#re-reading a study in scarlet always makes me smile

[hiddleswiftt]

I love your fics and I saw you wanted ideas so here I am. I thought maybe you could do a Taylor inspired fic for Laurie with Love Story maybe with like a ball or something?

ooohh! yes! I’ve been waiting on a laurie fic request for a while now!

maybe with another march sister reader??

(tumblr deleted my first draft so i have to re-write!)

LOVE STORY (INSPIRED BY THE TAYLOR SWIFT SONG “LOVE STORY”!)

laurie laurence x march sister (fem) reader!

description - you have been friends with laurie (along with your sisters) since his mother passed away. laurie was the lonely boy who was living with old mr laurence who lived opposite the march house, and ever since he started hanging around with you and your sisters, you’ve started to have feelings for him. six years later, you are travelling around europe with aunt march as her companion whilst you are studying and completing your acting classes. you and aunt march are invited to a ball in paris and someone in particular is on the list for you to dance with for the night! - i tried to make it similar to amy and laurie’s story but the reader wanting to be an actress rather than an artist like amy!

you’ve always loved laurie. always.

even when he had feelings for one of your older sisters josephine (or jo).

you’d be the one sitting aside, especially during your eldest sister meg’s wedding, while you watch jo and laurie dance. amy would reassure you that you’d be okay as you sit with her and beth (as she continued to struggle slightly from trying to get better from scarlet fever).

when beth got scarlet fever, laurie was always around for you. when you found out about it, jo and meg told you to stay with aunt march until beth is well again.

“i don’t want to say with aunt march! id rather catch scarlet fever than stay with her, the poodle and the parrot!” you’d wine as you put your head between the pillows of the couch while laurie would insist for you to stay with aunt march.

he was very persuasive, but in a kind way.

he wouldn’t tell you to do something if you didn’t want to. but this was serious. the spread of scarlet fever was serious. it wasn’t a joke anymore. you just about understood that.

laurie told you he’d come and see you, and you suggested for him to bring either the carriage or the phaeton, which he did, just to make you happy.

whenever laurie came to see you, you’d be dancing dramatically (as you would usually) wearing aunt march’s feathered things. you’d smile at him when you realise he’s been standing at the doorframe of the room watching you.

you’d show him things such as aunt march’s wedding ring (which you told him that she was too fat to wear anymore - he’d snigger at you quietly when you said this), the golden bracelet that was for the only child she ever had (until it died unfortunately…) or perhaps anything else you had found amongst aunt march’s house while she was napping.

you would show laurie the will you’ve written, since you thought you’d be the next to die to scarlet fever. laurie sat with you in confusion.

“from y/n m/n march, this is her will and testament for those that may die after her,” laurie read, “for my sister jo, i give her my..”

in this case the list went on.. and on..

laurie looked at you, “y/n.. you’re not going to die! you’re not even sick!” he tells you, trying to reassure you that you were going to be fine.

then you look across to him, and slump down next to him, “i know.. it’s just a precaution! i will some day.. we all do!” you tell him.

there’s a silence between the two of you. then you finally pluck up the confidence to ask laurie to write something else on your will.

“laurie? i have one more thing for you to add?” you ask him, “i want all my curls cut off to all the men who had loved me!”

you seem a little dramatic, but laurie laughs at you slightly and quickly scribbles it down on the will for you.

“if you want to look horrific in your coffin, y/n, go ahead!” laurie tells you, laughing as he finishes writing your comment on the will.

TIME SKIP -

it had been a year since and you had been travelling around europe with aunt march as her companion, while you completed and studied your acting classes.

you and aunt march were set to attend a ball in paris! you had changed a lot since you left home so aunt march suggested that you should start looking towards marriage now that you are properly of age now.

you had met a man named fred vaughn back a few years ago (he’s a friend of laurie’s) on the lake one summer. aunt march suggested for the two of you to marry, but you were unsure, and you thought that you wanted to make your own match.

you arrived at the ball venue in paris. you looked stunning. one of the best dressed probably..

as you entered the venue, you were given a card which included 6 men that wanted to dance with you for the evening.

you glanced at the names on the card briefly (except for the first - which you headed to first).

gregory lance - the first gentleman on the list. wants to dance “the saraband” with you. so you headed towards him for the dance.

as you quickly got through each dance, you finished your fifth finally. you said goodbye to david molesey - who was your fifth dancer, and looked down to your card again to find your sixth and last dance of the night.

you looked down to spot a familiar name on your card.

‘6. theodore laurence - lancers’

you smile and start to look for laurie, not realising that he was already staring at you from the doorframe of the room.

you smile at him and you decide to meet each other half way.

you hug him straight away, trying not to let you or laurie ruin your look of the night. “laurie! what are you doing here? i thought you were in london with your grandfather!” you said, smiling at him.

he smiles at you, completely in awe of you of how beautiful you look, “well.. i guess i am needed here just incase you need anything, y/n march!” he said, “and you look so beautiful! i almost didn’t recognise you!”

you blush a little and slap his arm softly, “yeah yeah.. what have you been up to, laurie?” you ask him, “anymore of the gambling and the drinking?”

he laughs slightly, “no.. no.. none of that recently, y/n!” he tells you, then you remember something that didn’t do laurie any good recently.

“im so sorry jo turned you down, laurie.. im so sorry.” you tell him, looking at him, making sure he’s okay.

laurie looks back up at you, “don’t worry.. im not..” he said to you, smiling at you and taking in the view of you, then he remembered that you both have a dance together, “miss march? may i have this dance?”

laurie takes your hand in his, leading you to the middle of the room to start the dance. you nod at him, “one often does at a ball, laurie laurence..” you tell him, giggling at him a little.

he smiles at you, as you both walk and start the dance. the dance has become more easier for you both.

you remember when you were younger, probably about five years ago, you and laurie were stood in the laurence house dancing. beth was playing the piano, meg was constantly flirting with mr brooke and jo and amy were giggling at you two while we continued to step on each others feet as you both danced.

oddly it was the same dance that were to start dancing at the ball just then. it was a familiar feeling that you hadn’t seen or talked of in a long while. the nostalgia rushed back to you both immediately.

it felt just right.

as the music and the dance stopped, there was a sense of something between you two.

you invited laurie to talk with aunt march and a few others. a lot of aunt march’s friends thought you and laurie were married!

you just shut your mouth and didn’t say much after that.

MINI TIME SKIP -

you decided to have a break and walk outside to get some air on the balcony. it was getting slightly too warm in the building so it was good to escape for a few minutes.

you didn’t notice laurie behind you, so it shocked you for a moment.

“y/n? are you alright?” he asked you, finally catching up with you and standing next to you on the balcony.

you smile up at him, “yes.. yes.. im fine.. i just needed some air..” you tell him.

you notice two boats on the ocean near to the venue, as you both stood on the balcony. the boats were close together. laurie caught you looking at them, and swiftly looked back at you to admire you.

“those boats are pretty close together.. as if they are on the same path..” you mumble to him.

laurie smiles and takes your hand in his. this gets you to look up at him. “y/n.. are we on the same path?” he asks you.

you suddenly look from the boats to laurie, who had now taken your hand in his. you looked into his eyes. you both knew exactly what you wanted.

“i guess we are, laurie…” you finally admit, as you start smiling at him.

you both stand and admire each other for a couple of seconds, then laurie begins to hold your waist, now leaning into you slowly.

as you both continue to stand on the balcony, you and laurie lean in together for a slow but passionate kiss.

you bring your hand to his cheek, and continue to kiss. the two of you felt alive at this point. more alive than you both have ever felt, ever.

you knew you should’ve told him how you felt years ago, although laurie was in love with jo at the time. gladly, you didn’t think that was the case anymore.

laurie loved you. and you only.

you loved laurie. and laurie only.

you both moved away from the kiss, laughing and sniggering still as if you were still children. you both knew that you weren’t children anymore, since time and your childhoods have gone so fast, and you both had nothing you could do to change that.

you were just happy in the moment. the moment you were continuously picturing for years. you never thought it would ever happen, but here you both were. in that moment together.

you notice something different about him that you didn’t see before.

“laurie. you grew out your hair!” you say, playing with it a little.

laurie laughs at you slightly, “i guess you could care for it?” he says, now looking at you.

you smile at him happily, “always, laurie… always!” you say, kissing his cheek.

suddenly someone with a letter on a tray walks to you and laurie. you pick it up swiftly and open it, making sure laurie stands by you though it, as you think the letter could be what you think it could be.

you read the letter. you were right.

you stand next to laurie and sob into his arms.

“it’s beth…” you say as you put your head into his chest, letting laurie hold you.

you let laurie read the letter. it’s from marmee, clarifying beth’s death.

you weren’t as close to beth as jo was to her. but you did have your fun times. especially that same moment when you, laurie and your sisters were in laurence house together, as beth played the piano while you and laurie would attempt to dance but instead you’d be treading on each others feet.

although you and beth weren’t as close as her and jo were, she still was your sister.

it was as if you planned out her death, as if you planned out your own with the will you wrote and told laurie about a few years ago.

MINI TIME SKIP -

it took you a couple of days to get through beth’s death. you were still in paris, you told marmee you’d come home as soon as possible.

you had a mix of feelings about what could be happening between you and laurie and thoughts of beth, and the fact that you weren’t there to support her when she was dying.

you stood on the balcony of the home you were staying in with aunt march. aunt march wasn’t doing so great herself either. she was falling ill now.

laurie came to see you that same day. he wanted to talk about the relationship you had but he was unsure whether you were okay to talk about it after hearing about beth’s passing.

“i keep remembering that will i wrote when beth had scarlet fever..” you remind laurie, as you both stand together.

“you bequeathed me a plaster horse, if i remember correctly.” laurie thought, as he looked at you.

“i had my death all planned out.. all rehearsed in my mind…” you say, trying not to cry, “i had beth’s all rehearsed and ready too… thought it would.. tear me open.. or burn me down like a house. but now im just frozen!”

laurie took your hand in his again. “ill come and see you everyday, y/n…” he says, admiring you but also making sure that you’re okay.

you look up at him, slowly twiddling your thumb with his, “promise me?” you ask.

he looks at you again, watching you twiddling your thumb with his, “yes.” laurie told you, now reaching into his pocket for something.

you wonder what he was looking for, so you decided to look out at the view from the castle balcony.

it took him a few seconds to find what he was looking for. he brought a black box from his pocket, and showed it to you.

you turned back to him and looked at the box. you were stunned.

“so.. y/n.. could we make it last forever?” he said, opening the box to reveal the engagement ring inside.

you were taken by surprise that laurie wants to marry you. you smile widely, and nod at him, letting him put the ring on your finger confirming your engagement.

MINI TIME SKIP -

you and laurie were on their way home from your long trip around europe with aunt march. aunt march had briefly found out about your engagement to laurie before passing out, and being taken home with aunt carrol and her daughter florence, who had been your other company before laurie arrived.

as soon as you arrived home, laurie helped you out of the carriage to find meg, marmee, father, amy, and jo (slowly) running out to greet you both.

marmee (with her good eye) noticed a ring on your finger. funnily enough, it wasn’t the same ring that laurie gave you a few days ago. it wasn’t the engagement ring.

you smiled down at the ring, and then looked back up at laurie.

“that’s not an engagement ring!” marmee says, realising something.

you and laurie smile at each other as you notice marmee admiring your ring.

“it’s a wedding ring!” marmee says, pulling you into a large hug and kissing you on the cheek, while father shakes laurie’s hand to congratulate us both, and to thank him for marrying you.

you smile at your mother again. “i cant quite get my glove over it!” you laugh, then moving to laurie to give your ‘husband’ a kiss on the cheek.

MINI TIME SKIP -

the hustle and bustle around the march house after yours and laurie’s return and the surprise of your marriage spread amongst the house. especially to mr laurence (laurie’s grandfather), who had told him to go abroad after jo turned him down.

you were happy. both of you were.

turns out that jo was falling in love with the professor she met at the boarding house in New York. she arrived home a week after yours and laurie’s return after being out in town and the professor was waiting for her.

you knew she was in love with him. jo knew you had always been in love with laurie.

you kindly persuaded jo to tell professor bhaer how she felt about him, and from soon after that, all your sisters and yourself were in love.

you all sat together, you and laurie at the piano as laurie played and you rested your head on his shoulder, meg and john with kitty and minnie, marmee and father and finally jo and bhaer.

it just fitted together so perfectly.

please don’t copy my work! <3

(let me know what you think of this fic by giving this post a like, follow and a comment!)

— h4uerkings

[nephilimarecool]

Concert

Jack Kline X Reader

Warnings: none

I've never written a X female teen reader before so point out any mistakes but give me a bit of slack. I'd love comments and re-blogs also requests are open but NO smut.

Y/F/B = Your Favorite Band

Y/N = Your Name

F/B = Favorite Book

"I'm going out!" You called across the bunker, Dean, Cass, Sam and Jack were sitting in the library studying lore.

"Where?" Dean questioned, you were Jack's girlfriend not his daughter but he still acted like it.

"Out." You responded vaguely, you were actually going to a concert. It didn't take place till about 10 pm though and it was only 6 pm so you figured you'd explore Kansas a bit.

"Like hell!" Honestly Dean was way overprotective. You sighed, you were going tonight no matter what. It was Y/F/B and you were going to see them.

"Dean she is 18." Cas tried knowing how bad you needed to leave the bunker. You'd been cooped up for weeks now since he wouldn't let you hunt. Honestly it was stupid, you were on your first hunt when you met them for crying out loud.

"Too bad Cas." Dean quipped. You groaned.

"I've been cooped up for months! I need this Dean!" Dean gave you his resting bitch face. Sam seemed to be pointedly staying out of the argument.

"Too bad sweetheart." You groaned but knew there was no arguing with Dean when he was in this mood. You decided you wait and sneak out later.

"Fine!" You growled. Everyone looked at you shocked, it was unlike you too give up so easily.

"Fine?" Dean asked.

"Fine." You repeated you could see Cas trying to see if your ok or if something else is going on. You found a chair and sat down with your favorite book.

"What are you reading Y/N?" Jack stuck his head over you shoulder. You smiled, the Nephilim always managed to make you smile.

"I'm reading F/B." placing you book down you stood up and kissed Jack's cheek. "You want a Coke?" The Nephilim shrugged.

"Never really tried one." He admitted sheepishly. You just chuckled and handed Jack one of the bright, scarlet-red cans. He cracked his open easily but you struggled, your hands shaking slightly from nerves because of what your gonna do later. Seeing this Jack took the can and opened it for you. "Thanks Jack." You said.

"Of course Darling." Damn that boy was so sweet.

"Want to listen to some music and read a book?" You suggested smiling at your boyfriend. "I'm pretty sure you'd like Percy Jackson, there's a copy in my bag." You simply enjoyed spending time with Jack, he never judged you.

"Sure." He agree softly. You nodded and went to grab the book from your room.

"Is she ok?" Cas asked Jack confused why you were acting so strange.

"I believe so. Yes. Just sad." Jack replied just as you walked in with your phone and Percy Jackson: The Lightning Thief.

Later on that night you were sleeping in you room which was right next to Jack's. It was about 9pm and you knew you'd need time to walk there. Sighing you kept to the shadows and slipped out the front door of the bunker. You made it about 200 meters before you heard a voice behind you.

"Why'd you leave the bunker? What are doing? Can I join you?" You let out the breath you were holding, it was only Jack. You silently laughed at yourself, you were scared by Jack of all people.

"I'm going to a concert, the same band we were listening to on my phone. Dean wouldn't let me leave so I snuck out. Sure you join me Jack, it's after dark and what better company then a Nephilim." You smiled and grabbed Jack's hand pulling him with you.

"Where is it? I can just fly us there." You were going to walk but he seemed so proud, you knew he'd only recently learnt how to teleport more than just himself.

"Sure. It's about 2 miles that way." You pointed to the road and Jack nodded. Jack nodded and pulled you too him, next thing you knew you were slightly green and the two of you were just out side the concert.

Knowing he'd never been to a concert before you began explaining things to Jack. You pointed to a booth on your left, "That's were you by tickets." As we walked over you pointed to the stage, "that's where the singers are, I like sitting further back as it gets loud."

You walked to the cashier. "Tickets for 2 please." He nodded.

You handed the man $200, ticket plus tip. "Why did you give them extra money?" Jack asked, you should've known he wouldn't know what tipping is.

"It's called tipping, they take the extra money for themselves. Some jobs don't pay very well Jack." You did your best to explain but obviously didn't get your point across quite right.

After the concert you glanced at Jack "Did you have fun?" you asked curious. He was beaming from ear to ear.

"Very much, thankyou." Jack replied obvious joy in his voice. "I'll take us home now." You nodded my smile just as large. Taking Jack's hand you were suddenly back in the bunker, it didn't effect you as much as earlier.

After a few seconds you realized the lights were on.

"Balls!" You grumbled. You should've known this'd happen as it was as it was about 2am.

"Y/N!" Dean came into the library fuming. You glanced at Jack. "Jack?" He asked almost disbelieving he was in on this.

You and Jack looked at each other. "Uh oh." You murmured in unison.

"Run." You whispered, Jack nodded and you took off in opposite directions.

"You have got to be kidding!" you heard Dean yell, let's just say you didn't dare stop.

Masterlist

@graceloveswolves

[magnetic-rose]

please don’t let bad adaptations of sherlock holmes dissuade you from checking out the books. i promise holmes is not nearly as much as an asshole as bbc sherlock and house md makes him out to be. i mean just read this passage and tell me it doesn’t make you smile:

“You know a conjurer gets no credit when once he has explained his trick and if I show you too much of my method of working, you will come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary individual after all." "I shall never do that," I answered; "you have brought detection as near an exact science as it ever will be brought in this world.” My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest way in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of her beauty.”

PLEASE HE’S SO SWEET.

[mrpenguinpants]

Genshin: Mythos AU - Cat Xiao

Dancer Xiao? I’ve never heard of that but to be fair, I don’t really get out much. Cat Xiao Dancer tho 👀 This is valid and I fully accept it. I wrote a University AU a while back and if I ever make a part 2, I’d love to brainrot on this dancer idea. Speaking of, since I just started another royalty/mythos AU and I think this idea could slide into that.

Alright let me crack my knuckles a bit. You’ve got my brainworms running.

---

Xiao Semi Series

[ Friendship ] [ Falling in Love ] [ Cuddles ] [ Protective ] [ Affection ] [ Jealously ] [ Opposites Attract ] [ String Of Fate (Soulmate) ] [ Fainting ] 

[ Genshin: Royalty AU ]

[Masterlist]

Note: The royalty and mythos AU aren’t completely connected together. But I am definitely taking ideas from each other.

---

[taglist]  <- if you want to be added, please read this first.

 @mikeysbike @unionwitch @musekala @sunnshiii @stanzastic @akaasea @xoneaboveallx @adoring-ghost @asheseiler @childelover @dilucsz @dai-tsukki-desu @thicmitten @nonniechan @htnicayh @genshins1mpact @morthecreator @aanne2601 @aklxojjk @fulltimeventisimp @aetherazor @youaskedfurret @snowy224 @mayumintsu @tigerpriestess @yuu-yuukurotsuki @legionqueensav @eva-0403 @blanktide @aaaaalona @castinluckgamer @hanniejji​  

---

Mythos AU - Cat Xiao

Xiao was born and raised in the Huan tribe, a clan where its members were born with feline features, but it was an isolated group that was purposefully hidden away from human eyes. While most of the world was friendly towards hybrids, the threat of poachers and trafficking was still high that most hybrid clans hid away from the outside world. There was a misconception that hybrids could bring someone good luck or blessings so they were always hunted down to later sell to wealthy royals. In the case of the Huan, they had the ability to scare away misfortune.

