Robbie's lair to face whatever danger the citizens of LazyTown had gotten into.

He hoped it wouldn't be a REAL yeti this time.

#secret friend day 2.0 #lazytown #sorry again for the delay

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mondeskinder · 8 years ago

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The Choice - Min Yoongi Fanfiction

Chapter 4 Golden rays of sunshine fell through the tiny window, creating a tiny galaxy of sparkling dust surrounding my tranquil figure leaned across the messy desk, my head resting on my arms, steady breathing continously lifting up the corner of one of the many papers surrounding me. The unpleasant ringtone of my phone ripped me out of the comforting state of sleep as I aprubtly sat up, causing the glittering pecks to swirl around in confusion. A deep growl escaped my mouth when I realized the pain in my back, blaming the unhealthy sleeping position, while the ongoing call resulted in a sting in my head. Without losing any more time I reached for the cheap device, answering with nothing but an annoyed grumble. “Good morning to you too”, Namjoon chuckled. “You weren’t at the dorm last night so I just wanted to make sure everything’s okay.” I couldn’t hold back a sigh. “I’m totally fine.” “You sound tired.. Did you spend the night with your girlfriend?” Joon’s voice had an unusually tacky tone to it, his teasing grin was audible. “First of all, she is not my girlfriend.” “Yet.” The corners of my mouth began to rise. “Shut up.” I allowed his giggle to interrupt my explanation before going on: “And second of all, no. I’m at the studio, I fell asleep while working.” “Oh? Shouldn’t you hang out with her more often?” “I didn’t ask for any relationship advice.” “I thought she isn’t your girlfriend?” I let out a frustrated snort, deciding that it was time to end this call as soon as possible. “It’s complicated. I’m fine so that’s all you wanted to know. Bye.” I didn’t wait for his answer, cutting off the connection immediatly. I was about to put my phone aside again when I noticed an unread message: Y/N: ‘Hey! Can I come over?’ - 10:17 a.m. My eyes hastily checking the time, relief calmed my worried heart as I realized it had fortunately just been about 20 minutes. Yoongi: ‘Sure!’ - 10:43 a.m. Y/N: ‘Okay! I’m on my way~’ - 10:46 a.m. ~ I had only been able to order the papers filled with lyrics and compositions that had been spread all over my desk before she cheerfully entered the room, carrying two coffees in her hands. Gratefully recieving one of the cardboard cups, I took a quick sip, allowing the bitter liquid to waken my still numb senses. “How are you?”, she asked in a soft tone, her warm eyes observing me carefully. “I’m fine, just a little tired”, I mumbled. “Well you obviously need to get some fresh air!” Her face was about to lighten up, excited at the sole thought of it, when she noticed my irritated expression. “Ah Min Yoongi! Come on! For how long have you been in here? The weather is great today! Let’s go outside!” I had already opened my mouth to reject her begging pout when I remembered Namjoons words. I let out a long sigh. “Fine.” “Really? Yay! Let’s go~” All I could do was watch out that my coffee wouldn’t spill as she happily pulled me out of the studio and outside. Admitting full defeat, I even agreed to taking a walk in her favourite park right around the corner. It was different, walking along the pavement with her next to me; even though my gaze was frequently jumping to my right, the pictures it caught of my surroundings were unusually vibrant. My heart missed a beat every time the back of my hand accidentally brushed against hers, silently praying she didn’t notice. “There it is!” She agitatedly pointed at a large green area appearing in our sight as we walked around a corner; a smile grew on my face when I saw her eyes sparkling with joy. ~ The dazzling sunlight was now filtered through fresh green leaves, the ground changing from stiff concrete to smooth gravel crunching beneath our feet. I collected all my courage, somehow forcing my hand to finally grab hers and being thankful for her just wandering on like nothing had happened as her small fingers carefully rested between mine. “Yoongi?” “Hmm?” “You’re not a family person, are you?” My pace stuttered as I watched her with a curious yet confused glance, taken