Due to the old traditions and customs the Huan tribe carried, all males were raised to become warriors that could defend the tribe should any corrupted mage or human arrive to capture them. Therefore, Xiao was handed a spear before he even knew how to say his name properly. But surprisingly, Xiao was quite adept at the spear and learned quickly how to use it. He was flexible and nimble on his feet, being able to dash in and out and use his spear as a third extension of his arm to quickly disarm other peers his age. Making sure his tail kept his balance and his dilated eyes were focused on his opponent.

Perhaps it was the overconfidence the clan held in him or how lax the rules had become with the fall of poachers that the one moment Xiao strayed too far from home. He was suddenly enveloped in a pink gas that irritated his eyes and made his limbs drop dead. A mysterious green haired man appeared from under the ground, dirt and roots pushing aside to reveal him, as he smiled sweetly down at the growing Xiao. That sick smile was the last thing Xiao saw before he was knocked out.

When he awoke, he was suddenly thrown into an entirely different land that he wasn’t used to. The Huan was hidden away deep inside a cave of lamp grass that gave the entire area a slow blue glow. High up in the mountains where the air smelled of fresh mint. But there was too much orange and red that Xiao had to close his eyes from the bright and vibrant colours. His cat ears twitching at all the loud noises of people yelling about numbers and products. The stuffy air that was slowly choking him. Xiao tried to pull himself up only to see dendro bindings incasing him and he was still feeling the affects of that gas. He sighed and flopped back and tried to flex his arms into a more comfortable position as he tried to calm himself down. His tail slowly curling around him. Xiao only had a small break before the doors to his cage was suddenly thrown open and he was quickly yanked out of his cage onto the ground. The same mysterious green haired man smiled and nodded at him before turning back to a strange man wearing a mask, dressed in armour, and welding a spear.

Everything was happening too fast, before Xiao could get his bearing he was hauled up and dragged into a strange building and pushed into a room with several woman. There seemed to be a silent conversation he was missing before the woman pushed and pulled him every which way. Shredding his clothes and washing his skin and ears until he was rid of the grime he had been stained with from his “trip”. He was highly uncomfortable with all these foreign people touching him and dressing him but in his drugged out state he couldn’t do much besides trying to bat away hands when they were too forceful on his tail. Until he was finally dressed in a stiffy outfit with a too high collar, he heard it was called a Changshan from one of the woman, and was he lead to a private room and told to behave or else he would be killed on the spot.

At least Xiao had a chance to breathe. To take in his surroundings and bask in the peace and quiet. To think of how he could possibly get out of this situation. He knew how to fight, if he could get his hands on a weapon that those guards had, he might be able to escape and find a way to return to Huan. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, remembering what his teachers taught him, and opened them determined only to flinch back when a girl his age was already standing in front of him. While Xiao knew his yellow feline eyes were intimidating, this new girls scarlet eyes felt as they were crushing him this invisible pressure. Xiao quickly bit his tongue before it could let out a warning growl and subtly wrapped his tail around his leg in comfort.

It wasn’t until the girl stepped back and sat on a couch that Xiao realized she wasn’t alone. The same guard from before was beside her but his eyes were closed. Directing his attention back to the scarlet-eyed girl, she almost seemed amused at Xiao’s hybrid features. The cute twitches of his ears and nose, but she leaned back and gestured for Xiao to go on. Xiao just stared blankly at her, was he supposed to do something? He was only told to behave lest he be killed but he felt like he was missing something important. The girl tilted her head further and asked if he had any talents, if he knew how to dance perhaps?

Xiao didn’t know the first thing about what dancing meant to this kid, he was raised to know how to weld a spear. He was aware that weapon dancing was a thing, the Huan would always celebrate victories in hunting through spear dancing, but was he even allowed a weapon?

Xiao’s eyes darted towards the guards spear as he pointed towards it. The girl’s scarlet eyes seemed to light up in understanding, Xiao just noticed that her pupils were flower shaped, as she reached over and tugged at the guards sleeve.

“Hand him the spear,” the girl said as she pointed at the weapon in his hands and then back to Xiao. The guard just stared at her incredulously as the cheerful demeanor the girl held suddenly vanished as her face scrunched into an disgusted and annoyed expression. She reached over and yanked the spear out of the guards hand before tossing it to Xiao who scrambled to catch it before it ended up stabbing him in the foot.

“Was that so hard? You may go now. Bye bye!” she said as he proceeded to push the man out despite his protests, “Don’t you have anything important to do that isn’t here? Just go stand outside or something. Are you saying I can’t defend myself? I might poison your food if you say that you know!”

As she basically threw the man out and closed the door. She pattered her clothes down and re-adjusted her hat before turning around as she grinned at Xiao. Returning to her seat on the couch, she crossed her legs, folder her hands on top of her knees, and laid back as she nodded for him. 

“Now, go on. I’m interested to see what you can do. Impress me kitty.”

Xiao could feel a very thin thread inside him snap at the nickname but tried to keep his emotions in check. His teachers always said he had a short fuse and one day it would get him in trouble. He was in an unknown place, surrounded with enemies, and he could feel that the drug wasn’t fully out of his system. So he stepped back to give him more room as he twirled the spear in his hands. It was similar to the Qiang spears he used back at home. Xiao breathed in deeply, breathed out, as he took his stance and raised the spear in front of him. The girl began clapping a tempo as he twirled and danced with the spear. Stepping in and out and thrusting the spear forward. At the last second, as he was twirling the spear over his shoulder, Xiao’s eyes dilated as he rolled the weapons off his neck and into his hands and thrusts it at the clapping girl. It didn’t surprise anyone when the girl’s grin turned wider as she kicked her leg out to knock the spear out of Xiao’s hand before she caught it. The girl simply studied the spear, the weight of it, before turning her gaze back to Xiao. He was standing with his arms crossed and looking at her unimpressed.

"Excellent performance," the girl nodded as she laid the spear on her lap to clap for him but when she didn’t get any change from Xiao she slowly stopped her clapping, looking at him confused. 

“Why did you send that man away if you knew this would happen?” Xiao questioned. If her flower pupils didn’t give it away he could feel in the air that she was the same as him. A hybrid of some sort. 

“Only an idiot would do something like that so I wanted to see if you would actually do it! You’ve managed to impress me which means you get to live,” the girl clapped her hands once more as if that was something Xiao should be happy about, “Isn’t that nice? One more day of freedom, well until Zhongli get’s his hands on you. Then you might be in a little trouble...”

“Wait hang on. What is going on? Where am I and who is Zhongli? Who are you?” Xiao quickly intercepted before the girl could go off on another tangent. Could he get a quick five minute break and have someone explain what the hell was happening? Didn’t this girl know he was basically drugged and kidnapped? Should that be something that communities deemed as wrong?

“Oh you poor Kitty. No one bothered to explain anything? This week is Golden week where everyone in Liyue is trying to tie the knot. Zhongli has preferred taste and as his trusted advisor, Hu Tao, it’s my job to select the most eligible spouse,” Hu tao nodded to herself after finishing her explanation. There was a beat of silence as Hu Tao blinked and looked back at Xiao. His ears and tail were stiff as a board as his mind was slowly processing the information. He blinked at her. Once. Twice. Before proceeding to pass out.

---

This is not what you asked for and yet I still delivered. I just started writing and it became gay. I don’t even watch dramas but if this isn’t a plot to one. I’m going to be very disappointed. Every time I write Cat!Xiao it’s another drama. Feel free to sub anyone out for reader. I just wanted to stick to the lore and AU.

If you’re interested in the terms or the “lore” behind this AU. I added a read more below:

Disclaimer: I am not a Chinese historian so there is probably something wrong here.

Huan (讙)

Found on the Yiwang Mountains, a cat with the same build as a small mountain lion or lynx, except it has one eye and three tails. According to ancient depictions, the Huan cat has the uncanny ability to scare away misfortune.

Qiang

The most common long-handled spear used by Chinese soldiers. It is one of the earliest known battle weapons and was known as “the king of a thousand soldiers”.

Changshan

Similar to what Xingqiu wears, Changshan were introduced to China during the Qing dynasty. Changshan were a formal dress for Chinese men before Western-style suits became common in China. They are traditionally worn for formal pictures, weddings, and other formal Chinese events.

Adepti vs Yaksha

The Adepti and Yaksha are two different social classes. In this mythos AU, your worth and reputation is based on your celestial powers. Adepti are people that are reincarnations of celestial beings and can change into their animal variant.  Meanwhile, Yaksha’s are people blessed by celestial beings. They only have the animal features and are weaker in terms of power. Yaksha’s are still powerful compared to a human but due to the misconceptions in Liyue, Yaksha’s are treated as possessions. Yes, this will change (if I write more on this AU) because equality is hot.

Hu Tao

To be fair, I originally wrote this as Zhongli talking to Xiao but it didn’t really make sense to me. Her role and relationship to Zhongli is similar to the genshin lore where she’s a massive headache to him. But Hu Tao knows how to do her job and is one of the few people that talks back to Zhongli that he appreciates her existence. She still has to walk the line carefully lest she actually offend him and get herself killed. She admires people like herself, people that aren’t afraid to stand up for themselves or surprise her, and she has a lot of fun pushing people to reach that state. She’s not very well liked because of this.

Zhongli

I’m going to say it. I fully believe Zhongli used to be a piece of shit before he met Guizhong. Maybe not intentionally but he doesn’t understand emotions or what empathy is. In this AU, he has some amount of capability to express himself except they are all entitled because he genuinely believes he is the strongest. He’s not inherently evil, just very trapped in his own world and understanding, and everyone is too scared to correct him. Besides Hu tao of course. 

Baizhu

He’s a questionable doctor that works beside Zhongli. Just so long as Zhongli doesn’t poke his nose into his experiments, he doesn’t care what Zhongli does and vice versa. But because Zhongli is technically his boss, he’ll go and do some dirty work for whoever peaks Zhongli’s interest.

---

This entire AU is my call out post for Mihoyo to drop more lore bombs. If you won’t give me the lore then I’ll write it myself. My request box is still closed but at this point, if you give me something to think about I’ll probably write it. 

[ikeromantic]

Designing Men

An ikevamp Leonardo story, approx. 1500 words of pure fluffy goodness.

First: That First Night

Previous: Three Words

Leonardo was up early. He hadn’t been able to sleep well after his ‘nap’ in the library. All he could think of was the touch of cara’s lips on his own and the sound of her muffled sobs as she cried herself to sleep. Leo wanted to make it up to her - it being the distance he put between them. He needed to make her happy, even if that joy was only fleeting. 

The kitchen was empty when he got there. He set about making a pot of coffee. He sat down on a stool beside the counter and stared at the kettle, waiting for it to boil.

“A watched pot never boils, old friend.” Comte spoke from the doorway, one hand on the frame.

“That so? I’m pretty sure it heats at the same rate.” Leo grinned. “Anyway, what are you doing up at this hour?”

Le Comte shrugged. “I have business to attend to in town. The appointment is quite early.”

Leonardo’s eyebrows rose.

“Nothing you’d be interested in. Just visiting some clothiers.”

“Because you need another closet full of clothes?” Leo chuckled. The kettle began to hiss, and he took a moment to pull it off the heat and pour it over the coffee grounds. The rich scent filled the room, a heady good morning for a man that loved to sleep.

Comte waited for him to pour the coffee before answering. “It isn’t for me. But if you’ll remember, there’s a lovely young lady under our roof with a fancy party to attend. I plan to get her the most expensive gown in Paris, with jewelry to match. A little token of my affection.”

Leonardo took a moment to process this. “My cara mia? You’re buying her dress?” He blinked. “But I’m her date.”

“Yes, and it was very kind of you to agree to escort her. I’m sure seeing the two of you out together will quiet your -”

“Comte. I should be buying her dress.” Leonardo’s golden eyes met his old friend’s amber ones. The silence between them was thick. 

Le Comte was the first to turn away, looking to the side as he took a cautious sip of coffee. “Normally, yes, of course. But you’ve no interest in this beyond the practical benefit - right? It’s not as if you care what the girl wears.”

Which was generally true. Leonardo cared little about fashion or high society. But for his cara . . . that was different. He wanted her to have a gown that was as special as she was. “I care if I’m the escort.” He gave his old friend a half-smile. “But I think you knew that. More of your meddling?”

“If you want to call it that.” Comte set his coffee down. “I leave in fifteen minutes. Should I assume you’ll be accompanying me?”

“Make it ten.” Leonardo rushed upstairs to change his shirt and find his good shoes. There was one thing he knew about shopping with le Comte. It would be an all day affair.

The two men arrived in town. The coach let them off near the Champs Elysees, where all the modern, fashionable shops did business. Most were still closed at this hour, but one had their light on. The sign read House of Worth in bold, gold letters. An old man stood by the door, waiting. When he spotted them, he waved.

“Monsieur le Comte, welcome. Welcome. And I see you’ve brought an assistant?” The man had a distinct British accent and something about him looked familiar to Leonardo, though he couldn’t place it.

“Yes, thank you Charles. This is my dear friend, Leonard. Leo, this is our clothier - Monsieur Charles Worth.” Comte introduced them as they were led inside.

The dressmaker shook Leo’s hand. “Please, call me Charles. Any friend of le Comte is a friend of mine.” He was practically wagging his tail with excitement. 

Leonardo had the distinct feeling Comte must have made many purchases from this shop to be on such terms with the man. He couldn’t help but wonder how many times his old friend needed to buy a lady a fancy dress. Probably best not to ask.

Charles led them to a comfortably appointed back room. He’d already hung several racks with swaths of fabric. There was a deep blue dangerously close to blue de France, a pale golden yellow, wavering dip-dyed red, and a green that was the same shade as a flower bud in spring. 

“You know, normally the lady in question is present to match the tone of the dye to her skin, hair, and eyes. Is it possible to -”

Comte shook his head, interrupting. “No, Charles. This is meant to be a surprise. I’m afraid you’ll have to trust us on the color.”

“Yes, of course, but I don’t see how I’m to determine the cut and measurements and -”

This time it was Leonardo that spoke over the clothier. “I’m an artist and a designer myself. And I know all her measurements. Let’s get on with it.”

“Oh? Indeed, sirs.” Charles’ eyebrows went up as he said it but his tone was still obsequious. Had it not been for his vampiric hearing, Leo would have missed the muttered “Know-it-all-amatuer artists” the clothier added under his breath. 

Predictably, Comte went for the red material first. He was always drawn to scarlet and ruby tones. Leonardo ignored his friend’s chatter with the dressmaker, focusing instead on how the colors would look against his cara’s skin. Warm tones would look better, he decided. Something less the color of gore and more the color of caramel or chocolate. Sweet as she was.

“‘Scuse,” he interrupted. “The lady would look better in -” He let his eyes travel around the room, settling on a deep cocoa colored silk. “That.” 

“Monsieur, with all due respect, that color is an accent at best. This year’s fashion tends toward light and bright and -” Charles’ hands danced through the air, outlining the dress silhouettes he was imagining.

Leo grinned. “Sure. But this lady needs that fabric.” 

Charles looked to le Comte.

“I am afraid I must yield to my friend. Leonard will be her escort and knows her tastes better than I.”

Leonardo and Charles went through an entire shipment of various chocolate and cinnamon tones, each just slightly different than the one before. With dye chosen, there was fabric finish and weight, weave and thread count. Comte sat himself down with a small, satisfied smile.

Two hours later, the three men were hunched over a desk, exchanging charcoal sketches on thin sheets of paper. Leonardo proffered three designs for his cara while Charles had one he had labored over for some time. 

“I swear to you, monsieur, this one is in fashion this season. Your lady friend will be the toast of the event with this hemline and cold shoulder. Like a goddess.” Charles pushed the sketch to le Comte hopefully.

Leo snagged it, studying the lines of the gown. “It’s actually not bad,” he admitted. “But perhaps some adjustment - she’s delicate. This much fabric will drown her.”

The clothier sniffed. “I don’t know why you asked me to offer anything. I am the premier couturiere in Paris and you hate all my designs.”

“I don’t hate ‘em,” Leo awkwardly patted the offended man’s shoulder. “I just know her better than you.” This seemed to mollify Charles a bit and he bent forward to see what changes were being suggested.

“I rather like this one,” Comte pushed one of Leo’s designs in front of the two men. “You could adopt the cold shoulder Charles loves and the lower hem - yes? And the other gown - “ he pointed to the sketch Leo was re-working, “We could order that in a deep carmine. For some other occasion, of course.” 

Charles was nodding at this. “Yes, I like that idea. Two dresses for the lucky lady. A girl can never have too much finery.”

Comte gave a wry laugh. “You are not wrong, friend.” 

It took a bit longer to wrangle the embroidery and other finishings for both gowns. Leonardo’s selections were more subdued than le Comte, but then, they’d always had different tastes. Leo was still looking over the last bits when le Comte finished and stepped out for some air.

“You know, monsieur,” Charles said, his voice pitched for Leo’s ear only. “You have an eye for design. A bit rough and in need of my guidance but still. If you are ever looking for work, my team would be happy to bring you on.”

Leonardo couldn’t hold in a laugh, which earned him an offended look from the clothier. “Ah Charles, I don’t mean to make light of your offer. I’m just no clothing designer. This is my one time effort for a girl I - a girl that’s special to me.”

Charles nodded after a moment. “I see, monsieur. Nevertheless, you have an eye. My offer stands.”

“I appreciate the compliment.” Leonardo shook the clothier’s hand. “I’ll be back in a few days to check on progress.”

Comte met Leo out front. He wore the most insufferable smug smile. “So. That was fun. Want to come with me to pick out the jewelry?”

“I’d better or you’ll have her dressed in nothing but rubies and diamonds,” Leonardo replied.

“There are worse outcomes,” Comte said speculatively. “I for one, would not mind seeing her in nothing but jewelry . . .”

Leo shot him a hot glare. 

Comte just laughed.

Next: Not Alone

**sidenote** Charles Frederick Worth was a real person, and considered the father of modern day haute couture. I just imagine Comte would be one of his special clients, entitled to a private session with the famous designer.**

[dc41896]

Attention

Pairing: Johnny “Human Torch” StormxBlack Reader

⚠️: Tiny bit of angst (if it even counts really), also tiny bit of implied happy times, but mostly fluff💕!

Re-reading over your notes for what felt like the millionth time this week, you softly mumble to yourself the highlighted material hoping that everything would remain stuck in your mind for your practical tomorrow.

“Intramuscular means within the muscle and is given at a 90 degree angle. Intravenous means within the vein, given at a 25 degree angle. Subcutaneous: in the subcutaneous layer at a 45 degree angle. And finally intradermal-,”

“Psst....psst!!”

If only your boyfriend would stop being a grown man child and let you finish studying though.

“Yes Johnny?,” you sigh still looking down at your binder.

“Take a break, I want to show you something.”

“No Johnny we’re not doing that again.”

“I wasn’t talking about that princess,” he smirks moving to lean against the bedroom door frame. “Although I’m not complaining if you want more.”

Giving him a look clearly showing how you weren’t in the mood, he chuckles holding up his hands to show he was done joking.

“Seriously though I want to show you something, so can you please come with me?”

“Just tell me, or take a picture of it on your phone and show me that way. I really have to keep studying and don’t have time for a bunch of breaks.” Straightening up, a low huff leaves his lips as you hear him pad through the living room before coming back holding a new action figure posed as if about to throw a handful of flames.

“Look! It’s me!,” he beams squatting next to you holding out the toy for you to see.

“Mhm that’s nice babe,” you smile not really displaying the reaction he wanted you to.

“I see you’re having a hard time containing your excitement,” he retorts sarcastically, bringing his mini me back towards his chest.

“It really is nice babe, it’s just similar to some of your other toys that I’ve already seen.”

“But with this one, the little flame lights up. See?” Pressing the small button on the back to show the tiny, plastic flame glowing scarlet, a wide smile spreads across his face making you giggle.

“Yes very cool. Now if that’s all, I gotta get back to this okay?”

“Alright,” he sighs standing up to return to his spot on the couch probably cold by now. “Why don’t you come study out here? It’ll be more comfortable than sitting on the floor.”

“Because you’re watching tv and that’s gonna distract me.”

“Not anymore. The game’s off so I’m done for the night,” he playfully smiles stealing one of your study packets making you whine his name. “Cmon you know you’d rather sit on the big, soft, incredibly comfy couch.”

Wiggling his brows, you roll your eyes trying to focus back on the words in front of you, but as always, seeing his adorable pout was wearing you down. Plus the ache in your buttcheeks was really making the couch, or any soft piece of furniture for that matter, sound like heaven.

“And, as an added bonus, your incredibly hot, charming, all around amazing boyfriend will be there.”

“Johnny...”

“As!...support and to help anyway I can of course. What did you think?,” he feigns shock as you shake your head.

“Alright fine. But if you try to distract me just once, I’m kicking you out for the rest of the night, and you’ll have to either get a hotel, or crash with Reed and Sue.”

“Okay deal,” he chuckles helping you stand and gather the packets, pens, and highlighters you needed to continue your attempted all nighter.

Sat in the middle of the plush sectional with one of his legs draped over your folded ones and the other stretched out behind you, so far he’d done well on his agreement. He stayed busy on his phone watching sports highlights with earbuds attached to his head, and hardly ever touched you unless to give a reassuring hug when he could sense you were getting overwhelmed, or softly dance his finger along your arm making you smile. He even started quizzing you from whichever packet you were on as you lied just below his chest playing with his free hand.

From how he was earlier, seemingly a bit more clingy and not wanting to be away from you, something told you deep down this was all he wanted. Just feeling your body near him as you did whatever, no matter how boring the task was. And although a little distracting, you couldn’t be completely mad at him for his antics since deep down you know you wanted it too.

Honestly need may be the better word judging from your noticeably calmer state. Even Johnny could feel your heart rate gradually decrease to its normal speed through his body.

Soon his yawn began to trigger your own set and eyelids became heavy as the questions came slower along with your answers. You tried to fight it off, but apparently your body had other plans making it increasingly more difficult to open your eyes until both of your light snores were the only sound that could be heard throughout the room.

———

“Good morning Mr. Johnny Storm, Miss Y/N,” the computerized security system greets opening the curtains to reveal the bright sun and cause you to stir. Rubbing your eyes, you see all the packets spread on the glass coffee table quickly reminding you of your exam.

“Sherlock, what time is it?,” you ask in a panic as you sit up causing Johnny to shift slightly without opening his eyes.

Also, why he decided to name the computer system Sherlock, you’d never understand.

“11:30 am miss.”

Grabbing your packets as fast as you can, a string of curses fall from your lips as you run about trying to collect your things. By now you were supposed to be on campus looking over your notes one last time before going in for your slot time at 12. At this rate, you’d definitely be over an hour late and received an automatic zero.

“What’s the rush princess?,” your boyfriend tiredly asks stretching his arms over his head as he stands.

“I overslept and I’m late,” you sniff trying to hold back your tears as you search through drawers trying to find your scrubs. “Where are they?”

Joining you in the room, he tries to kiss your cheek only to miss you completely as you rush past him still looking for your clothes.

“Closet babe. By my suit.”

“Well what about the other ones since those need to be washed now?”

“In the basket to be washed.”

“You mean the same clothes in the basket I asked you to wash last weekend,” you retort changing into the faint ash smelling scrubs. Noticing you wiping your eyes a bit more frequently, he manages to grab your arm stopping you from wherever else you needed to go.

“Johnny seriously I don’t have time for this-,”

“Relax okay? Let’s try to call your professor and tell them what happened to see if you can get a new time.”

“It’s not gonna work. This isn’t an emergency situation, I just overslept like an idiot,” you answer pulling away to finish the rest of your morning routine in the bathroom.

He sighs hearing you bang about while pulling his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants trying to find the number for your school. His upcoming events list popping up though makes him deeply chuckle as he shakes his head.

“Oh honey...!”

“Johnny please don’t start. I’m already frustrated a-and overwhelmed trying to figure out what to do and just need to-.” Holding his phone in front of your eyes, you see his calendar showing all his important meetings and interviews, along with your test date.

Which wasn’t until next Monday.

Pulling your phone from your backpack, you go to your calendar to find the same thing making you feel even dumber.

“...S-So I don’t have my test today?”

“No princess,” he smiles coming closer to caress your face with both hands, wiping your tears with his thumbs.

“And I stayed up all night this week studying for nothing?”

“Well not for nothing. You know your stuff now, so you won’t have to worry about it later.”

“Yea,” you sigh looking up at him as you hold onto his strong forearms. “Sorry for snapping at you about the laundry, and for kinda being cranky yesterday.”

“You were stressed. I get it.”

“But still, there were things I could’ve said differently-.”

“I forgive you,” he smiles leaning in to meet your soft lips with his in a needy kiss he’d been craving since yesterday. Biting your bottom lip as he just barely pulls away, your hands wander from his forearms to his flexed biceps, shoulders, and eventually chest stopping to graze your index finger along the small dip below his neck.

“Well since I don’t have an exam today and no classes, I was thinking...”

“Oh I think I know,” he smirks tilting his head lower to nip at your jaw and neck making you giggle.

“I help you do the laundry.” As soon as the sentence left your mouth, his stopped making you laugh harder while he groaned against your skin.

“Alright I promise it’ll get done today, but can’t we do it later?,” he whines with puppy eyes, lifting you so your legs could wrap around his hips as if trying to persuade you.

“Let me finish. We do the laundry so I can have clean scrubs and between loads, I give you all the attention I know you’ve been wanting that I wasn’t fully able to give this week.”

“Hey it’s not like I’ve been that-,” he tries to deny before meeting your eyes as if they were saying “really?”

“...yes please,” he smiles before his mouth returns to your smiling lips.

Taglist: @fumbling-fanfics @honeychicanawrites @honeychicana @lady-olive-oil @themyscxiras @melinda-january @lovelymari4 @maxcullen @literaturefeen @damnitaa @curlyhairclub @plokyu23 @fullofmelaninsarcasmandepression @nunubug99 @felicity-x0 @ellixthea @jnk-812 @jojolu @brwn-sgr @captainsamwlsn @wildfirecracker @nina-sj @iammyownlover @chaneajoyyy @secretmysteriousperson @scoop93535

If anybody wants to be tagged, has asked to be tagged but don’t see your name, only want to be tagged for certain people I write for (can be found on my masterlist), or no longer wish to be tagged just let me know🤓!

[anonthenullifier]

Hiii!!! I just finished reading your Snapshots fic on ao3 and they're all amazing!!! I love how you write the family dynamics between the kids and wanda/vision, they're all vv sweet and I'm here for it!! Do u think tommy and billy ever did a parent trap kind of switch for some reason?

Thank you so much! 😁 This was a fun ask and I hope you enjoy! 

***

The sizzle of butter in the skillet provides a lively accompaniment to Wanda’s aggravation about the morning’s latest headline - one claiming that Tony Stark was personally responsible for the matchmaking that brought Vision and his lovely, currently scarlet eyed, wife together. It’s a claim not without some merit, if not for Tony’s involvement in Ultron’s creation and then in Vision’s own birth, he never would have been alive to fall so deeply in love with Wanda; however, as with most claims involving Tony it is also inherently hyperbolic. Had the billionaire actually been involved in Vision’s romantic pursuits, there is a very high probability that Wanda would have run the other direction.

“And you know what else it said?”

Vision scoops the pancake batter carefully into the buttered skillet as he responds, “What?”

“That he’s the reason Billy and Tommy want to be Avengers.” The only reason Wanda’s tea does not spill over the edge as she gesticulates out her anger is because she has wrapped it in a sheen of red. “Him!”

Grandiose sense of self worth is a rather glaring fault in the Stark family, a symptom Vision thankfully bypassed, no doubt due to the humble yet confident influence of Dr. Cho. “It is an unfair and misleading statement,” this diffuses her ire enough for her to take a sip of tea, “all that truly matters,” momentarily he turns from the stove to wrap his fingers around her upper arms and stare intently into her eyes, “is that we continue encouraging our sons to be their best selves, even if our work is never publicly acknowledged.”

Finally her face softens, the disdain etched into the lines of her forehead smoothing out with the roll of her eyes, “Fine.” Vision lays a peck to her forehead before turning back to rescue the almost burnt pancakes, “but wouldn’t it be nice if someone praised us for once?”

“It would.”

“Morning mom, dad.”

“Good morning Bil…” Vision’s mouth stops mid-greeting, brain a bit frenzied at the mixed signals he is receiving. The voice that just greeted him registers as Billy and yet the boy in front of him is sporting Tommy’s signature snowy hair and athletic clothing. “Um…”

“Tommy,” Wanda’s acknowledgement of their son should clarify everything, yet he can sense an odd amusement in the way she says the name, “why don’t you sit down, your father’s almost done with breakfast.”

To further add to the confusion of the moment, Tommy merely flashes them a grin (no snarky comment nor demands for it to cook faster) and then slides into Billy’s seat at the table.

Wanda’s hand comes to rest on Vision’s back, her voice low and a bit giddy, “This is going to be entertaining.”

“What is?”

“Just wait…” No further information is provided other than a wink.

Vision attempts to shove his curiosity and need to ask for more clarity down, instead channeling all of his energy into the pancakes and not burning them. Success at this repression endeavor is fleeting, the moment he turns to put the plate on the table, he cannot help but ask a question. “Where is your brother?” A glance up confirms it is three minutes past their usual breakfast time. Billy, like Vision, believes in punctuality and that being five minutes early is on time and being on time is late. For him to be late by normative standards is concerning. “It is unlike him to be late.”

Tommy chokes on his orange juice, eyes a tad wild as he twists around to look at the clock. “Um, I’ll go-“

“Good morning everyone!” Billy waltzes in with a cheery grin, his overall presence gregarious and brash, neither a word typically associated with him. His unusual mood  is highlighted all the more by  the uncharacteristically sloppy way his sweater is buttoned. “I’m famished.” A sentiment rarely shared by Billy.

Vision is torn between staring at his sons and seeking out Wanda’s reaction to whatever is happening in their kitchen. “Tommy,” his brother's name is overly enunciated, and the question, “Why are you in my seat?” asked with annoyance.

“Oh, sorry,” Tommy apologizes quickly, a first for sure, and then slides over to his normal chair.

This is, for want of a better word, weird.

Wanda, somehow, is making everyday small talk with their sons but Vision doesn’t process what is said, too focused on studying his children and the bevy of possibilities for why they seem so off. The initial fear is that they are Skrulls or some other shape shifting creature, a possibility they have sadly lived through before, not with the boys but on a mission with the Avengers. A vitals and physiology scan disconfirms this hypothesis (thankfully), the two bodies across the table are his sons. Despite this Tommy is eating at a snail’s pace, knife and fork working with precise movements to portion out perfect sized bites while Billy is going fast and loose with his fork, each bite different from the last. It also seems like Billy’s hair is a slightly different shade than usual, a tinge of cinnamon in his typically chestnut hair. Perhaps they have wandered into the multiverse yet again, though Wanda is his Wanda, he is certain of that and she seems to be more amused than concerned. Which means there must be a logical explanation.

Vision decides perhaps listening to the conversation at the table will better aid him. “Are you ready for the big math test today?” This is directed at Tommy, a pre-algebra exam Vision has spent several nights helping him study for.

Contrary to the numerous breakdowns that informed Vision that his son was going to fail so why bother trying, this morning Tommy seems...optimistic. “Yeah, dad’s prepared me well,” and overtly gracious.

“And Billy,” Wanda nudges Vision’s foot as she talks, always a sign he needs to get out of his head and pay attention, “today’s the mile run in gym, right?”

“Yep,” Billy answers while shoving a pancake into his mouth, continuing to talk while he chews, “gonna beat my record for sure.” This comment, and the smarmy confidence behind it, sets a new hypothesis into motion.  

Vision runs a second vitals scan, this time focusing on heart rate and brain waves. The results are surprising yet informative, but just to be sure, he recalibrates his sensors, scans again, and re-analyzes it, not wanting to make an erroneous conclusion if his sensors were off. The results match his last scan and the oddities suddenly make sense. Finally figured it out? He turns towards Wanda, her face set with impish victory typically reserved for when she bests him at training. A dip of his chin affirms her telepathic comment though his own mood is nowhere near as bubbly as hers because despite knowing the truth now, it does not actually alleviate any of his concern, in fact it breeds several other pathways of uncertainty. Follow my lead.  

The devious undertone of his wife’s comment transforms into an innocent smile as she addresses their sons. “Well boys,” both of their sons look up, “since it’s such a big day, we should celebrate later.” A shared look occurs between Billy and Tommy, one that Vision can’t quite label appropriately, a mix of excitement, bafflement, and victory.

‘Billy’ prods for more, his fork tapping the plate at roughly 200 clinks per minute. “Like what?”

Wanda is so natural at uncovering their lies that Vision can only sit back in awe at the way she effortlessly teases out the truth, “I need to meet with Strange later today, so Billy you can come along and we can ask if he’s finally willing to start training you to be a sorcerer.”

The current Tommy stares mouth agape at the offer, while the current Billy seems unimpressed, “Oh, um yeah, that’d be cool.”

“And Tommy,” Wanda reaches out to grab Vision’s hand, a gesture that is blissfully common but is right now no doubt meant to really drive home the offer, “Your father was going to do some speed trials this afternoon, maybe he can call the school so you can leave a period early and join him.” Vision was not going to do this but he withholds that knowledge so he doesn’t hinder his wife’s plan.

Tommy and Billy turn towards each other, no verbal words exchanged but Vision can easily recognize one of their telepathic conversations—bodies tense, their faces fluttering through a range of emotions, and eyebrows moving in emphasis of whatever comments they’re making. They break and ‘Tommy’ addresses the offer, “Billy has gym in 8th period.”

“Which is why he and I are going to meet with Stephen after school.” Wanda takes a deliberately long sip of her tea to let the information really settle in.

Their tactics switch to the other offer.“Isn’t uh truancy a pretty big deal, you know, if I,” ‘Billy’ catches himself, “Tommy were to leave early.

Vision decides he should aid in some way, voice matter of fact as he responds, “I do believe Tommy has a free period at that time. Plus,” thankfully this next part is not a lie or else Vision would feel guilty saying it, “I have to attend the PTA meeting tonight so we cannot wait until school is out if we would like to get a full session of training in.”

Another deep, very animated mental conversation occurs across the table, one that leads to an exaggerated roll of his wife’s eyes. “What if…”

Wanda cuts off the next suggestion, clearly done with the game, “Just accept that you’ve been caught.”

The two faces across from them are polar opposite, one shining with defiance and the other defeat. With a sigh, Tommy’s white hair darkens into chestnut, the real Billy slouching deep into his chair. His brother is not amused, “Are you really breaking that easily?”

Vision checks the time, noting their bus will arrive in less than 10 minutes. “Boys,” there are several things he wants to say, from questioning Tommy’s brown hair to why they thought they’d get away with it, but he decides those can wait, “perhaps instead of our planned celebrations tonight, we have a discussion on the harms of deception.”

Tommy, the real one, executes a perfect Maximoff eye roll, never one to appreciate the life lesson evenings that correspond with poor behavior. “It was just a joke.”

“I do not find it humorous.” And Vision does not, a deep despair blossoming in his chest at what his sons have attempted and what it means for how their sons view them, whether they think they are not loved enough nor noticed enough to be recognized by their own parents. “You intended to utilize this...joke for personal gain.”

Wanda cuts in, hand coming to rest on Vision’s thigh with a light, reassuring squeeze. “Why don’t you both change. The bus will be here soon. We’ll talk more tonight.” Muttered yes, mom s are lost in the scraping of their chairs against the wooden floor. “Tommy.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you dye your hair?”

“Yep,” Tommy runs his hand through his darkened locks, “the box called it chili chocolate.”

Wanda smirks, finding this far more endearing than Vision. “Just promise to use it responsibly.”

A not fully convincing salute goes along with Tommy’s, “Roger that,” and then he runs off in a blur.

“Wanda,” Vision waits until she looks at him, a bit unnerved that she does not seem to show any of the same concern for what just happened. “Are you not troubled at their flagrant disregard for honesty?”

Her eyebrows arch up, lips pursed the way they are whenever he has misassessed human nature and she needs to find a way to gently talk him through it. “It’s kind of a twin rite of passage.”

This is not forthcoming nor satisfying. “Did you and Pietro do this as well?”

“Once or twice.” His confusion must be evident, her lips curving up into a reminiscent mischief. “We weren’t good at it, especially once we were older. But you have to try.”

“Do you?”

A nod confirms the apparent necessity of such an experiment, though no further explanation is provided for Vision to comprehend why it is required. “You’ve never seen the Parent Trap, have you?”

“I have not.”

Scarlet energy entangles itself around the dishes at the table, floating them into the sink and away from their responsibility for now. “Come on,” Wanda stands and tugs on Vision’s hand, drawing him up out of his seat and then leading him into the living room. As she lightly pushes him to sit in the couch, a rush of feet, a banging door and a quick bye! marks the start of the school day, leaving them alone until this afternoon. “Want to watch a movie?”

“I suppose,” he wraps his arm around her shoulders after she sits next to him, pulling her closer and relishing the comfort of her head on his chest, “if it provides adequate research to understanding this cultural necessity of deceit, then yes.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

Vision considers the comment a touch longer than needed, just enough for her to look up at him in anticipation, “if it means a day spent with you,” he kisses her deeply, mirroring the soft curve of her lips as he pulls away,”then it is still a yes.”

“Good.” The tv turns on and his education begins.

[logicalnightmare006]

The Missing Children's Incident ~ Intrulogical

⚠TW⚠

Death

Gore

Murder

Sadness-

Bit of yelling

Possession Of Robots

Souls being trapped in animatronics.