aback by the sudden question. Noticing me frown, she quickly explained herself: “You never talk about your family, that’s why..” “Just because I’m not talking about mine doesn’t mean I don’t want one. I’d love to have kids one day.” I recognized a tender smile spreading across her face. “You’d be a good father.. I want to have kids too, you know, I want a daughter.” “A daughter?” “Yes! I’d name her Holly.” “Holly?” “It’s a pretty name, isn’t it?” “Doesn’t it sound a little.. like a pet?” “Yah!” A playful hit and we laughed it off like it was nothing, the flowery scent of spring making us naive and careless, thoughtlessly wasting the precious time happily spent together with more pointless chatting until the sky was tinted in a rosy orange. ~ “It’s getting late..”, I murmured softly, only reluctantly pulling her back into reality. Her head resting on my lap, she slowly opened her eyes, causing me to helplessly drown in them. The both of us had decided to take a break from walking, ending up on one of the small benches spread across the park. The light had faded, revealing the black satin of night, a crescent moon and countless tiny silver dots embedded in it. One of the few street lamps close to the bench drew a circle around us, saving our bodies from being swallowed by the darkness. “I have to work soon”, she sighed, cautiously sitting up and letting her legs dangle from the edge of the slightly warped wood for a moment. Some seconds passed, then I watched her get up, my glance following every single one of her steps as my anxious heart began to race. Would she just leave like that? Silently praying she would turn around, say goodbye, anything, I was astounded when she aprubtly stopped her movement, holding out her hand in my direction. It was a simple gesture, yet it caused a wide smile to spread on my face; I had to force myself to walk normally and not run up to her like I secretly wanted to. As soon as my fingers slid between hers, she started moving again. Leaving the park, we immersed ourselves in the neon lights of Seoul as the both of us made our way to the electronics shop. Our pace was faster than this morning, thus we didn’t take long to reach the street I remembered entering for the first time so clearly, my annoyance, my mind not expecting anything but a grumpy ajhussi*. Slowing down, we ultimately stopped right in front of it’s door as she turned around to face me. “I don’t think you should come inside with me, my dad wouldn’t like that..” The words hesitatingly escaped her mouth, her gaze fixed on her shoes. I used the possibility to recklessly stare at her fine features emphasized by the glowing sign over the store’s entrance. “That’s fine, I wouldn’t like your dad walking into my studio either.” My comment fulfilled it’s purpose and caused her to smile slightly. My gaze was still submerged in her beauty when she looked up, her eyes unexpectedly meeting mine. “I really liked today.” A small laugh escaped my mouth to cover up my nervousness. “We can do stuff like this more often if you want to.” “Yeah, I’d love that..” The two of us grinned like idiots but neither of us cared. She gave me a quick hug to say goodbye; I couldn’t help but notice her distinctively fast heartbeat. Turning around, she had already taken a step towards the door when I held her back, my hand grabbing her wrist without thinking. “Y/N..” “Yeah?” My brain shut down, leaving behind nothing to follow but my initiative and so I did; pulling her closer, one hand carefully supporting her chin as I pressed my lips onto hers. Tiny sparks spread all over my body, resulting in a total chaos in my stomach while my mind was completely quiet. No overthinking, no unneccessary calculations, no tossing and turning of endless ideas; at that moment everything that filled up my head was overpowered by her. Time suddenly continued when we got startled by a loud knocking. Immediatly moving away, I realized it was her father banging against one of the shop windows with an unamused expression. “I-I think you should go now..” “Yeah.. I’ll call you, okay?” “Okay”, she smiled tenderly. Another knock and I let go of her hand, turning around to quickly disappear around the corner, thankful for the gloomy night hiding my blushing. CONTINUE READING.. ________________________ *ajhussi is the korean expression for an old, married man