Blood

Knives

It was 1996, Logan was getting dressed to go to Freddy Fazbear's Pizza with his best friend Remus. They had been going there since they were 6 and now they were 14. Logan and Remus both loved the animatronic Foxy. And when the new pizzeria opened a few years ago, it was like heaven for both boys. Since they had more things to explore and see. Logan heard a knock on his door and he fixed his tie, slipping on his dark brown dress shoes and running to the door. Opening it, he was instantly picked up and hugged by Remus. "Hey Logie!" The Duke chirped happily. Logan gave a small chuckle as he hugged Remus back. He was used to his friends antics by now so he just let Remus hold him. "Greetings Remus. Shall we get going?" He asked when Remus finally set him down. Remus nodded, taking Logan's hand "Come on nerd! Let's go!" He said with a smile as he dragged the nerd out of his house. They walked for awhile, Remus listening to Logan rant about space and the stars. The nerd's eyes shining as he ranted. Remus loved hearing Logan rant. It was cute how happy Logan got from ranting about simple things that interested him. Once they reached the pizzeria doors. Logan finished his rant and Remus gave his usual twisted grin "Come on nerdy wolverine-! Let's go!" He picked Logan up again and ran inside. Putting him down in front of pirate's cove. Logan smiled as he watched the curtains open and Foxy saying his pre-recorded lines. Logan started going on a rant to Remus about the animatronic's functions. Since he was a nerd and he studied a lot on these things. Remus rolled his eyes playfully, smiling. He loved this...

After an hour or two. Roman had appeared and challenged Remus to a sword fight in the game area. Remus gladly accepted and left Logan at one of the party tables. Where the nerd was reading a book about the animatronics. When suddenly he felt something tap his shoulder. He turned around. Staring at the man who had tapped him. He was tall, around 6'2, with short black hair, purple eyes, and a dark purple security guard uniform. A tag on his shirt read 'William Afton, Head of Security'. "Hey, kid. I heard you liked the science behind the robots." He spoke. His tone smooth but sounding odd. Logan nodded "I do. They're quite interesting, how they move, how they speak, everything!" He said. A small smile lining on his face. William gave a smile that was a bit intimidating. "How about I show you some of their mechanics up close? So you can brag to your friends that you know how these machines really work?" He suggested. Logan thinking for a bit. Before giving a small nod, setting his book on the table "I suppose. Remus would like to hear about this" He said. Not noticing the other male's twisted smile. "Alright, Follow me..." The Head Of Security spoke. Logan nodded before getting up and following Mr. Afton to the back room. "Mr. Afton...? I don't see any robots here" He said, walking in as he looked around, he heard the door slam shut, Making the nerd turn around. His eyes widening at the sight. Mr. Afton was holding a knife. A twisted grin on his face as he got closer to Logan. Logan stepped back. Soon getting cornered. William grabbed Logan by the tie. "Sweet dreams kid.." He said with a smirk and a dark chuckle before slitting Logan's throat and watching as the scarlet red blood ran down the teenager's neck, he soon stabbed Logan twice in the chest and 3 times in the back. Dropping the now dead nerd. He chuckled darkly. Abandoning the body since he was usually the only one who went back there.

Remus ran back to the party table he left Logan at. Seeing his friend gone. "Hm.... Maybe he got tired and went home" He said, noticing the book. "Oh! I should probably bring him his book" He said as he picked the book up and left the pizzeria. Unaware of the fact his best friend was just slaughtered. He went to Logan's house and rung the doorbell. Seeing Logan's older brother, Remy, open the door. "Hey Remy! Logan left his book at the pizzeria" He said. Giving Remy the book. Remy looked confused "Babes he isn't back yet." He said. Remus now looking a little worried. "Well-! Give him his book when he gets home then!" He said before walking away. Going home, that was weird...if Logan wasn't at the pizzeria or at home.... Where was he?

That was a question Remus had been asking for Days...... Weeks...... Months..... Years......Logan had been reported missing and nobody had found him. It was now 2007, Remus was now 25. And he had gotten a job as a nightguard at the old pizzeria him and Logan went to all the time as a kid. He needed the money and plus, the job payed decent and seemed easy. So why not. He walked in. It was around 11:30. He wanted to get there early to look around and re-visit old memories. He walked over to pirate's cove. Moving the curtains and looking at foxy. The animatronic had gotten shut down a few weeks after Logan went missing due to it smelling. Which Remus didn't seem to notice the smell now. "Damn.....I remember when Logan used to go on rants about you......Saying how you were by far the greatest there ever was." He said with a weak chuckle. "Damn I miss him...." he murmured. Sighing as he moved the curtains back. Going to his office and sitting down. He got started with the night. A bit scared since Bonnie and Chica had been quite active. But he got a hang of using the doors really easily. His eyes scanning the camera's as he noticed foxy moving from his cove. He sighed. Shutting the door just incase. That was weird.... They never really moved at night.... Well. This happened for a few more nights. But one night in particular. Night 4, after that terrifying phone call, Remus noticed something hanging out from Foxy's mouth. A blue striped tie.... Remus dashed out the door instantly. He heard one of the animatronics get into his office, but he ignored it. He ran to pirate's cove. Grabbing the tie from the animatronics mouth. He examined it. It was stained with blood 'Logan.....' Remus's eyes watered. "What.... Why is his tie here?" He asked. Staring up at the animatronic. Who was frozen. Remus growled "WHY IS HIS TIE HERE?" He yelled. Shoving the animatronic. He got no response. But it was like Remus could hear something. It was like something was rattling inside. He disabled foxy. Opening the animatronic and when he saw what was inside.... He screamed. There were bones.... And Logan's clothes. Remus instantly called 911. Explaining what he had witnessed through his tears. He was sobbing by the time the police got there. Remus was terrified. Soon running out and home. He explained to his brother what happened when he got home. Roman was extremely shocked. He pulled Remus into a hug. "I'm so sorry you had to see that Remus.." He said quietly. "I'm so sorry...."

It had been 3 months since that.... An entire investigation had started and it was confirmed that it was indeed Logan's skeleton who was in the animatronic. Which Remus didn't take that well. He was a mess, and he had just gotten himself feeling decent for the first time in a long while. Currently he was watching the news, it was 2am at night and the news had the latest news on what had happened. Saying that Fazbear Entertainment was being sued for everything, including the skeletons of 3 more kids around 13-16 being found in the robotic suits. And that the foxy animatronic was being torn down. Remus sighed. Turning his TV off and laying down. Staring up at the ceiling. He looked over at a picture of him and Logan when they were kids. "I miss you Lo...." He murmured quietly. Closing his eyes. When he suddenly heard something. He opened his eyes and sat up. Seeing a white ghost, floating at the end of his bed. Remus's eyes widened. "L-Logan....?" He asked quietly. The ghost giving a nod. "Thank you Remus....you freed me from there....I was trapped in foxy for so long..." He said quietly. Remus noticed a blue balloon tied to Logan's wrist. Tears welled in his eyes. "Logan......i miss you" He said as he began to cry. The ghost walked over. Sighing as he stood in front of Remus. "I know..... I miss you too... But promise me something okay....? Keep that smile I love. Don't let anyone ruin it, be the man I always knew you were gonna be" He said. Remus nodding, tears falling down his face. "I promise Logan.... I promise" He said quietly. Logan nodded. Pressing a kiss to Remus's forehead. "I love you..... I'll see you again... I promise" He said. Before looking at the balloon as he floated up, dissapearing into the moonlight. Remus watched as the spirit left

"I love you too Lo........."

[stunudo]

superhero aus? Please don't tell me someone already requested that or else.....

I am doing a straight casting/ crossover because, I gotta:

Dr. Spencer Reid as Bruce Banner/ The Hulk

Okay, so our Spencer is a bit more professional in his diagnosis, but he still has the wall full of degrees and the brain capacity to fill Bruce’s shoes.

After being bullied in school, Spencer decided he would work to recreate Dr. Erskine’s formula that created Captain America.

He didn’t think he should reside in populated areas and had relocated to the Nevada desert, until Derek Morgan tracked him down.

Jennifer Jareau as Carol Danvers/ Captain Marvel

Enlisting after her sister’s death, JJ wanted to escape her small town life and face the stars.

She was a skilled pilot and became best friends with Jordan Todd.

In an accident that was covered up by the government and alien entities, she was granted massive power, but suffered major memory loss.

Derek Morgan learned about her the hard way, but eventually they grew to trust each other as he helped her regain her identity.

Emily Prentiss as Natasha Romanov/ Black Widow

A spy is a spy and Emily started young. The daughter of ambassadors was too public a persona for her to maintain and she escaped with a ballet company when she was barely a teenager.

She worked her way through the Soviet block and the Middle East, easily navigating any situation with her many tongues and weapon skills.

She was caught and tortured for information on one of her first assignments in the Americas.

Over weeks her guard would bring her food and sit in the rafters, carving his own arrows and ignoring her completely.

It took her longer than it should have to deduce that Luke Alvez was deaf.

David Rossi as Tony Stark/ Iron Man

Billionaire, philanthropist, playboy.

Sure he made his money in the scummiest way possible, but what’s a redemption arc without a little seedy stuff?

Weapons Manufacturer turned FBI consultant, David Rossi was just begging to be kidnapped.

He spent months being tortured to create weapons for terrorists, but instead he built his salvation.

Derek Morgan approached him multiple times before his knowledge and creations were necessary to protect Earth from new threats.

His company has been re-imagined and he now is a best selling author.

Aaron Hotchner as Dr. Stephen Strange

After losing his wife, Haley, Aaron tailspinned. Drinking and driving cost him his career, his pride and his hands.

Looking for a cure when modern medicine had none, sent him down a long and mind expanding path.

His tenacity and ego were at war during his training, but he never stopped trying.

Through a complex web of dominoes, he was left as Sorcerer Supreme.

His knowledge of the threats Derek Morgan’s teams held was only part of his duties.

He just never thought he would have to work with someone as arrogant and obnoxious as David Rossi.

Derek Morgan as Nick Fury

Born in Huntsville, AL, Derek moved to Chicago as a teenager.

He attended the USMA and played football for them before serving.

Soon he became a spy.

After being recruited by SHIELD he learned more than he ever imagined.

After befriending Jennifer Jareau, he found his calling.

Matt Simmons as Steve Rogers/ Captain America

As a Korean-American Matt Simmons was repeatedly denied to enlist in the Army. He was small and half the enemy looked almost like him.

It was after a chance encounter with Dr. Erskine that he was allowed into WWII.

After months of failing the physical demands of training, Matt found some companionship in the unflinching Agent Kristy Carter.

Matt was selected for the serum tests at Dr. Erskine’s insistence, which changed his life and history.

After crashing into the north Atlantic, Matt Simmons was frozen for 70 years.

He came to with little grasp on the modern age, but with Emily and Derek in his corner he found some footing and made new friends.

( I was so torn on who to make Cap, because Phil would have been a perfect Sam Wilson for Luke, but I hope you like it!)

Luke Alvez as Clint Barton/ Hawkeye

Growing up in the Bronx deaf wasn’t easy.

Luke started lifting stuff from the corner store for the rush, that quickly spiraled and he found himself a summer camp for at risk boys.

He excelled at archery more than any other activity and never looked back.

Joining the Army wasn’t advised with his hearing loss, but when Derek Morgan showed up at one of his last competitions, he found a new way to serve.

Though outfitted with the latest hearing aids, thanks to Rossi’s tech; Luke prefers to sign.

Emily Prentiss was going to be the death of him, but she became his best friend instead. After slowly helping her over to the side of SHIELD, they became inseparable.

Luke still likes to sit back and watch the team hash out the details instead of interjecting his opinions. Arguing is twice as hard when you are trying to hear or read lips in a group full of people.

He is an easy going guy anyway, unless his family or friends are in harm’s way that is.

Penelope Garcia as Vision

Part computer, part human, part Infinity Stone; Penelope is like no one else on the team.

She came from a dark place and could have stayed the Black Queen, but instead she emerged like sunshine after a storm.

She is witty and takes no nonsense from Rossi, but is gentle with the others.

She is slowly understanding the concept of banter and is the only one on the team to have earned a smile from Derek Morgan.

Her abilities adapt overtime, but her humanity is evolving faster.

Tara Lewis as Wanda Maximoff/ Scarlet Witch

After moving around as an Army kid, Tara and her brother Gabriel were in an accident that exposed them to alien energies and stole them away from their remaining family.

She was brainwashed to hate Shield and Derek Morgan’s team, but after Gabriel was killed, her whole life changed.

She began to study psychology to understand the trauma and manipulation of her past.

But more impressively she learned to control and expand her powers.

She works mostly with Penelope on small missions, but she is always available when the big guns come out.

Thanks so much Courtney!

xoxo

Send in an AU, get headcanons

Ask Box

[legolaslovely]

Well Loved Hands

A/N: This was originally written for Fikiweek2020, Idiosyncrasy day, but it strayed too far from this prompt, and I didn’t feel comfortable adding this story to that day/idea. So **please read the warnings** and have some Kíli comforting Fíli. Thank you @dreams-of-wander for beta-ing (Is that what it’s called?) this for me and helping me keep it safe for readers. 

Pairing: Fiki

Rated Mature

**Warnings: self-harm- nail biting (not gratuitous), injury, light gore if that’s a thing, smut, comfort, Post Quest of Erebor, everyone lives, nobody dies!

Summary: Fíli had all the ‘good kinds’ of flaws. "Too kind, too trusting, too generous for his own good." However, they all boiled down to one unhealthy and rather harmful habit. But Kíli never judged, only soothed.

ûrzudel: sun of suns 

When those around him looked at Fíli, it was always with a smile and sparkling eyes of pure admiration. The mothers of Erebor would speak of his enormous heart and how they wished he would take their daughter for his wife. The fathers would puff out their chests and say with absolute certainty that Fíli would be a great king for Erebor. The children would play make believe and fight over who got to play Prince Fíli with his swords and daggers that sliced open fierce orcs in battle. If any dwarf dared to ask about the heir’s flaws, he would be booted out of Erebor faster than he could say, “Gandalf is a troublemaker.”

Those who knew Fíli better, such as those in Thorin’s Company, would roll their eyes at Erebor’s blind and undying love for the young prince. But all the while, they’d never say a bad word about Thorin’s nephew, because Fíli truly was worthy of the adoration he attracted. 

“That lad only has those good kinds of flaws,” Dwalin said.

“He’s too kind-”

“Too trusting-”

“Too generous for his own good!”

Like the humble dwarf he was, Fíli shooed these ‘compliments’ away, ears flaming at the joking insults that were more like glowing praise. 

Kíli took his hand under the table and ran his thumb over the back of Fíli’s fingers. Though Fíli sent a squeeze in return and tilted his head in Kíli’s direction, he wouldn’t look at his little brother. Right now, Fíli was embarrassed, and not just because of the praise from their friends. Little pin pricks of shame poked Fíli’s already scarlet cheeks because he knew I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help it.

Kíli scooted closer, ignoring the rolling of his gut, and wished the two of them were alone so he could kiss Fíli well enough and hold him tight enough to make him believe that everything was okay. 

***

Fíli did have all the ‘good kinds’ of flaws. But they all boiled down to one unhealthy and rather harmful habit. He bit his nails. And not in a cute or charming way that someone could ignore or fall in love with. Fíli chewed and pulled and picked at his nails until his finger tips bled. If he was anxious during meetings, stressed throughout the night, or nervous at the dinner table, he was sure to be hiding his hands from curious, condemning eyes. 

But Kíli never judged. Only soothed.

That night he massaged cream into Fíli’s skin, holding back a wince, a gasp, a tsk, as Fíli let out a hiss of pain. 

“I didn’t know I was doing it.”

“I know,” Kíli said.

“I thought I was doing better.”

Kíli dipped another clean, healthy finger in the cool, smooth ointment and rubbed it into Fíli’s short, sharp nails and screaming red skin. 

“You are.”

Kíli couldn’t help but wonder about his brother’s habit. Was this something unique to Fíli, or did this happen to other dwarves? Perhaps humans or hobbits? Kíli had suggested going to a medic again, asking more questions, but the one visit for the cream was enough for Fíli. I can fix this myself, he’d said.

So Kíli kept his secret and helped him heal, though his goal was to stop his brother from harming himself this way. From lashing out against the label of The Golden Prince. And Kíli had his ways.

***

Being the nephew of the king meant Kíli too had to be present at most meetings involving the dwarven realms, though he’d rather be anywhere else. Spending his time working in the forge, training with the army, or even exhausting himself in the dwarfling nurseries seemed much better options than sitting, trapped in the throne or council rooms from dawn to dusk. These preferences were well known by all involved and one would think he’d run from his responsibilities at record-breaking speeds if given the chance. Some conversations, after all, were not for every ear in the council. 

However, his escape meant leaving Fíli alone for an untold number of hours in an unbearably stressful environment. 

So Kíli would stay. He’d wriggle his way to the head of the table, between his uncle and his brother because he wanted to learn, he wanted to be a part of what made the council great. He wanted to be right there if his brother needed him.

Though for most of the day, Fíli didn’t need him. He sat with both hands glued to either arm of his chair, calmly listening to various problems and solutions to the kingdom’s needs. Thorin asked for his opinion on multiple occasions and Fíli was brilliant. He’d learned much from his studies and apprenticing, but he also had intuition that a realm could trust with their lives. Kíli was proud.

Kíli was still proud when Thorin and his brother disagreed. 

“You think that would be a good move for our people?” Thorin yelled across the table, ignoring the awkward fidgeting of the other guests sitting around it. “Have you completely forgotten…”

Kíli stopped listening to his uncle’s growling. Instead, he watched Fíli. Though he didn’t shrink from the harsh words or the harsher voice, his hands did slide into his lap from the arms of the chair. Kíli could just hear his nails clicking over Thorin’s unjust shrieking.

Secretly and sneakily, without drawing the gaze of any of the distracted council members, Kíli ran his fingers down Fíli’s forearm and pulled his hands apart before Fíli could inflict any more damage to his already torn up skin. He held Fíli tight and felt him breathe deeply, as if his head had been yanked above an unforgiving riptide. 

“Uncle,” Fíli interrupted. “I know our kingdom’s history. But I have also done the research and our land has changed since we last ruled it. I am confident that…”

Kíli loosened his grasp, sure that Fíli could handle the rest of the conversation alone, but Fíli held on. He kept their hands comfortably in between them, lacing their fingers together - a small embrace that remained there for the rest of the meeting.

***

Kíli couldn’t always be by Fíli’s side. He had his own duties, his own life, and there were often full days the brothers spent apart. Most of the time, Fíli would catch him stealing a late dinner from the kitchens long after its doors had been closed to servants and others in the mountain. They’d talk over their days and stuff themselves full (to the prep cooks’ morning despair) and somehow find the strength to amble back to their chambers.

Some nights were different. Occasionally, Kíli would slowly turn the knob on their door and curse the loud creak of the hinges as he opened it, hoping such an argument wouldn’t wake his sleeping brother. But as the door slid ajar, candlelight flooded the corridor. Fíli was still awake, drenching his hands in the healing cream the medic had told him not to administer by himself. 

But Kíli wouldn’t admonish, not now. He sat on the bed and took the jar away from Fíli, seamlessly replacing the broken fingers with his own.

“I can do it,” Fíli said.

“I know.”

Without another word, one brother took care of the other. Kíli massaged until the cream had soaked into the skin and disappeared, but even with his tender touch and calming presence, Fíli still sat on the bed like stone. Too proud to be disgraced, too strong to crumble, too old to need his little brother.

Kíli lifted Fíli’s hand and kissed the back of it. His kisses traveled down the wide hand, lingering over stubby, well loved fingers, gracing harsh, abused tips and nails. One kiss was granted to the palm before Kíli lifted the other hand, giving it the same treatment until Fíli let the callused inside caress Kíli’s equally rough cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Not for his pride or his distance, but for failing. Again.

Kíli replaced the lid on the jar and cast it away on the side table before wrapping his arms around Fíli’s shoulders and pulling him down to settle together on the bed. Tonight, Kíli took control of the kiss, converting it from one of apologies and promises to do better into one of acceptance and support and adoration.

He gave caresses of commitment over Fíli’s shoulders and up his bare back under his tunic. Smooth fingertips fondly followed thick curls of soft, golden fur over a heaving chest, down a flat belly and into loose trousers, while hips ground and thrust together - lacking discipline, but coursing with thirst.

Fíli hid his face in Kíli’s neck when Kíli found his erection, throbbing with arousal and defying the ugly burdens of the day. He huffed a curse as a talented thumb circled his head, digging his nose into his lover’s pulse.

“Please, Kíli, I need-”

“I know, ûrzudel.”

With every pull, Kíli pledged it - “I’ve got you, I’ll take care of you, I love you.” He felt Fíli’s tears slip from the corners of his eyes and down his skin - tears of desire, of frustration and desperation, of stress and release, of love and gratefulness for his brother. 

***

Fíli had to be protected and taken care of, yes, but he was not to be coddled. Kíli learned this very early on when he was so scared and so concerned, that he was much too patronizing. Then, Fíli’s bellowing had bounced off the walls of his chambers, and the jar of cream off the stone floor as Fíli threw it far away. There was nothing wrong with him and if there was, he could fix it himself. He didn’t need his baby brother babying him.

The secret, Kíli learned, was to keep his brother’s hands busy.

Kíli would ask him to re-braid his hair. Yes, Fíli had just done it and yes, it looked fine, but there’s something pulling right there and it would bother him all day if it wasn’t fixed. 

Or Kíli would plop on the bed, making it bounce so Fíli lost his page in the book he was reading. With a great, big apologetic smile, he would wriggle between Fíli’s legs and beg his older brother to rub his shoulders because it feels so good or he had a headache or he couldn’t quite reach that itchy spot by himself. Just like that, Fíli would stop reading his book about Ereborean wars and quit chewing on his already very short thumbnail. 

Kíli was clever with his courting gifts. Just because we’re brothers doesn’t mean we’re not courting, which means we ought to exchange courting gifts, right? Right. This led to Fíli walking into his chambers and seeing his desk covered with impeccably wrapped boxes and bow-tied bags. 

Stop staring at me and open it, earned Kíli a few balls of ribbon chucked his way. However, Fíli was soon too astonished to punish his brother any more for his disrespect. Piles of wrapping lay on the ground, but on the desk sat something perfectly combined - a perfect set.

Paints? Oil paints and watercolors and acrylics, along with parchments, books and canvases of all sizes, collections of brushes - anything he’d need. But Kíli’s favorite piece was a blending palette that would ensure this would become a two handed hobby. It was personalized with their initials etched into it and the craftsman assured him that no matter how much paint was glooped onto the ceramic tile, those marks would still be visible. 

Fíli stood, embarrassed and mystified. Then rambling. You went to a craftsman? These must have cost… you didn’t have to do this, having you is enough, but this will sure keep me busy, but you knew that… you knew that.

Fíli thanked him. The night went by with little sleep but no nail biting.

As did many of their future nights together as things got better. Kíli read aloud from Fíli’s books as his brother painted by the window. His artwork that was once shoved away and hidden in old servants’ quarters in the basement, was hung with care and pride on the walls of their chambers. Kíli’s hair was occasionally braided three times a day by a willing lover. The jar of medicated ointment gathered dust on the shelf in the washroom and Fíli learned that even a future king needs his little brother.

Tagging you friends! Thanks for reading! @dreams-of-wander @nerdbirdsworld @marigoldvance

[authorjulianneday]

TRIAL TUESDAY | October 20, 2020

Challenge: Combine Cyberpunk + Mythology

Word Count: 1946

This is a bit of a throwback. I wrote it back in 2018 for a contest challenge and have edited it off and on since. It combines the myth of the sirens and the cyberpunk/sci fi genre.

CYBER SONG

Siren.

Like some sort of whispered threat, it always loomed over the inhabitants of Tech City Newport. Only natural, she supposed. They lived so near the James River. Ghost stories and tales of terrifying merpeople eked into every form of media the humans had. Pathetic, really.

Symphonia reached the sewer exit her contact had mentioned. Heaving herself out of the water, she grimaced. Waiting for her tail to fully molt and leave legs beneath, she began reconnaissance. Even down in this water runoff zone, lines of electricity fed the ravenous city above.

Scales and fibers lay about her, and what remained, she peeled off with her clawed fingers. She hissed in pain. The molting left behind two skinny limbs, translucent in the low light of the tunnel. Legs. So ugly. And so primitive.

Her legs gained more pigment the longer she waited. Gaining her balance, she rummaged through the chest of clothes in the stash used by Sirens. The fabric scratched at her new skin. It felt so fake, so synthetic.

Synthetic described everything the humans touched.

As much as she despised the buzzing hum of electricity it certainly sounded better than what she would deal with above ground. The constant chatter of voices in the megacity made her ill. Why couldn’t humans be content with silence?

A rusted metal ladder led up into the streets. When the Sirens had first investigated the city fifty years ago, they’d made sure to locate a spot in seclusion. Or, as close to seclusion as one could get.

She closed her eyes. Symphonia listened intently for the distinct tone that each auditory implant gave off. She heard only one nearby. It would be all too easy. Symphonia began to hum, matching the auditory implant’s tone, until she had gotten control of it. She held the tone with her honeyed voice, moving from a hum to a song. In the song she wove words of exhaustion and sleep. A few moments later something heavy dropped against the ground nearby.

Symphonia used her claws to force open the sewer cover, a smile on her pale lips. She heaved herself up into the street and instantly became bombarded by neon lights, the stench of dozens of food stalls, and raucous noise. Her nose crinkled in disgust. Synthetic.

She glanced around. Every time she came to the surface, something changed, and this was no different. Symphonia saw a new sign for some kind of body mod. If only humans realized the modifications led to increasing ease for the Sirens to take them down. She couldn’t see the sky, but that didn’t surprise her. Only the greys and blacks of concrete and rubber loomed overhead. Tech City Newport knew only artificial light, no sun; it had too many buildings and overpasses and walkways.

Her last contact had told her to head to the subcity New Wave. Leaving the small alley and going out into the bustling metropolis of the world the humans had created, Symphonia grimaced. Smoke wafted through the air and obscured the corners of the covered walkway.

The sound of bullets rang through the air in the distance. Symphonia studied the nearby humans immediately, and seeing they felt no danger, continued on her way. It seemed like every time she stalked Tech City Newport, gunshots peppered the air like rain on the waves at home. Another synthetic version of beauty, perverted by the filth of the humans.

She passed a massive food court and again became assaulted by the stench of humans. The sound of the grills and sloshing drinks caused her to cringe. She felt it. So she began to hum to herself, using a calming tone to resist the cacophony around her. Passing a condiment bar, she grabbed a handful of salt packets and stuck them in her pockets for later.

Heading into the elevator, she selected “New Wave” on the touch panel.

Symphonia chuckled out loud. New Wave sounded attractive; too bad it was filled with Modders and their filth and no water at all. Modders could only make trash. Not only did it end up down in her home, but it spilled out everywhere in Tech City Newport.

As the elevator moved upwards, she watched out the sides. From there she could see down into the megacity. Humans waddled about on land on their funny legs or sped by in their cars.

“New Wave.”

As the doors rolled open and she stepped out, Symphonia looked around carefully. New Wave always attracted a bad crowd, and it made perfect sense that her target had holed herself up there. Dr. Josey McMillian, PhDs in biochem, biotech, and engineering. Brilliant woman, according to the sirens’ sources. Brilliant enough to never install an auditory implant.

Symphonia shied away from a screaming machine to her right as she rounded a corner. Sparks flew from a welder repairing a pipe. The slight hum of various auditory implants sounded around her. Pinpointing the exact frequency she needed took concentration. At first she heard mostly nonsense, frequencies from random Modders loitering around on the New Wave level. Most gambled, some waited for black market deals. But eventually she caught the note of a man she’d been tipped off to.

A drink sat unattended on a food cart. Symphonia swiped it. Lifting the lid, She casually leaned against a wall, acting as one of the passersby with nowhere to go, and discreetly dumped three packets of salt into the drink. She could feel the sweats starting, and her arms hurt a bit. Muscle cramps.

She took a drink and nearly vomited. It tasted terribly of sugar, but she downed it. She needed the salt. It wouldn’t take long for the salt to act. Until then, she relaxed. When her arms stopped hurting and her tongue didn’t feel as dry, Symphonia listened in to the implant frequency. It sounded close by.

With a nod to herself, she went around the corner, still sipping on the straw casually. A door stood not far away in a darkened corner. Not suspicious at all. A man stood guard with a large rifle in his hands. His obvious synthetic eye would pinpoint her as having no body mods momentarily. Time to go to work.

“Hello sailor…don’t be afraid…” She continued on quietly, making sure only he could hear the song. It wouldn’t affect anyone else and they would instantly make her out as a Siren. “Keep quiet…good man…yes…stay quiet…”

She took out a folded piece of paper. Symphonia moved up to the man and, seeing him hopelessly under her control, she offered him the fake note. She knew they could see her on camera. “Let me in…and smile…”

He did as instructed, letting the computer read his ocular implant. The sterile grey door slid open without a sound. Her new warrior followed without hesitation. She just had to maintain her song. As a second door opened, they walked into a well lit laboratory. Tanks of various solutions stood around the room and in one was suspended a blue haired, blue skinned mermaid. Her eyes were open, but unseeing.

Rage filled Symphonia. She’d known Fortisima had been captured, but seeing her there, held like a slave by those she should’ve been devouring… Her song halted.

A groan from behind made her turn. The man she’d been controlling looked at her. She drew out the gun she’d swiped and shot the Modder through the skull. His scarlet blood splattered all over the door. Not the plan, but she’d make it work.

Two adjoining doors flew open. Symphonia ducked behind a counter. She reached out and tore the dead man’s automatic rifle out of his clammy hands and loaded it. Though certainly not as practiced as the humans, she knew her way around a firearm. Practice made perfect. As she heard them shouting for reinforcements, she popped up and shot them both. One died, the other did not, his skin made of metal of some sort. She grunted in anger. Synthetics.

Whipping around and leaping over the counter, Symphonia let her claws come out. One slash, and the wires in his neck broke. Of all the mods, cyber skulls were the most disgusting. Blood and oil dripped down her hands. She could taste the iron in the air.

A bullet grazed her arm and she cried out. Using the man’s dagger, she threw it straight into the ocular implant of the aggressor. Then, she found his frequency and sang. The gun entered his mouth. Symphonia narrowed her eyes. He dropped to the ground, a hole in his head.

Another appeared behind. Trying to fire again, the gun clicked. Symphonia grabbed a new one. But as she went to test it, it wouldn’t fire. She grimaced. A coded gun. She sent it sliding down the corridor in anger and slashed his throat. Grabbing an explosive from the closest dead Modder, she threw it down the hall after the gun. It went off with a bang.

She reached down and picked up two modded magnums. The handles molded to her grip instantly. Broken bodies lay strewn about the corridor. A man who had lost his leg screamed, writhing on the ground. He clawed at his burnt face. Symphonia paused. With a sigh, she put him out of his misery.

Symphonia split the air with a shriek. It rocked the building, and several vials shattered on the ground. The men on the other side of the door cried out. Their auditory implants broke apart on the inside. Rendered deaf, they staggered about disoriented.

A woman shook her head. Black haired, blue eyed, no body mods to speak of, and only momentarily dazed. She screamed at the disoriented soldiers and kicked one. Her lab coat had been stained with blood. “I paid you louses for protection!” 

“Poor protection.” Symphonia’s voice lilted across the room as she stood in the doorway. Before anyone else could react, she’d taken out half the men, leaving four groping for their weapons. Symphonia leapt forward, dodging the doctor’s bullets, and used one of them as a human shield. His body filled with bullets. She threw him at the woman. In her effort to sidestep, she hit her head on a table.

Symphonia turned on the remaining three.  One she sang to, and a second became another shield. Riddled with bullet wounds, Symphonia slit his throat. The last two died screaming.

Pain shot through her arm. The small bullet wound from earlier bled down her pale skin. Symphonia tasted it. She needed more salt, more ocean water. As the doctor reached her weapon, Symphonia kicked over a metal table. It crashed into the woman.

With the doctor pinned, Symphonia stood over her. She disposed of her weapons. It would only take a swipe of her claws to end the woman’s life. “Any last words?”

Through heaving breaths, the woman laughed. Blood clogged her mouth. With a last spit, she just shook her head. “Whatever your mission is? It’s a failure. Your friend is dead.”

“You were my mission.”

Her target died without a scream.

One last duty remained. No human could be allowed to retain the body of a mer. The woman’s blue tail had already molted away from the lack of liquid, but her naked body still had a tint of blue. In the back of the laboratory, tubs of gasoline for the Modders sat unbroken. She grabbed two and soaked the entire place, pouring the last bit over Fortisima.

Symphonia lit the trail of gasoline from the entrance and watched as it engulfed the lab. Her only safety lay in the water. Away from the Mods, away from the synthetics.

[hdgaywriting]

Eighth Year - Drarry Fic Part 2

Draco Malfoy sneered and said "Potter" in the same chilling voice as always. Harry looked Draco up and down, noticing the long, lean lines of his body. The surprise of running into his longtime nemesis made Harry stumble dumbly, and he needed a minute to recuperate.

"Malfoy," Harry replied, mustering up all the menace he could. Hostility had always come between the two boys, but it felt magnified now that Malfoy's father was in prison, and Harry knew that Draco blamed him. But Harry knew what it felt like to be without a father (or a mother) and somewhere deep down he almost felt sorry for Draco. Harry still very much blamed Mr. Malfoy for ending up in Azkaban, but he felt bad that Draco had to suffer because of it. For the first time since he knew Malfoy, he had a moment of realization: they both lost in the Battle of Hogwarts.

"Are you going to move?" Draco asked, his gray eyes aflame. Harry started to shift his body against the wall of the small corridor, making room for Draco to pass. Draco scoffed and took a step forward, only to be stopped by Harry's arm suddenly placed in front of his chest, blocking the way.

"Malfoy..." he started. He swallowed his pride and decided to try to meet Draco halfway. What was there to fight about now? "Draco," he said. Saying his nemesis' first name felt sacrilegious. He noticed Draco pull his chin in towards his chest, clearly surprised. "Have a good year..." Harry finished and moved aside.

"Whatever," Draco mumbled as he shoved himself forward. Harry didn't know what to make of his reaction, but the important thing was that he tried. What he really wanted to tell the blonde boy was that he saw how much he was hurting. Harry would never say he was sorry for taking a part in the war, but he understood that Draco's life couldn't be easy right now. In fact, he almost wanted to say he was happy that Draco was returning. With all the changes sure to come this year, having his age-old rival to pull pranks on sparked a bit of joy.

By the time Harry returned to his cabin, he had reminded himself of just how vile Malfoy could be. He smiled to himself remembering their third year when he'd had the privilege to see Hermione sock him in the nose. She knocked that grimy smile right off his alabaster face.

The next time Harry opened his eyes they were pulling up to Hogwarts. He quickly changed into his robes. The students were filing off the train, some clearly excited, and others clearly worried. A loud booming voice carried over the crowd. Harry looked up to see Hagrid's large, shiny face. He grabbed Ginny's hand and immediately started pushing through the crowd to see his friend.

"Harry!" Hagrid exclaimed when their eyes met. "Harry, it's s'good to see ya!" the half-giant boomed. Large tears started to run down his face as Harry ran to hug him.

"Hagrid! We've done it, we've made it back to Hogwarts!" was all he could say. Hagrid was really the beginning of Harry's wizarding experience, and it felt right that he was the first person to greet him.

"Blimey, Harry, I didn't even know you was comin' back to Hogwarts." A pang of guilt rang through Harry. He really had forgotten to tell Hagrid about his return. Harry spent a large part of his time repressing anything related to Hogwarts or Voldemort since the Battle of Hogwarts. He was diligent about recovering.

"Yeah, sorry about that, Hagrid," Harry apologized. "It just slipped my mind. I've been focused on, er, other things. Giving Hogwarts a bit of a rest..."

"Oh, don' worry 'bout me, Harry. Jus' try to have a good year." And with that, Hagrid gave them a final wink and turned back to directing the first years.

"Harry, Ginny, come on!" he heard Hermione yell. The couple walked back to Ron and Hermione. He quickly told them about running into Hagrid, and the four of them entered the front doors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

After getting settled in the Great Hall, all the students were restlessly awaiting the beginning of the sorting ceremony. First years were huddled up at the front, while the older students arranged themselves at their house tables. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were seated towards the front, but not too close. Hermione had made a comment earlier about protecting Harry. She was worried he'd be bothered by everyone, and bombarded with questions. What Harry was focused on at present was a nasty comment made by a Ravenclaw walking between the isles.

"All the Gryffindors sit there with a chip on their shoulder, as if we all didn't fight in that bloody battle. Every house participated, but the Gryffindors are the ones who take credit."

It was an older girl. Maybe a sixth year? Harry hadn't known her personally, but her pudgy face and clear glasses were familiar. "Oh, don't listen to them, Harry" Hermione said. He hadn't realized she'd caught the comment, too.

"I just don't want to be reminded of it all the time," Harry said. He looked down and fiddled with the scarlet table runner. Ron thumped his back, but didn't say anything. Ginny was too busy talking to her friends to have heard the comment. Something about the way Ginny was eating up the socialization and eyes on her rubbed him the wrong way. Over the summer, she had told Harry that maybe he should start feeling flattered by all of it. After all, he was the Chosen One, and he had lived. She acted as if defeating Voldemort was his claim to fame, rather than his life-or-death task. Ginny, who was pure and strong, refused to give anymore of her tears towards Voldemort's doings.

"Attention, students" McGonagall said. "We are about to begin the sorting ceremony, if you could please give your attention to the Sorting Hat, we may start at once."

The raggedy hat was placed on the same stool as always. What began as a flat, boring hat suddenly revealed its face. After what sounded like it clearing its throat (if hats even had throats?) it began:

Our Hogwarts kin

We will begin

To sort our youngest friends;

For I am the Sorting Hat,

I put your worries to an end.

This castle is historic

Its people are heroic,

What once was a site of blood that spilled

Has again become re-built.

Four houses stood to fight for us

And in the end, we won.

Four houses stand before all ye

So let's find where you belong.

Will you be in Hufflepuff,

The diligent, happy lot?

Their loyalty and work ethic

Make them a great spot.