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thespecialrelationship-phff · 8 years ago

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Chapter 8

AN: Happy second update! Please enjoy but fair warning there’s a good bit of adult language in this one. Opening Ceremony Ensemble

FLOTUS-POV

“What the actual fuck?” I scream once Anna and I are alone in the car. Luckily, the secret service brought their own vehicle so we could leave without stranding Harry. “They announced the re-election campaign today? Without telling me?”

“Yes.” Anna says directly, and there’s nothing else really to say.

“I want to speak to the President.” I say.

“Of course. I’m working on it.” Anna says, furiously working on her blackberry.

Thankfully the secret service uses the back entrance to the hotel so I can avoid most of the crowds. I have no desire to speak to anyone at the moment, besides my father that is.

Once I walk into my suite I immediately go to the bar. I pull out the vodka first and then grab the bottle of tequila as well for good measure.

I immediately take a swig and then a gulp. “Kennedy?”

I keep drinking even though I hear Anna. She let’s me go for a minute or two then asks again. “Kennedy?”

I put the bottle down tersely, “What?”

“I’m calling the Oval but it’s not going through.”

Of course it isn’t. I’m sure the phone lines are full of well-wishers that or Beth is screening the call from Anna. “Call the personal line. He doesn’t get to ignore his fucking daughter, not today.”

“Of course, one moment.”

As she’s dialing I continue to drink. I’m wondering if this had been the plan all along. They throw me a bone by allowing me to do Invictus all while knowing that this would undermine me. There’s no way that someone would take my role seriously regardless of what happened here.

Still, he could have at least told me privately.

“Why didn’t he say anything?” I ask finally, my anger beginning to fade into despair. “He knew I would have wanted to be there. He said we were partners. Sure, he hasn’t really been acting like it, but this is unprecedented.”

My voice starts to shake and Anna comes over, “It’s dialing.”

I take a deep breath, matching each inhale to the ring tone.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

“Hello?” It’s Beth’s voice and that kills me. She sounds…happy. It’s unusual for her, I’m used to hearing her no nonsense tone. Beyond that I can hear noise in the background, talking, music. They’re celebrating. “Hello?”

“I need to speak with my father.”

“I’m sorry, what? I can’t hear you.”

“It’s the fucking First Lady of the Fucking United States of god damn America and I want to speak to my father, the fucking president.” I slam the bottle down. “Did you hear that?”

“Margaret?” She sounds shocked. “Oh, right. My apologies Miss Randolph. I will see if the President is available.”

“I’m waiting.” I’m done being polite, clearly that hasn’t gotten me anywhere.

There’s rustling on the other line and some hushed voices. I wait impatiently, drinking still.

“Miss Randolph?”

“You are the last person I want to speak to Jenkins. Put my father on the phone.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. He’s busy in interviews.” He pauses. “I will happily pass on your congratulations though.”

His arrogance drips off every word. The man knows that I had no idea. I open my mouth to respond but Anna shows me a picture. It’s from the press conference this morning. It’s my dad, standing on the White House lawn and Jenkins next to him smiling the prick he is. My heart breaks, I should be there too.

“Miss Randolph?”

I close my eyes, “Listen here, you fuckwit. I know that you set this up. And let me tell you it’s fucking sad that you feel so insecure about yourself and your position that you have to drive a wedge between a father and daughter. You make me sick, Jenkins.

“You are a pathetic, slimy asshat who has been riding my father’s coattails since grad school. Beyond that you know there’s a list of people who can do this job better than you can, including me. This isn’t over. Things are going to change come November. When this is all over there won’t be a single person in D.C. hell, on the fucking East Coast who will hire you.”

I take a deep breath, “Consider me your living fucking nightmare Jenkins.”

God, that felt good.

My head spins and I’m not sure if it’s from the tequila or telling Jenkins off. Anna is staring at me with wide eyes.

“You sound a little intoxicated Miss Randolph. Which is a shame considering it’s so early in the morning and you have a speech scheduled for this evening.”

“Worry about yourself.” I reply. “And tell my father to call me later tonight.”

I hang up. Then let out a loud scream of frustration.

“Kennedy?”

“What?”

“I have a growing list of new outlets who want a comment. They’re finding it odd that you weren’t there.”

“Well no shit.”

“Additionally, I just received a statement from the White House about the re-election campaign. They want us to release it.”