Or will you be in Ravenclaw,

With the brightest wizard's you ever saw?

Their intelligence and cleverness

Sets them up for success.

Still there are more options,

More houses you may belong.

Like Slytherin, the snake-eyed stars,

Whose cunning minds make them strong.

Pure in blood and powerful,

This house is surely never dull.

Lastly we have Gryffindor,

The house of wit and strength.

Their bravery is unmatched

They've saved this castle's fate.

Once again, I will sort ye

To the house that you belong.

I read your mind, so rest assured

I couldn't sort you wrong.

The castle erupted into applause at the Sorting Hat's song. Ron and Harry were whooping as loud as they could while Hermione and Ginny laughed and yelled themselves.

"Accult, Amelia" McGonagall said once the hall quieted. A small girl walked forward. She sat happily on the stool and the headmistress placed the hat on her head.

"Hmmm," the hat said quietly. "Ought to be... RAVENCLAW!" The hall again burst out in cheers, mostly coming from the Ravenclaw table.

"Shame," Ginny said. She smiled at Harry and winked.

McGonagall went through several more names. So far, Gryffindor added Alvin, Patrick, Beau, Alivia, Bunson, Eliza, and Caldwell, Jensen to their house. The eleven year olds were swimming in their robes but seemed ecstatic to be here. One of them, Eliza Bunson, kept stealing glances at Harry. It made him awkward so he angled his body more towards his friends.

"Mate, look at the professor's table," Ron said, motioning with his hand. Harry looked up and scanned. He saw many familiar faces, and quite a few new ones. Professor Slughorn was still up there. Harry supposed he was to teach potions. He saw a professor he didn't recognize at all, sitting where Professor Mcgonagall used to sit. Could this be the new Head of Gryffindor House? Now that he thought about it, Slytherin House needed a new head as well. The students were about to meet the new Defense against the Dark Arts and Transformation teachers, he thought.

The woman in Professor McGonagall's old spot was very pretty. She had straight, very shiny black hair and a soft angelic face. Harry couldn't help but wonder if she was even old enough to teach here. She had bright blue eyes that contrasted her hair, and her skin was olive and warm.

A boring looking man was in Professor Severus Snape's old spot. It hurt Harry too much to look where Snape should have been, so he didn't get a good look. All he knew was that the new guy had dirty blonde hair and a stain on his cloak. He had wire glasses that made his eyes seem over large as well.

Once the last student, Zillia, Makenna was sorted into Slytherin, McGonagall made her way to the podium again. She made a candid speech about the spirit of progress and the essence of magic that Harry tuned out most of. He was sure it was good though, judging by everyone else's reactions and the atmosphere he felt. He even saw the Hogwarts ghosts and Peeves the Poltergeist nod their heads in respect and agreement. What caught his attention was McGonagall's voice saying it was time for "introductions in an age of new beginning."

"Miss Penelope Hart," she said, motioning to the pretty witch. "Our new professor of Magical Combat and Defense, which was formerly known as Defense against the Dark Arts, as well as Head of my own house, Gryfinndor." She paused for claps and cheers from the Gryfinndor table before continuing. "Professor Hart has studied at the Academy of Magical Defense in Colombia, and interned with the Department of Strategic Magical Combat in the Magical Congress of the United States of America before she went on to shadow magical professors at Ilvermorny school. She moved to London a few years ago and we're lucky to have her." McGonagall's face was glowing, like she personally plucked the needle out of a metaphorical haystack.

Professor Hart stood up and looked over the crowd of students. "Come to me with any questions," she said. Her voice was warm and soft. "I travel a lot, I go back and forth from here to London to see my wife. And yes, I did attend Hogwarts as a little girl. I didn't graduate here, but I spent years 1-3 here before moving to Colombia with my family. I have lots of experience and would love to talk to you."

"Yes, of course. We're very excited for you, Miss Hart." McGonagall said again, smiling. "Next, let's welcome Professor Noah Hobb, head of Slytherin House, and our new Transfiguration Expert." The lines around her mouth were tight, Harry noticed. He never thought McGonagall would give up being the Transfiguration teacher, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and McGonagall was the perfect replacement for Dumbledore. She went from being interim Headmistress to a permanent installment a few weeks after the Battle.

She continued, "Mr. Hobb is a Hogwarts graduate, published in peer-reviewed magical journals, and has a book on Transfiguration in the 21st Century.

The man awkwardly raised a hand then sat down, not paying much attention to the hall of students ogling him. Not too long after, the tables filled with a feast to top all feasts. Harry had never seen so many options, even at Hogwarts. He and Ron immediately started grabbing at the goodies in front of them. This food tasted like home. It seemed that every Hogwarts students was gorging themselves until they were left in a sleepy, stuffed coma.

When the students started filing out, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and a handful of other eighth year students (including Draco Malfoy) waited back for the headmistress to show them their new home. Draco was all alone, walking by himself on the staircases and across the halls. His minions, Crabbe and Goyle, were gone. Goyle died in the Battle of Hogwarts, trying to hurt Harry and stop him from getting the horcrux in the room of requirement. Vincent Crabbe simply hadn't returned, Harry later learned. He was sick of school, which Harry thought odd, considering he never actually participated in classes. Pansy Parkinson was Draco's last friend, but even she was nowhere to be found.

When they reached a lavish corridor, McGonagall turned to them and said "pair off. You're adults, we feel you can decide amongst yourselves who to live with. The rooms are suite style, so there's a bedroom with two beds connected to a bathroom that will be shared with another bedroom with two beds. A lobby and living area are available as well." Pair off, Harry thought. Ron looked at him awkwardly. Harry didn't want to be responsible for making Ron choose between his best friend and his girlfriend. But he wouldn't know who else to live with. His second pick would be Hermione, and she was going to be with Ron! If only Ginny had been the same year as him, then she could be his roommate.

"Go on," Harry said to them, trying to come off as genuine. "I'll get the neighboring suite with whoever..." he looked around. Dean and Seamus paired off. Neville wasn't here, Luna was younger than Harry as well. Everybody else had cowered away from or bullied Harry his whole life. He hesitated too long, because before he knew it, only one git was left.

Draco Malfoy had anxiously looked around when the headmistress told them to pair off. Draco hadn't any friends, and he sure as hell wasn't going to make any new ones. This year his mother forced him to return to Hogwarts. She told him that it's his best shot. "Nobody will want to hire a Malfoy anymore, so don't give them more reason by not having a proper education." He needed that Hogwarts degree. He argued, saying his talent could speak for itself, but when Narcissa Malfoy looked at him and said "Draco, we've lost everything. My sister. Your father. Everything. Please, just don't make it worse" he realized how bad his situation actually was.

He had walked over to a meager looking boy and asked if they could room. The boy shook his head no without even giving an explanation. Nobody wants to be friends with a traitor... Draco thought. Hadn't they known he risked his life to save Harry? Just to give Hogwarts a fighting chance? He crossed lines, in the end. Papers slandered the Malfoy name all summer, framing Lucius as a traitor (fair enough) and Narcissa and Draco as cowards for leaving the Battle. The press even went as far as applauding the Malfoy family for losing his aunt Bellatrix. He never really liked her, but still...

After swallowing his pride and being rejected by a fellow eighth year, he shoved his pale fists in his pockets and waited for whoever was left. Unfortunately for Draco, the only one left was the absolute last person he wanted to room with.

"Oh, my..." McGonagall said when she realized the unfortunate luck. "Is there any last-minute changes you'd like to make." Her eyes flitted around the crowd as she tried to gently remedy the situation. Of course, nobody wanted to switch. Harry Potter was practically a bad luck charm, and everyone was pretty sure Draco Malfoy would trade your organs for cursed objects. Draco thought about Harry's attempt at kindness on the Hogwarts Express earlier. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. After all, there was a reason that Draco risked his life for Harry. Maybe Potter wouldn't be so insufferable this year. Nobody should have any more reason to call him the Chosen One, which really got under Draco's skin.

Harry on the other hand was thinking of different maneuvers to get out of it. If he talked to McGonagall she'd say nothing could be done... he couldn't stow away in Ron and Hermione's room all the time, but he could most of the time. He just couldn't bear to think of rooming with Draco flipping Malfoy for his final year at Hogwarts. Draco was a constant reminder of all the bad things the boys had been through. But then again, Harry supposed that meant Draco was the one person who could relate the most...

_____________________________________

Ask to be on the tag list! Or follow the tag #hdgayfanfictionEY or for more of my fic content simply #hdgayfanfiction

Tag list: @carrameli @devilrising

[nedeljkovicsaysno]

the blood of both is my limbo (two)

(aka the Angel!Robbe/Demon!Sander AU that no one asked for)

Summary: Robbe spends his entire human life in total disbelief of the whole heaven-hell-religion thing. Luckily for him, it turns out that being a genuinely kind and selfless agnostic is enough to grant him Angel status in the afterlife. Meanwhile, a series of horrific events forces Sander to make some reckless choices with unfortunate consequences…but when he’s turned into a Demon, he realizes that what happens after death is nothing like the story the church tells. AKA Skam Afterlife, because in this parallel universe Isak and Even meet in Purgatory and have to overcome the slight problem that one’s an angel and one’s a demon.

Part One

Also posted on the Archive

Fight Night’s heating up - in more ways than one.

“Hey! Sander!”

Sander’s trance was momentarily shattered; he turned his head and there beside him was Noor, Britt’s bruja friend. She was tiny but she was terrifying; every part of her looked like it had teeth. Sander thought that this was maybe not too far from the truth. He greeted her with that fiendish slice of a half smile, leaned down so they could kiss at the air beside each other’s cheeks.

“What’s up, Noor.”

“Oh, you know. Just spent the day inventing a counter-hex from scratch,” said Noor, all-suffering as she crossed her yellow eyes. “Moyo pissed some warlock off when he kept beating him at cards the other night, so the asshole cursed him. He’s been walking around with a thundercloud over his head for a day and a half. Literally. Soaked the bed through twice.”

Sander laughed out loud, but there was a piece of his mind still idly circling around the peculiar golden haze, attached, curious. “Better than any other reason for him to have soaked the bed.”

“Yes, well,” said Noor, and she smirked. “Annoying nonetheless. Where’s the crew sitting?”

Sander inclined his head to the back left, where he could dimly make out their little booth. “Corner over there. Listen, Noor, will you take this to Senne? I’m gonna go say hi to one of my friends really quick.”

“Of course,” said Noor, accepting the mug he handed her. “See you in a minute?”

“Yes,” said Sander, and he waited until she had turned to wend her graceful way through tables and creatures back to the group before he re-focused his attention back onto the shining mist.

It had moved; it was now closer to the stage, and if Sander squinted he thought he could see shadows moving within the shimmer. Fully concentrated now, he began pacing measuredly towards it, sipping habitually at his drink as he did so; the crowd near the arena was thickening but still that small space remained uninhabited. In his chest Sander could feel the call of it, the siren of power that he could not ignore, and he wanted so badly to know what was within the mist that he forgot about caution. Before he’d even realized what he was doing he was inches from where the air became saturated with glinting medal-gold and he was mesmerized.

“What are you,” he murmured, and as though they were listening to him the thousands and thousands of glitter-particles inside the fog seemed to freeze.

*

Within the refuge of the Shield, Jens seized Robbe’s forearm.

Robbe, who mentally was lightyears away observing the melting pot of dark supernatural beings surrounding them, twisted his head, halfway to speaking before Jens slapped a warm frantic hand over his mouth.

Don’t talk, rang out in his mind. Turn around. Slowly, for hell’s sake.

On an ordinary occasion, Robbe would have scolded Jens for using telepathy, but the urgency in his Elder’s thoughts and the unusual situation within which they found themselves that night gave him pause. He did as Jens asked, suddenly streaked through with adrenaline at the thought of what he might discover, and found himself face-to-face with an extravagant creature with alabaster skin to match his white-blonde hair and violent cardinal-red blood trickling from both eyes.

He was standing directly in front of Robbe and Jens, a concentrated expression on his face, licking absently at the ring spiked through his lower lip. He seemed thoroughly unbothered by the fact that his eyes were bleeding; Robbe had just enough time to wonder if that was an everyday sort of thing for him when Jens was thinking out loud again.

It can see the Shield.

That’s impossible, Robbe thought back, scornful, wondering distractedly why Jens had referred to the being as it and not he. Nothing can see the Shield.

Some things can.

Like what?

Jens looked sideways at him and his face was grave.

Every inhuman creature has an ability, he thought. Opposite creatures often have opposite abilities. So, tell me, little one. What’s the opposite of Shielding?

Sensing, thought Robbe, his brain sprinting, whirring. Maybe Seeing.

Yes, thought Jens, and his grip around Robbe’s wrist tightened. And what are you?

An angel, thought Robbe, and as he looked back at the ethereal being in front of him recognition slammed into him like the car that had ended his human life.

What’s the opposite of an angel?

Robbe swallowed. He had never seen one up close before, but the explanation made perfect sense: bloody eyes, corpse-white skin, black everywhere.

A demon.

*

Sander was half a second from stretching out a hand to twist his fingers through the sunshine air, see if it pushed back like the darkness in hell had shoved at him when he’d first been Changed, but just like that Senne was beside him, towering, calm as he always was, stern.

“What are you doing, Driesen?”

“I found it,” said Sander dreamily, still tranced-out. “I found the thing that I’m Sensing.”

Senne furrowed his brow. “What? Where?”

“There,” said Sander, vaguely, and he pointed. In doing so his fingertip barely brushed the outer perimeter of the mist and static crackled on his skin; all he wanted to do was step forward into it, see if it enveloped him, gilded him, too.

“I don’t see anything,” said Senne, but then he looked again and his expression changed. “Wait. This empty space?”

“It’s not empty,” said Sander. “There’s something there. The air is golden, Senne.”

Senne’s eyes darted from Sander’s eyes to the emptiness in front of them and something slammed down over his face like a sliding door. He grabbed Sander’s shoulder.

“We need to get away from this,” he hissed, “right now.”

In a dimmed sort of way Sander understood that he should hearken to Senne’s tone, his body language, his words, but it was not in his nature to feel fear; he had seen the worst, lived through the darkest of times, and he’d emerged on the other side as a fucking demon. The fact that Senne - a much older and more important demon than he - was expressing distress didn’t do as much as it should have to turn him back, and again he found himself warring the urge to bridge the gap.

Inside the Shield, Jens correctly interpreted Sander’s facial expression and made a decision.

Robbe. Enforce the Shield.

Robbe wrested his gaze from the blonde demon’s face. Enforcement required a brutal amount of strength and one hundred percent of his concentration, something he was not currently willing to give: he wanted nothing more than to study the creature before him, learn him, understand what demon looked like in corporeal form instead of in fantasy. But -

Do it. It’s going to try to reach in. I’ll help you.

Robbe hesitated and

outside the Shield Sander reached forward and

Jens stepped behind Robbe and pressed his torso flush to Robbe’s back and

just as Sander’s hand met the space where the air turned light Robbe pulled from Jens’s strength and with a visceral, audible growl of effort transformed the Shield from mist to steel.

Both Sander and Senne heard the noise he made; Sander’s palm met flat resistance and he recoiled in sharp shock. Senne grabbed him by the collar, yanked him back, and Sander’s stomach went hot with shame and recognition.

“Sander,” growled Senne in his ear, “what in fuck’s sake are you doing? Do you want the wrath of God to come down upon you? Get the fuck back.”

“What - “ Sander’s palm was tingling. “The wrath of - Senne, is that an angel?”

“Yes,” hissed Senne, as he hauled him away. “Yes, you idiot, what did you think a pocket of golden air in Lesser Purgatory would be? Are you hurt?”

“No,” said Sander, but he couldn’t stop looking stupefied over his shoulder back at the obviously marked space. “I’m fine. It didn’t - Senne, it didn’t seem like it was bad.”

“Driesen,” said Senne in total exasperation, “we’re bad. Angels are the literal polar opposite of everything we are. We’re not supposed to touch them. They aren’t for our kind.”

“But why?” Sander was not clear of mind. “Who the fuck says? Isn’t all that stuff about traditional human religion bullshit anyway?”

“Yes,” said Senne, hand clenching at the back of Sander’s neck, silver chains tangling in his fingers, “but that doesn’t change the hierarchy. They are light, we are dark. We protect the low realms, they protect the high. We rule the things that humans consider sin and they rule the things that humans consider virtue. We are not meant to mix with them. They think they’re superior to us.”

He stopped, pushed Sander back against the raised side of the stage, leaned in and licked a droplet of blood from Sander’s cheekbone. It was the one thing he knew to do that would bring Sander back to himself and sure enough his Fledgling’s scarlet eyes went immediately from daydream-distant to smack-awake.

“Senne, I’m sorry,” he said, low. “You’re right. We’re not meant for them.”

“It’s fine,” said Senne. His voice was gentle. “Angels can have quite the effect on someone who’s never seen them before, and for you to be able to Sense a Shield...that’s big stuff, Driesen.”

A luxuriant, lethal smirk cut its slow track across Sander’s mouth. “I have a good teacher.”

“Yeah, well,” said Senne, haughty. He searched Sander’s sharp beautiful face, shoved back against the urge to drink from his Fledgling’s bloodsource again, but Sander read his expression and swiped a teardrop of red from under his eye. Lifted his finger to Senne’s mouth and watched with satisfaction as his Maker sucked his skin clean, sighed raggedly, almost a groan.

“I’ll never understand why you don’t drink from humans more often,” said Sander, dripping with assurance. “Real blood is what does it for you.”

“Animal blood does what it needs to do,” said Senne. His violet eyes were feral. “Come on. Forget angels, okay? You had your introduction, now you need to focus on what’s really important.”

“Like watching you get turned on drinking from me?”

“Fuck yourself,” said Senne, eyes flashing, but it was half amusement. “First Blood is about to happen, and Eurydice is on.”

*

Robbe felt Jens grasp him around the waist, lift him bodily away from the stage into a more protected corner of the club, diving into shadows. He was shivering with the effort it had taken to throw up an Enforcement without proper preparation, teeth gritted hands fisted at his sides, and when Jens slid down against the side wall and pulled Robbe back between his legs he did not resist.

“Hey,” Jens crooned, voice a hot brush of air at Robbe’s ear, “come on, Robbe, you’re fine, I’ve got you. You were a fucking champion, kid. That was incredible.”

It wasn’t often that Jens called him by his first name and it pulled Robbe minimally back to himself; he managed to unclench his fists to clamp them on Jens’s knees, and his Elder slid hands under Robbe’s elbows so he could reach up and scratch through Robbe’s bedlam curls. His arms were so long that even from such an unnatural angle he could reach the crown of Robbe’s head with ease.

“I,” choked Robbe, tripping over the force of his own breath as he tried to re-center, all of him aware of the warmth of Jens’s body crowded against his own, “need a fucking drink.”

“Okay,” said Jens, amused. “I can make us look ordinary enough to pass as vampires or something for a little while if you want a break.”

“The irony of that sentence,” said Robbe, and Jens chuckled.

“Say the word.”

“Give me, like. Five minutes.” Robbe’s entire body felt like a wet towel, wrung for every last drop of water before being draped out to dry. “Enforcements without Charge take everything I’ve got, even with your help.”

“I know,” said Jens, and he sounded guilty. “I should have just Disguised us before we entered the LP so you wouldn’t have had to work so hard. But it’s Drinking Night AND Fight Night in one go and I thought the Shield would be safer.”

“It probably is,” said Robbe, sighing; he let his fluffy head tumble back onto Jens’s shoulder and nestled automatically. “But I mean, fuck it, right? At least two demons already know we’re here. If you Disguise us the whole corporeal mist giveaway disappears, and they have no idea we were even involved with it in the first place. Problem solved.”

“Ordinarily I’d say yeah,” said Jens, “but if that demon can Sense, then my Disguise won’t fully hide you from it. You get close, and it will know.”

Robbe looked back at him. Jens’s face was impossibly close and impossibly magnificent; Robbe could smell the alcohol he’d drunk in Greater Purgatory wafting from his soft, intermittent breath.

“Then I won’t get close.”

*

When Robbe had recharged enough to move Jens pulled them into a bathroom stall to work his magic; Robbe had always loved watching him while he was Casting, and tonight was no different. Jens was an absolute scholar at trickery and concealment, thought-play, stealth; he could be hovering a hairsbreadth from someone’s back and they wouldn’t have an inkling that he was there until he announced himself. Now he stood in front of the mirror and drew fingertip lines across his own face, dulling the shimmer of his skin to matte cream, darkening his hair and sharpening the edges of his wolf teeth until they passed easily as fangs. When he’d completed his own Disguise he performed the same ritual on Robbe, who could have cried with the relief that flooded upon taking his guard down: Shielding, after a while, became overwhelming.

“Next time we come to the LP,” said Robbe as he scrutinized himself in the mirror, “you’re doing this to begin with.”

“To be fair,” said Jens, just before he snapped his fingers and their reflections vanished from the mercurial surface before them. “You didn’t give me a lot of warning.”

When they re-emerged into the club the lights had blackened even further and both the tempo and the volume of the music had increased; the crowd seemed denser than it had moments before, but Robbe deduced that this was probably because they no longer had the luxury of the Shield to afford them a suitable berth. It was strange to realize that they were drawing stares now; even Disguised as vampires, both Robbe and Jens were preternaturally lovely. Jens certainly wielded the power to diminish their appearances, but vanity was his fatal flaw, and he almost never did.

“Beauty isn’t that unusual in our world,” he defended himself, when Robbe laughed at him about it. “Why should I try to hide that? Angels aren’t the only pretty things that exist in the Afterlife.”

Apparently, Robbe thought absently now as they made a space for themselves at the bar, demons could be pretty, too.

He tried not to look around. Attracting extra attention was likely to prove catastrophic, especially if Jens was correct and the blood-eyed demon could still Sense their presence. But it turned out that Robbe didn’t need to worry about unintentionally inviting anyone’s lingering attention – at least not for the time being – because at the exact moment the bored pixie bartender handed Jens and Robbe their drinks, Exitium exploded like an atomic bomb into ruckus noise.

“Here we go,” said Jens, and in the excitement of his tone Robbe could find balance between his insistence that Lesser Purgatory was nothing to write home about and the streak of interest that had belted through his eyes as they’d been discussing it. Robbe’s eyes found the stage; it had been empty not half a second before, but directly in its center now stood a tall, straight-spined man dressed as though he was fully prepared to lead a runway show for nineties-era Versace. His posture was impeccable and his eyes were lined thickly with sharp silver and kohl and he was one of the most luridly fascinating things Robbe had ever seen.

“Is that – ”

“Milan,” said Jens, with some fondness. “He’s half-sylph, half-elf, and he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to Lower Purgatory.”

Onstage, the mesmerizing hybrid creature with the (extremely appropriate) name of an Italian city began to speak.

“I don’t think,” he said, in the tone of someone who fully understood that simply raising the volume of one’s voice was not the best way to command attention, “any of you filthy creatures are ready for this shit.”

And as the responding clamor of the crowd shrieked to a sudden crescendo, Robbe looked sideways at Jens and started to grin.

“It’s been a long time,” said Milan, smirking, clearly enjoying the collective enthrallment of the entire population of Exitium, “a very long time, I think. Since we’ve had Furies participating in Fight Night. But, theydies and gentlethem, hags and trolls, demons and dare I presume angels – ”

Robbe froze but Jens grinned; hissed sideways,

“He has no clue, he’s just being dramatic.”

“ – it’s been an even longer time since any of our lovely serpent-haired sisters have thrown their names into the pool.”

From the way the crowd rocked and screamed in response to his words Robbe understood that this was a gigantic occasion; again he looked to Jens for explanation but his Elder was already utilizing his telepathy to explain.

Gorgon fights are vicious. No one here can die, obviously, but they’re the most brutal of all creatures to participate in Fight Night. Furies are nearly as bad, that’s why it’s so crazy in here tonight, everyone wants a piece of the carnage.

Even you. Robbe was enjoying how much Jens was enjoying himself.

Even me. You picked a good night to force my hand.

Robbe smiled.

So what happens to the losers, then? Since they can’t die?

Jens licked at the new sharpness of his wolf teeth, twisted his mouth before he replied.

“They tap out,” he said out loud. “They get hurt badly, and they go somewhere to lick their wounds until they get a chance for redemption at next Fight Night. And the winner…the winner gets clout.”

Robbe searched his Elder’s face, thinking absently that the status of a Fight Night victory in the LP must equate to something like respect or fear or reverence, but then he stopped thinking at all because everything around them suddenly depleted into quiet and stillness and dark, the entire arena thrumming with ravenous anticipation. It felt like standing at the edge of a sheer cliff with toes pressed over the side and nothing to prevent the fall and Robbe was afire for it. He had no idea what was going to happen but he had never been more ready for anything in his entire existence.

He waited.

And then, when the hush was beginning to become maddeningly loud in the way that only unmitigated silence can manage, from the back corner of the stage where a curtained side entrance separated the patrons from the staff-only area of the club, there arose a steady, insidious hiss.

“Eurydice,” sang Milan, “please step into the light.”

And from out of the darkness emerged something darker.

*

“She’s perfect,” whispered Noor, and Senne and Sander grinned at each other.

Eurydice wasn’t what either one of them would have described as perfect – demons didn’t really believe in the word, used it as a taunt or derogatory term against the Son of God – but she was certainly commanding. One of the tallest Gorgons, her skin was a shade of mottled yellow-green akin to a fresh bruise, a direct clash with the garish coral pink of her pit vipers, and when she curled her upper lip in acknowledgement of the crowd jagged grey teeth showed. For a lesser Gorgon, she was positively terrifying.

“She could win this tournament,” said Senne casually, “if Medusa doesn’t show.”

“No way Raksha would let her fight,” said Noor, dismissing him. “She likes to keep her toys in pristine condition, and Medusa’s not exactly a looker to begin with.”

“Maybe Raksha has a newfound battle-scar kink,” said Sander. He was already nearly finished with his second drink; his close encounter with the unidentified angel had shaken him, and he didn’t know what to do to still his head but to slow his thought process with alcohol. It never worked as well as it had in his human body – demonic systems were designed to flush toxins much more effectively – but it was always enough to blunt the edges.

“I’d kill to see Medusa and Eurydice,” said Britt. “She’s the only lesser Gorgon that would stand a chance against any of the holy trinity. She doesn’t give a fuck.”

“She beat Stheno once,” said Senne, “ages ago. I was there, it was a madhouse. She lost a snake, but Stheno lost two, and the way she was screaming afterward…the stuff of nightmares.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Sander, his gaze tracking the kaleidoscopic gloom on the other half of the stage. “Nemesis is no pushover.”

And as though he had spoken her into existence she came forth.

Where Eurydice was furious color, constant movement and sound, Nemesis contradicted her in darkness and calm and silence. Wraithlike she strode slow and resolute across the stage, icicle eyes pinned fearless to Eurydice’s countenance, stating intent with every second she did not look away. Sander appreciated her attitude; if he’d have been placing bets that night he’d have staked on her with confidence. Eurydice liked to put on a show but Nemesis was unassuming in her presentation and somehow that felt more to him like victory. He’d never seen her fight, but he’d heard tales of her ruthlessness, and he was ready to witness it for himself.

Milan between them looked fully undaunted.

“My darling, my dear,” he said, casual like he was announcing the contestants of a beauty pageant and not addressing a deity and a Gorgon, “need I remind you of the rules?”

When Nemesis spoke it was like thunder cracking in the clouds. Her eyes never drifted from Eurydice’s face.

“I don’t forget.”

Eurydice jeered; her snakes were going mad for bloodlust.

“Nor I.”

“Excellent,” said Milan, and for the first time all night wicked interest sparked in his wide cunning eyes. “Then I’ll make myself scarce and let you two have at it.”

In a blink he had vanished; Sander spotted him instantly when he reappeared in the rafters above their heads, a smudge of yellow, overseeing restlessly from afar. Full-blooded sylphs commanded powerful magic of their own, but Milan’s mother had been a sea-elf, and with all that combined force channeling through him he was one of the most formidable beings in the LP; Sander could Sense him coming from miles away. Though Milan was not malicious by nature, he was known for ruining those who crossed him; there was a reason he had been appointed as head referee of Fight Night. If things got out of hand, he could regain control of the situation with one snap of his fingers, no droplet of sweat forming on his brow, he might have been a High Deity for the negligible effort he put forth to execute staggering feats of sorcery.

There was a beat in which Eurydice and Nemesis sized each other up; Nemesis might not have had snakes for hair but she did have literal talons and she unsheathed them now, flexing her fingers to shake them out. The pit vipers haloing Eurydice’s head reared cautiously, stretching to full length, glorious in their lethality, and when the first one struck it all became a muddle of vivid color and glinting steel. In immediate, urgent response, the crowd howled with cruel delight; Fight Night elicited the worst from Morals and Immorals both, and the presence of pitiless Gorgons in the melee only served to exacerbate their savagery.

From such a secluded corner it was impossible to see what was going on and without a thought for decorum Sander rose, placed one foot atop the table, hauled himself up so he could separate the whirling dervish of catastrophic movement. Ordinarily Senne would have chided him for standing on furniture – he could be gallingly lawful for a high-tier demon – but he was as absorbed in the battle as the rest of them and either didn’t notice or didn’t give a shit. Through the spotlit air onstage dark green liquid spurted and the crowd gave a surging howl of glee; Nemesis had drawn first blood.

Sander pushed up the sleeves of his jacket, denim dyed dark as the liner smudged around his eyes, gaze roaming unconsciously around the opposite side of the arena. He was looking, he knew, for the golden haze, but to his mild annoyance it was nowhere to be seen. He was wondering abstractedly if the angels had taken their leave from Exitium when the path of his gaze collided with a russet-haired being leaning up against the bar, and Sander forgot to think about anything else at all.

The being – who by all accounts could have passed for an exceptionally flawless member of the human species – was wearing a simple red crewneck and jeans, fringe tumbling sideways into his gigantic eyes as he observed the onstage kerfuffle, hypnotized. Corpse-pale skin and the fangs that spiked under his top lip suggested that he was a vampire, but Sander was excellent at guessing classifications, and that didn’t feel right at all. He was lithe and small and imperious, every bit of him exuding confidence as he sipped from the chalice in his hand, and never before in his existence had Sander been witness to such a striking creature as this. Reflexively he raised an arm to card his fingers back through his hair and as he did the boy’s intense gaze shifted away from the melee straight into Sander’s eyes.

Above them, unseen, unnoticed by everything else in the room, the sky shook itself out. In Sander’s ears a sudden drone whined and his stomach gave a lurching skydive swoop and for half a moment he mislaid the breath that he sometimes could not believe he still had. Again that heightened awareness slashed through him; again, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. The boy’s eyes were the strangest shade of gold, gold, gold, and there was something about him – something that Sander wanted to name but could not. He couldn’t tell if he was Sensing or reacting to the clear heat that kindled between them but he felt like he’d gone up in flames.

Unflinchingly the boy stared, face inscrutable and stone-frozen and brazen, as unafraid as Nemesis regarding Eurydice. His absolute lack of intimidation was not something Sander was accustomed to – as a human, he’d been revered for his beauty; as a mid-tier demon, let alone one who bled constantly from both eyes, his status commanded a great deal of automatic respect. In severe contrast to that fawning, fear-tinged admiration, however, this boy was observing him in the unaffected manner that one might use to watch a train pass by.

The unfamiliar feeling of being rendered ordinary by the nature of someone’s attention riled something long dormant in Sander’s chest. He could not equate the mildness in the boy’s eyes with the length of his gaze or the voltage that screamed hot through Sander’s skin; something was taking place here, but he didn’t have an inkling as to what it was. Onstage black and green blood was spraying with abandon now, both Eurydice and Nemesis roaring with vexed effort, but the combat felt planets away and all of Sander’s concentration was fixed upon bridging the space between himself and this unidentified splendid ethereal creature and proving that there was not a commonplace thing about him.

The boy was the first to cut eye contact, his attention snagged by the being beside him, a statuesque individual of equally astonishing beauty with skin only slightly less pale than his companion’s. Such a milky color looked strange against the sable of his hair and though he, too, showed fangs when he smiled, the errant, persistant thought that neither member of this enigmatic pair were vampires strayed again through Sander’s mind. He forced his focus back to the scuffle onstage; Nemesis had managed to behead one of Eurydice’s pit vipers and it looked as though his initial instinct to crown her as victor had been right.

Senne grabbed Sander’s ankle; apparently he had noticed his Fledgling’s relocation to the tabletop after all. He shouted over the din:

“How’s the view up there?”

Sander grinned down at him.

“Top-notch. Join me?”

And to Sander’s astonishment, Senne did, skipping lithely from the booth to stand beside him, moon-eyed and chill. He’d gone through three goblets of blood that night and this combined with the alcohol had made him loose at the limbs, undone the quick tension that lurked permanently just between his brows. Sander was positively delighted.

“You fucking rulebreaker.”

“This? You should have seen me in my Fledgling days,” said Senne, and when he beamed Sander saw where his teeth had stained cerise with ram-blood. He roped an arm around Sander’s shoulders, knocked the side of his head gently against Sander’s own, and the warmth that flooded the younger demon’s chest was sudden and strong: this was his most cherished being in all the infinite universes. No one had cared for him like Senne since his mother had died, and the knowledge that he was valued again, that someone worried about him, had changed him entirely.

“Yeah? You’d stand on all the tables then, eh?”

“Something like that,” said Senne, chuckling, and Sander was just about to entreat him to elaborate when ahead of them a rough, incensed shriek sliced the air. Nemesis had gone for the jugular again, and Eurydice had just narrowly escaped losing two of her snakes in one fight. The evasive maneuver she’d had to pull to save her viper had forced her off balance and Nemesis used the advantage to slam her to the ground, throw a leg on each side of her waist, pin both of the Eurydice’s hands down with her knees as she crooked an elbow over the thrashing Gorgon’s throat. It was a clever, cunning move: in positioning herself just so, Nemesis had ensured that Eurydice’s snakes couldn’t strike where they needed to.

Eurydice screamed again, blind with rage; she hadn’t lost an opening round of Fight Night in her existence, and the crowd could taste her fury. The talons on Nemesis’s free hand were curling and uncurling and her eyes were locked to the viper coiled dead center of Eurydice’s forehead and it was unmistakable what she was insinuating. Forfeit, or you lose another.

“Here we fucking go,” whispered Sander, and all of him was back in this, entranced, the not-vampire duo momentarily forgotten. Senne’s fingers tightened at the scruff of his neck; the sound of the crowd had reduced to a hornet hum, bated. So quiet was the club that Nemesis’s voice when she spoke sounded loud as a trumpet.

“Say it.”

Eurydice was vibrating with anger; chest heaving, she struggled, but Nemesis was larger and stronger than her in every sense and without the range of her pit vipers Eurydice’s force was heavily diminished.

“Or what.”

“Or I’ll cut them from your head one by one until there’s nothing left on your scalp but bloody stumps,” said Nemesis calmly, and her talons flashed.

Sander and Senne looked at each other, wide-eyed, brows elevated. Below them Britt and Noor had both risen to their feet and were standing with their hands over their mouths, not blinking, barely breathing, snake-charmed. In the rafters the canary blur that was Milan had increased its tempo of pacing and closure felt imminent. Sander said,

“Fuck,”

And his eyes automatically skipped over to search for that faultless enigma of a boy. Both he and his friend were watching the events upon the stage with centered intent, but the second Sander’s gaze came to rest upon his face, the boy glanced back at him as though Sander had shouted a name he didn’t know.

Yet.

“She didn’t come to play,” said Senne seriously, and Sander laughed; when his Elder spoke in modern-isms it never felt natural, but he appreciated Senne’s ability to adapt nonetheless.

Onstage, Eurydice hissed; there were a thousand insults in her eyes but she was nothing if not calculated and Nemesis had proved herself to be ruthless enough and she could not afford to lose another viper. She rolled her thin grey lips together, released a longsuffering sigh, set her teeth.

“Forfeit.”

The noise in the club absolutely detonated; on the opposite side of the stage, Robbe and Jens were howling, grabbing at each other’s hands wrists shoulders, caught up. Robbe’s face was flush with alcohol and Jens was more animated than Robbe had ever seen him and he couldn’t believe that this was the first time his Elder had ever permitted him to come to Lesser Purgatory.

“You asshole,” he yelled, “you’ve been keeping me from this!”

Jens grinned, guilty, letting his thin delicate-boned shoulders rise and fall. “It’s an occasion, Robbe. The LP isn’t like this every day. You have to pick the best times to come, and know when to avoid it at all costs.”

“So the first time you take me here, we not only see a Deity take out a Gorgon in ten minutes flat, but a demon almost discovers us and we have to use Shield Enforcement to hide from it,” said Robbe. He was still beaming and he felt the joy all the way in his fingertips. “You realize you’re creating a monster.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Jens, and he slammed back his drink, amused. “I created you once, I can remake you whenever I please. We have time between the next round, you want another?”

“Jens Stoffels,” said Robbe, dramatic, mock-shocked. “Are you, my unbearably strict Elder, suggesting that I, your reckless Fledgling, participate in a third round of drinks with you tonight?”

(The first time they’d drank together, Robbe had expected to be affected by the alcohol in ways that he had been as a human – lowered inhibition, blurry edges, unsteady feet, word vomit, actual vomit, sudden crushing sadness, lust with a capital L – but instead he’d been filled with an indescribable lightness, a warmth in the hollow of his stomach, closer to what he’d describe as high than drunk. Jens had stopped him after one drink, insisted that he needed to get used to the way alcohol affected the angel infrastructure before he went any further, and Robbe had rolled his eyes at him.

“I know you’re my Elder,” he’d said, “but that doesn’t make you my mother.”

Jens had grinned at him, flicked his nose.

“Nah. But it does make me your wise, all-knowing superior, whose advice you should heed at all times because you are a baby angel and therefore still learning. Come on, little one, let’s go.”

Since then he hadn’t been much more relaxed; Robbe had incalculable amounts to learn about the ways of being an angel, and Drinking Night was never something on which they wasted much time. Jens taught him how to decompress in other ways, like swoop-diving through silk-soft clouds at daybreak, chasing an infinite horizon over seas of the most impossible blue color at sunset. There wasn’t much to decompress about, really; angels didn’t experience anxiety like humans did, because everything adapted a different meaning in the Afterlife. When overarching stressors like money and bills and health and mortality were removed from the larger picture, it was incredible how limitless one could feel.)