“Oh they do?” I grab the bottle and waltz over to the window, looking out over the resort. “And why should we do what they want us to do?”

“Kennedy?” Anna sounds nervous, she probably should be.

I’m seething and I realize that talk is cheap. The last few weeks I had thought that Invictus would be the turning point. And then slowly I would become more and more vocal maybe get to push my own agenda. Not anymore, I’m done.

“We’re not releasing their comment.”

“Are you sure that’s best?”

“Yes.” I say then turn to smile at Anna. “Because we’re going to release our own statement.”

“Okay.” She approaches me slowly. “But we don’t want to undermine the President.”

“We won’t. Come on Anna, if anyone can write a statement that makes it clear to Jenkins I mean business without undermining the administration, it’s us.”

She looks at me warily.

I smirk, “Come on, it will be fun.”

I watch as she makes the decision. “Okay.”

It takes twenty minutes for us to write the statement and proofread it. I give her the go-ahead to release it. Maybe I imagine it, but I think I see Anna smile as she sends it.

I stand and realize that I’m a little wobbly on my feet. I laugh a little bit, “Maybe I had a smidge too much to drink.”

“You go lie down for a bit. I can reschedule everything else you have today for tomorrow. You just need to be in good shape for the Opening Ceremony.”

“You’re sooo right.” I know I’m slurring my words but it just makes me laugh more. “I have to down lie. I mean lie down.”

“I’ll see you in a few hours Kennedy.”

Voices wake me up. Slowly I open my eyes, my head swimming slightly. Instinctively I reach out to my bedside table. Thank God. There’s a glass of water there. I drink quickly, the cool water relieving my parched throat.

Then I focus on the voices. I recognize Anna’s voice first, she’s in full Chief-of-Staff mode, I can tell by her tone. But who is she talking to?

“Mr. Fox-”

“Call me Ed, please.”

Oh great, it’s Harry’s personal secretary/assistant. Truthfully, I really don’t know what he does. What is it with the two of them and being on a first name basis with people?

“Mr. Fox,” Anna continues and I smile. “What can I help you with?”

“I couldn’t help but notice that Miss Randolph has moved her schedule around.”

“Yes, she was feeling a little bit under the weather.” That’s one way to put getting drunk before noon on a weekday.

“I hope she’ll still make it to the Opening Ceremony in a few hours.”

“She will.” And there’s no room for arguing in Anna’s tone.

Slowly I get out of bed, and glance in the mirror. I don’t look too bad. And thankfully now upright my head isn’t spinning. So I open the door, stepping into the large living space of the suite.

The two of them had been standing much more closely together then I would have guessed. Both turn to face me. Anna looks shocked, probably because she didn’t expect me to be conscious quite yet while Ed looks at me sadly. I can feel the pity rolling off him.

“Miss Randolph, is there anything I can get you?”

I shake my head slowly, “No, I just need a little bit of water and maybe some soup.” I say adding a little cough. Hopefully, he’ll believe I’m just under the weather. “Both of which we have here in the suite.”

“Very good.” He looks uncomfortable.

“Thank you for checking in on me and I am sorry about the rescheduling. I will be there this evening though.”

“Glad to hear it.” He says then looks around the suite one last time, before leaving.

“I’m surprised to see you vertical.” Anna says.

“No more so than me.” I agree. “What time is it?”

“Three in the afternoon.”

“Okay, I’m going to go back to bed for another two hours. Then I’ll get ready for the opening ceremony. Deal?”

“Sounds good.”

Two and a half hours later I’m pacing around the small stadium practicing my speech. Luckily, it’s a pretty casual environment and they were able to fashion a makeshift teleprompter so I don’t have to memorize everything. However, it’s been a few years since I’ve given a speech in public. I would be lying if I said the nerves weren’t getting to me.

“How’s it going Kennedy?” Anna asks quietly.

I smile, “It’s going great. I’m ready.” But I refuse to tell anyone that I’m nervous.

Anna just stares at me. I repeat myself. “If you say so.”

Just then Harry comes walking down the hall, Ed and his other people behind him. Once again the Prince looked handsome, even dignified tonight. This evening he was wearing a bluesuit. I bite my lip, there’s something about a blue suit that is just…something else. And as always his beard was trimmed perfectly, accentuating the angles of his jaw line. For a moment I try to think of what he would like clean shaven. I’m not sure it would make him more or less attractive.

Of course, he probably looks handsome beard or no beard. It’s not fair.

He’s rubbing his hands together, saying hello to people. I realize that he’s actually nervous. His gaze is darting around, and he’s fidgeting with his bracelets.

Then he sees me. And I can see the pity in his eyes as well. It make my stomach roll. I hate seeing that in his eyes.

“Margaret.” He kisses me on my cheek. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“Thank you.” I step back, crossing my arms. “I’m excited for tonight.”

“Good. Me too.” He leans forward, whispering. “I’m a little nervous too.”

“Really?”

He shrugs, “A lot of hard work from a lot of people culminates tonight. It’s exciting, but terrifying.”

His words ring with sincerity. A lot of people are counting on him and I suppose me by extension. Yes, that would make anyone nervous. Apparently, even the perfect, attractive Prince Harry.

I smile at him reassuringly, “You’re going to do great. From what I’ve heard your interviews are slowly charming the American Public, not an easy thing to do.”

He smiles, the nerves leaving his face for a moment. “Coming from an expert on the subject that actually makes me feel much better.”

“On what subject?”

“Charming the American public. You should really write a book.”

I study his words and his eyes, trying to figure out what he meant by the comment. Was he teasing me? Belittling me?

He places a hand on my forearm, “Relax, I meant it as a compliment.”

He’s smiling and I can’t help but to return it. His words are kind and needed. Why the change?

Then I can see the sympathy in his eyes. No doubt, he thinks I’ve been shaken by the whole re-election campaign, hence the nice words. I don’t need his platitudes or pity, especially not from him.

I pull my arm back, “Thanks.”

He tilts his head to the side, no doubt wondering at my change in demeanor. “Right, yeah, you’re welcome.”

“I’m going to run through my speech one last time,” I say, ready to walk away needing some space

“Wait.” He says and I freeze. “I want to thank you again for your help so far. It means a lot to me and this organization, truly.”

Well that wasn’t what I was expecting. I don’t think I like this caring, kind side of Harry. It’s thrown me for a loop. I know why he’s being nice and I hate it. I’m not a child that needs to be coddled.

But I also know it’s not the time to have this argument. So I nod briskly, “Thank you.”

He smiles, “You’re welcome.”

The next time I see him he’s giving his speech. I watch through the small monitor back stage. The people, his people, I suppose love him. They cheer for him. His speech is full of heart and pride. He’s still nervous I can tell but his passion, his belief in this project overcomes that.

It made me a better person and you’re about to inspire he world. And I’m proud to call you my friends.

So, let’s put on a hell of a show in memory of our fallen comrades who didn’t make it.

We are Invictus.

The crowd cheers. I’m swept away by the spirit of these amazing athletes for a moment. I’m having one of those moments of clarity. This is so much bigger than me or Harry or anything else going on in my life. I need to do my job for these people, they deserve that and so much more.

“Ladies and Gentlemen please welcome the First Lady of the United States, Margaret Randolph.” The PA signals me to go and I begin the walk up the ramp.

My nerves fade away as I focus on putting one foot in front of the other. I wave at the cheering crowds, smiling, doing what I do best. Off to the side of the circular stage Harry is standing, clapping as well.

I walk over to him and we quickly exchange a polite kiss on each cheek. “You did wonderfully, Harry. It was a great speech.”

He smiles, “I’m just glad that part’s over.” He squeezes my hand, “Break-a-leg.”

He exits the platform and I take a moment to scan the stadium and the crowd. It’s a full house, good. And flags from different countries fill the area. This week is going to go well, I can already tell.

I open my mouth to begin my speech, but am interrupted by a chant.

Four more years! Four more years! Four more years! Four more years!

I smirk pursing my lips as if I’m admonishing the crowds. Really, if there’s one thing I didn’t want to be reminded of at this moment. But I push through, waving my hands down, the international symbol for ‘be quiet.’ Thankfully the chant stops.

I’m laughing lightly when I address the chant, “Thank you, thank you but tonight is not about me. It’s about all of you: the veterans, the comrades, caregivers, family and the Invictus spirit.”

The crowd cheers, and I relax slightly. Apparently publicly speaking is just like riding a bike.

“Welcome to Orlando. Are you having fun tonight?” The crowd roars and I smile. “It truly is an honor to be here among you this evening. I must begin by thanking Prince Harry.” The crowd cheers again.

I look over at him who’s standing off to the side now, “In the short time I’ve known you I’ve been blown away by your sense of duty, responsibility but most of all compassion. You have taken that compassion and willed it into something we need, the world needs. I’m unbelievably humbled to be part of this event. You are our Prince Charming.” I smirk and the crowd roars. Even from here I can see his face redden. “So we thank you.”

“However, Team U.S.A. is going to bring it this week, of that be sure.” I chuckle along with the crowd. Harry laughs and moves his hands in a ‘bring it on’ motion. He looks like the most adorable dork.

The rest of my speech goes well, or at least I think it does. The crowd responds to the words, which I’m pretty sure I said correctly.

As I’m leaving the stadium, I walk past Harry and Ed. I swear the two are never apart from one another. I wave, “Gentlemen.”

“Miss Randolph.”

“Margaret.” Harry smiles. I still want to be annoyed with him, I do, however after seeing him in his element tonight I’m struggling. He was passionate, personable and very down-to-earth. Scarily, I know he wasn’t faking a single thing. This is his natural state: kind. It’s very difficult to hold a grudge against someone this kind I’ve finally realized.

“Harry.” I pause, Anna and my secret service behind me. “Everything went great tonight.”

“You think so?” He sounds like a little kid.

“Absolutely.”

He sighs, as if he’s been holding that breath in all night. “Good to hear, especially coming from you.”

“Coming from me?”

He smirks, “If anyone was going to tell me how this went, truthfully…it would be you.”

“You’re right.” I say, conscious of all the people around us right now. “I meant it.”

“Well, thank you.” Then he glances at his watch. “Celebratory drinks this evening?”

“What?” I ask surprised.

“I’m cashing in on that lunch invitation we had to reschedule.” He looks to my right. “Anna, you should come as well.”

I open my mouth to refuse.

“I’m not taking no for an answer.” So I slowly nod my head. “My suite, one hour.”

And he just walks away.

“Miss?” Anna asks quietly. “Are we actually going?”

I shrug as we begin to walk to my vehicle. “I suppose I will, but it’s up to you.” Anna doesn’t respond right away, which is unusual for her. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m surprised.”

“Why?”

“Getting drinks in his hotel suite isn’t very ‘professional’.”

She has a point, but after the whirlwind of today and the ups and downs I’m trying to embrace some good. I met Invictus competitors in person tonight and I heard Harry’s speech. I’ve realized that these people deserve more than me being here for my agenda. No, they deserve much more. I’m committing myself to the cause and by extension I’m committing myself to a civil relationship with Harry.

“You’re right, but it’s what work colleagues might do. That’s good enough.”

We get back to my suite and I sit down for a moment. As beautiful as the coral pumps are they tend to hurt my feet after a few hours. Maybe I should change?

But if I change will it look like I’m trying to hard? Like, I picked out another outfit to wear just for drinks and him. On the other hand if he changes and I don’t change I’ll be overdressed. I mean the silk, hand-painted skirt is hardly casual.

Shit. Why am I thinking about this so much. It doesn’t matter. It’s just Harry. Right?

Thankfully I don’t have to follow that thought any father because my phone rings. “Anna, who is it?”

“It’s POTUS, Kennedy.”

I take a deep breath, this is just gonna be great. “Put it on speaker.” Here goes nothing. “Hello?”

“Margaret.”

“Dad-”

“What in holy hell were you thinking?” my dad yells and I flinch. Anna’s eyes go wide.

“Look, I can explain.”

“I don’t want to hear your explanations or your excuses. You were given a statement your people release that fucking statement. You know what message it sends when you don’t fall in fucking line with my office?”

I’m quiet.

“Answer me!”

“Yes.” I say because I do. His opponents will say and probably have already said, ‘if the president can’t control his own daughter how can he lead the country?’ It’s an asinine argument, but one that always works especially with certain demographics. (i.e. patriarchal assholes)

“Oh, do you? So you purposely didn’t follow directions for fun? We’re not in this for fun.”

“Trust me, I know.” I mumble.

“What was that?” He asks tersely.

“Nothing.”

“What has gotten into you? First it was the interview, then the speech and now you’re disobeying my Office. What’s going on?”

I pause, unsure what to say. My dad and I haven’t had a true heart to heart in months. Part of me yearns to just release all this stress, and my complaints. But I still can’t. Because in the back of my head he’s still the president.

“Is it the boy, Prince Harry?” He says his name with contempt. “Jenkins told me all about him, drugs, drinking, nudity, nazi stuff.”

I don’t even know what my father is referencing but it pisses me off. I’m not 17 again.

I’m done. President or not he’s my dad and we won’t survive like this for another four years.

“Do you really want to know what’s wrong dad?” I ask, pacing. “Do you really want to know?”

“Of course, I do.”

I take a deep breath. “I’m miserable, I’m hurting and I’m pissed off at you. I’m so fucking angry at you for not holding up your end of the bargain. You promised me a partnership, a role and you’ve let them turn me into a fucking Barbie.”

“Margar-”

“I don’t even have my own fucking name.” The emotions are bubbling up, everything that I’ve kept suppressed for the last few months is bubbling over. “You announced your new campaign without even telling me.”

“I assumed you knew. My term is going so well.”

“That’s not the point.” I should have been there with you.

“That doesn’t excuse your actions.”

I roll my eyes to the heavens. “I don’t fucking care.”

“Margaret Kennedy Penelope Frances Drayton Randolph, watch your mouth. You’re the First Lady of the United States of America. Act like it, goddammit.”

I hate when he uses my full name. “What does that even mean? How should I act? Prancing around walking, waving smiling, like a fucking puppet?”

“Yes! Exactly right. Christ on a crutch Margaret. Your role is fucking simple. God dammit you frustrate me.” He sighs. “Just act like before, before all this Invictus nonsense.”

I gasp, on the verge of tears. “That’s what you want. That’s the daughter you want?”

“Yes, that’s the First Lady I need.”

My heart breaks. I hate acting like that. And I had always hoped that maybe he hadn’t noticed, maybe he was just too busy to see that my job in his administration was bullshit. But now I know it’s what he wanted all along.

The feeling of betrayal washes over me, making me feel empty inside. I look up at Anna who glances away quickly.

I sit on the couch, not feeling like my legs can support me anymore. I’m taking deep breaths to stave off the tears. Finally, I speak. “Fine.”

“This is how we make change together, Margaret. We both do our parts. I need you to do your part. That was the damn deal.”

“Okay.”

“No more interviews, no more speeches. You go back to your role. You’re great at it.”

It’s meant as a compliment, but dear god it’s patronizing. A monkey could do this job well.

“Do you understand me?” He acts loudly.

I nod.

“Margaret!” He yells and I realize that I hadn’t verbally responded. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes.” I say quietly.

“Good.” He sighs. “Enjoy the rest of your time in Orlando. Do not do anything else so utterly stupid.”

“Okay.” And then he hangs up.

The silence of the room shatters me. I start to cry. Everything that I had feared has come true. He doesn’t care, not about his daughter.

Anna comes over to me, she hands me a glass full of white wine. “Kennedy-” I just shake my head, unwilling to listen to her try to justify my father’s words. “I’m sorry.”

I just shrug, gulping at the glass of wine.

Chapter 7 Chapter 9

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