Jens huffed, rolled his eyes. “I was going to relax eventually, you know. Besides, you really proved yourself with that nuclear catastrophe, especially if Raphael is going easy on you. My little Fledgling is growing up.”

Robbe smacked him. “You’re insufferable.”

“You wouldn’t have me any other way,” said Jens, and he cupped Robbe’s chin in one soft long-fingered hand.

In the center of the arena, Milan had already cleared the blood from the floor with one lofty flick of his hand; Eurydice had vanished, limping away in wounded fury, her dead snake clutched in one shaking palm. Nemesis was slightly breathless but her face was saturated with a forbidding sort of satisfaction, teeth bared as she lifted her chin to stare around at the pulsating crowd, shine in her eyes as she listened to them chanting her name. She was the Goddess of Retribution, the personification of vengeance, and by her very nature she was not used to being adored.

Fortunately for her, on Fight Night, any creature that could best a Gorgon was not adored. They were idolized.

Milan held up her clammy hand, arched a perfectly sharp eyebrow, didn’t speak; he knew exactly how to work the crowd, had learned to play them like a dedicated violinist learns to make their instrument sing. Nemesis stood with her chest heaving and her eyes rifling the darkness and then, all of a sudden, she smiled.

As Milan conducted a brief, spirited interview Robbe let Jens lead him by the wrist to the bar, all the while keeping one eye open for the demon who sought him so relentlessly with that glowering red stare. Robbe didn’t think the demon knew what he was, that he was an angel, but his (Robbe refused to refer to him like Jens had, as an it) interest was brash and unmistakable, and it staggered Robbe to understand that he could not detect the nature of said interest. I won’t get close, he’d said to Jens, but he could not fully lie to himself and say that he wasn’t interested, too. When their eyes had clashed across the room Robbe had never felt anything like the ensuing impact; it was disruptive, shattering, a fault line fissure.

His stomach was still hot from it.

At any rate his vigilance was for nothing. The demon was nowhere within his line of sight; the dark man who had been standing beside him on the tabletop had vanished, too, and the crowd packing Exitium to its core was by now so thick that Robbe could not envision chancing upon either of them again. By the time he and Jens were pressed belly-first into the bar, laughing giddily as they called for their drinks, the entire encounter seemed far enough away that it might have been a reverie. He and Jens got pulled helplessly into a fevered First Blood discussion with a group of phantoms; two were in full support of Nemesis’s victory while the third was bemoaning the loss of Eurydice, whose viciousness had heretofore been unparalleled within the lower hierarchies of the draw. Jens was disputing hotly with the third phantom about whether or not Nemesis had violated a crucial rule by pulling at Eurydice’s hair (“that’s bullshit, isn’t it, because it’s not fucking hair for hell’s sake, it’s a snake”) and Robbe was standing back amused, sipping his fresh drink, when to his immediate left he felt movement. The vila standing next to him at the bar had vacated her space and it had instantly been filled by someone new.

A wrench in the air pressure; a coppery smell, it was almost as though Robbe had Warped, but his feet were solid on the ground beneath him and besides this feeling was all too familiar. He thought about what Jens had said, if you get too close, it will know, but there was nothing he could do about that now, was there.

He turned his head and there beside him, draped against the bar at an indolent cocksure angle, silver head tilted as he scrutinized Robbe with loud, loud, loud, interest, stood the red-eyed demon. He was still crying blood and he was still shockingly beautiful and the air in the club was, suddenly, not enough by half.

The demon smiled, an unhurried, wicked thing, and reached over to press his fingerprint onto the rim of Robbe’s glass. Up close he was dark, delicate, all black nails and smudgy eyeliner, thin ring of silver looped through his lower lip. His fingers were adorned heavily with metal and he exuded assurance and he felt like nothing but impossibility.

“Shouldn’t you be drinking blood?”

Then I won’t get too close.

Robbe swallowed.

“Shouldn’t you be bleeding it?”

Surprise flitted briefly across the demon’s chalk-white face; he chuckled and the sound was so low Robbe shouldn’t have heard it but he felt it like a scrape across his lower stomach. Around them the crowd roared in pleased low oblivion like within it nothing at all of interest was happening, like Robbe the Fledgling angel wasn’t talking back to a fucking demon.

“I do,” the demon said, one dark eyebrow bridging. The contrast to his platinum head was stark. “It just doesn’t look like this.”

He gestured to his face, to the evenly painted lines of red that poured steadily from his eyes, and smirked as he pressed in closer. Robbe’s blood was singing but he couldn’t tell if it was meant to warn or lure.

“What color do you bleed, then,” he said, gritting his teeth to stop his voice shaking. “Black?”

“That’s an interesting question with an interesting answer,” said the demon, flighty. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll tell you what color I bleed if you tell me what you really are, not-vampire creature.”

[kurtty-drabbles]

Life is wonderful au (the city)

N/A: A case fic?

@djinmer4 @dannybagpipesarecalling @sailorstar9 @discordsworld @bamfoftheundead

The X-men are getting closer and closer of their goal that is mutant´s acceptance, which, realistic speaking, won´t make all humans and mutants hold hands and sing peaceful music, but, if the project sentinel is officially destroyed and if a mutant kid can go to school without fear...then the X-men have done their job.

Yet, Scott wonders if all the good publicity really comes from their effort or if is something else, Betsy urges him to not think too much about this(as she too has many questions, questions that she rather be unanswered)

Rogue is out of the X-men for a while having joined the Death´s cult("I´ll be back, guys, Death has some missions for me to do" "Can you give her a hello for me?" "Sure, Wade, I´ll send your hello") and Jubilee is in Shiar being worshipper as a goodness. Chamber is there with her and lasts the X-men heard from them is that Jubilee adopts a baby, the hows and whens are not important when Jubilee is the Pheonix.

"Well, we´re still here" Storm speaks calmly as if reading Scott´s mind (deep down, she has an idea what happened with Jean, Logan and Prof X and she is not sorry for what happened, but, it gives more reason to be careful when bargaining with you know who) "And we have a mission, what we should do?"

Iceman, Storm, Cyclops, Beast, Psylocke received a call about a mutant girl that wants to join the school. There´s something to be said when people can just call the X-men calmly, instead of death and life situation. The girl goes by the name Pixie(her human name is Megan Gwynn) and she is in a city called Sey, in the north of the state, and whats an X-men to come to pick her up.

At first, they thought she could come here by herself, but, the seniors are studying the case. "She seems scared of this city" Bobby speaks sagely and they all agree.

"So, what we could take from this?" Scott asked "lately, we have seen more and odder things..." he trails off.

"She is real" Betsy states "I used my powers and I can see she is a real mutant, and, I can see she is indeed afraid of that city even through...I couldn´t see it"

A plan is formed and Psylocke and Scott will go check out, and, Ororo, Iceman and Beast will stay in the school to protect the students and of course, to keep an eye on their guest.

"Wait," Beast speaks "isn´t she with Scarlet Witch now?"

"Yes, but, even if Kitten is a benign force we still should be aware of her, she is an ally now, so, let´s hope she continues one in the future" Ororo speaks calmly and they agree with her statement.

____________________________________________ Betsy and Scott agree in using a more mundane way of transportation and is almost like a date, almost. Scott remembers that Jean used to hate trains and Scott still thinks about her(she cheat on him, yes, but, she was a big part on his life) and Betsy is very different from Jean, she likes trains.

"Hey, after all this is over, what you would like to do?" Scott asked.

"I really don´t know, I never plan ahead, I guess ...I´ll always be an X-men, no matter what and you?"

"Retired and be a father" Scott confessed "my own was a disappointment, but, it also makes me what to be a better father"

"That´s cute, I did peg you as a family man"

"That you did"

And the banter continues until the train stops in their location and is time for them to meet the new student.

______________________________________________

The city is normal, the people look normal, but, even Betsy can feel something up(she tries to scan the city and ended up with a headache, thank god, Scott is prepared for those things)

"So...strange normal or normal normal?" Scott asked looking around the city is the typical small American city, except, there´s something different here.

"Strange strange!"

____________________________________________

They speak with the mayor, a man with a big belly, a short hair and blue eyes, the man appears to be in the middle 40s and is talking friendly to the X-men, with one annoying addiction...he keeps calling them Tim.

Betsy and Scott could interpret this as the mayor or being dyslexic of some sort or maybe this is a mean spirit joke.

"We received a call from Megan Gwynn, where is she?" Betsy asked trying to read his mind....but is impossible.

"She is with the other kids, of course, Tim can take you there," the mayor said and he called for the milkman, also named Tim, to guide them.

Why a milkman is guiding them?

"Come here, Tim!" he speaks smiling friendly to Scott and Betsy and maybe the Tim thing is not a joke here.

_________________________________

Megan waves her arm at them with reluctance. The X-men spot her along with a woman with long hair and blue eyes. "You came here to pick up Megan? She is a type fairy too" Megan nods her head agreeing with the woman.

"Are you the mother?" Scott asked and the woman opens a big smile that makes him think of you know who.

"Of course! I´m the mother" the woman replied calmly.

And Betsy feels uneasy of the sudden as all the other citizen are present, they...never left. They are watching. Always watching and Psylocke uses the telekinesis blade.

The woman just smiles at them. "Child, you think your blades will stop me?" and without Betsy command, the blade is gone.

The woman never gave a name as no one in the town did. She let Megan, Scott and Betsy talk freely(not really, Scott can feel she is watching, she is listening)

___________________________________

"Is she your mother?" Scott asked and Megan shakes her head.

"Look, is complex, she is not my mother, she is our mother! She births 1000 or more of us, so, she is not my mother in the sense you are thinking, she is our mother" Megan said "and she let me tell you this to you two...she is Gaia"

"Who is Gaia?" Betsy asked remembering the tales Meggan used to tell a few years ago.

"She!" is all Megan can say about the subject. They talk some more and learned that Megan is indeed a fairy mutant, a fae of sorts(is so ironic that Scott almost laughs, almost) and her birth parents kick her out once learned what Megan is ...but this city takes her in.

"So how long are you here?" Betsy asked fearing for the girl.

"...I´m here for 10 years or 1 day, time here is irrelevant for Gaia" and Megan asked who is the president and is shocked to see...is a new one, she stays on this city for more than 10 years...but there´s no indication of this city before.

__________________

The woman arrives and so the other people of this town, and Psylocke, maybe thinking about her childhood or getting fed up fearing something she can´t understand decides to attack the mayor.

She cuts his head. Megan is not impressed even if Scott did cover her eyes. "Mr Summers, is ok, Gaia can´t be killed" and before he could ask what she is saying Betsy takes a step back as the mayor´s head has no blood, and is still alive.

The woman speaks "Oh, you Tims are so violent sometimes...Uhm" she said and her eyes are azzure now "Is hard for me to remember your names in this form, so, sorry for calling you Tim, Betsy" the woman´s face is cracking a bit and now, only now, Betsy is taking the option of fleeing.

"Run, Run now," she said and is relieved to see there´s no monster chasing them, but, is freak out to see there´s no small city anymore, there´s just ...nothing.

__________________________________

Scott and Betsy agree to take Megan to the school as the girl has nowhere to go. Back to the train, a kind woman in selling food appears and before they could decide if they want to eat something, the kindly woman replies. "Betsy, don´t go around beheading people you don´t know, that´s very impolite, and really, I thought you two you made the connection by now"

They but Megan are speechless.

"Megan, be a good girl, ok?"

"Yes, mother!"

And just like that, the kindly woman leaves the X-men and Megan alone.

"What the fuck is that? Who is Gaia?"

"Gaia is the mother of all living things, she is above the faes, she is above the dijins you are so fond, Scott, she is above everything" Megan explained and Scott knows he was happy when he thought fairies are something that only exists in movies.

___________________________________________

Wanda and Kitty are meditating in a circle, well, Wanda broke the concentration to speak something important. "I know!" and Kitty only gazes upon her. "I know you are Zaorva, I know you´re Gaia, I know!"

Kitty smiles amused. "What gave away?"

"Your energy. I was taught to reconize all types of energies, and you? You´re pure life, only Zaorva gives that energy" and adds "plus thinking back then, only you could defat anything related to Cthulu so easily" Wanda states feeling dumb for not having put 1+1 sooner.

"Ah, you´re smart, I like that, Scott and the others still don´t get it, well, will you keep this as a secret?"

"Sure...will this change anything?"

"Of course not, Wanda, I like you and I enjoy our time very much" this makes the witch feels happy as now she returns to the meditation.

[chapitre7]

Beneath The Milky Twilight, Kiss Me

Chapter 2

Moon Lovers: Scarlet Heart Ryeo [달의 연인-보보경심 려] fanfiction

Modern AU

Wang So/Hae Soo

Chapter 1

If it were for my own sake, maybe I wouldn’t have picked myself up. The cold ground littered with cherry blossoms and sunlight peeking through the flowers up high felt like a better bed than I had had for weeks. The dirt beneath my fingertips, the pain on my side, and the stares of passersby. If I had the power to freeze time, it would be at that moment before I realized how swift time really is, how it moves forward even when we want to go back. But I picked myself when I heard the crying, I threw everything I was aside, neglect and regret colliding inside of me. How could I have forgotten the things that really mattered?

Our hands meet for the first time when we care for somebody other than ourselves.

  “That doesn’t sound like him,” Baek Ah had said. But what did sound like him? Who was Wang So between what she had first seen and what he perceived himself to be?

Hae Soo met him early in the semester per Baek Ah’s introduction. She needed some extra help with all things related to math and he needed a tutor for literature and language.

When she came upon him, he had his head on his books, yes, but his eyes were closed. Under the golden sun that was slowly graying for the upcoming season, on that park devoid of children, Soo approached him, stopped before him, cleared her throat. Wang So opened one eye and that was her greeting, no nod of acknowledgment, no polite bow. She sat across from him and started arranging her books meticulously on the table, her back straight and glasses in place, hands fidgeting against each other as the stranger kept staring at her, head barely lifted from his own pile of books.

“What do you need help with?” Soo asked. A single hand reached somewhere on the bench beside him, and without even looking down, he picked up a literature book and dropped it on the table with a thump. Soo frowned, eyes blinking at the dust that reached behind her lenses. “What don’t you understand?”

“Nothing.”

Thus Hae Soo began her lessons, speaking of themes and meanings and language structure. When she found helpful quizzes in the books, she pushed them in his direction, but Wang So barely looked at them; his eyes were trained on her as if he were the most attentive student, but his back remained slouched and his mouth remained closed, no questions or arguments or participative thoughts.

Soo had studied in groups before, even helped some of her juniors in the past, her favorite subjects flowing out of her like melodies Baek Ah produced in the music hall. But on those days... On those days, Soo suspected Baek Ah had been looking after more than just her or So’s education. On those days, talking was second in her desire to stay locked up in her room, re-reading old messages and avoiding them at the same time, dropping her phone only to pick it up seconds later.

She closed her book with defeat in her sigh, unsure if she had reached him at all, if she had been of any help. She put away all of the books she had picked for him, only to reluctantly lay the books she needed help with between them. Wang So rose then, stretching as if he had been doing nothing but nap the afternoon away. His hair needed combing, his uniform was wrinkled and his striped blue-and-white tie lied forgotten at the far end of the table, like he had thrown it that way the moment he had sit down — Soo suspected he really had.

“What don’t you understand?” Wang So asked, crossing his legs and arms, and Soo realized the pile of books he had been lying on were all the books they’d be going through for her tutoring. With an awkward laugh she said,

“Nothing?”

That earned her what she would learn was his trademark expression; an amused, lopsided smirk that could be jokingly friendly and incredibly condescending depending on the mood of their conversation. On that day, nervous with their first meeting, uncertain of her skills and wanting nothing more than to be alone, Soo wasn’t sure how to read it. It was the first response he had given her ever since she had sit down in front of him.

Wang So’s teaching style was more an invitation; follow me, said his fingers as they moved swiftly across the notebook, numbers flowing forward like a river stream, the firm grip on his pencil carving marks on the sheet beneath the one he was writing on, like a code she would have to decipher. He handed his notes to her after the resolution of a problem but although it was beautiful like a well-structured poem, the subject remained a mystery to her.

No progress was being made from studying face to face. Wang So took no time in switching seats to sit beside her. With their height difference, Soo might as well have lied her head on his shoulder to read over his writing like she sometimes did with Baek Ah when he was drawing, but So was a stranger and neither seemed really willing to be in each other’s presence. So she craned her neck to pay attention to his formulas and he leaned away from her to give her space to read the numbers that slowed down to a pace she could follow.

He didn’t really say much on that first day. Soo read his numbers until they all bled together with the glare of the sun in her eyes, so she shook her head and called it quits. Wang So, still in the middle of a formula, blinked up at her like a child told it was time to put away his toys for the day. With a polite bow, Hae Soo walked home thinking it could have been a bad idea, after all.

She kept going because Baek Ah insisted they both needed all the help they could get, as if he, himself, didn’t need extra tutoring. Baek Ah, however, could afford it in specialized schools; she couldn’t. And so she kept meeting him in that park, by that table that was barely sheltered by a tall, sepia-tinted tree.

Soo didn’t count the days because she was barely paying attention, but in what must have been a matter of weeks, Wang So was greeting her with a polite smile. He took notes; filled the margins of his books with annotations of Hae Soo, descriptions of authors and characters that she came up with herself, an amalgamation of all that she read and all that she loved. And he spoke to her, the low timber of his voice filling her ears from up-close, and those graphics she used to be afraid of made a little bit more sense.

A little bit more.

When she was writing, Soo’s eyes tended to glaze over, and a handwriting that had once been deliberate and beautiful had morphed into a slanted, carried away version of herself. She tried to ground herself to Wang So’s voice, to his words and numbers, but the last characters she wrote down always carried over to the edge of the paper, a thought that didn’t know how to end.

She began to catch Wang So’s eyes very close to her, waking her up from her reveries, capturing her from the clouds that insisted on settling on her. The smirk told her that he knew, and she almost believed that he truly knew where her conscience went, as if he were there, as if he were always watching her, as if he were judging her from every corner of her house, of her room, when she took pressed flowers from between her books to smell the scent of her mistakes.

But he was just Baek Ah’s long-time friend. He was just a boy who struggled with fiction and couldn’t see the meaning of it all; a boy who flourished in rational lines of thought, whose practical numbers and angles amazed her. It really amazed her when someone was talented in all the ways she wasn’t, like Baek Ah’s ease to make every sound into an engaging song, or Mr. Choi’s engaging story-telling that sent her back into time, into the homes of kings and courtesans alike. Wang So seemed to be all sharp handwriting and eyes. Enigmatic eyes that seemed to contain a new unknown emotion every day. Did her spacing out amuse him? Did her lessons bore him? Did her slow resolution of his problems annoy him?

“Can I kiss you?”

He asked it in a low voice beside her when she was struggling with a formula. One of his hands was gripping the bench in the space between them, and he seemed to be closer than he had ever been. Hae Soo’s thoughts, always confused between her tasks at hand and reminiscences that insisted on never going away, drew a blank. She was aware that they had spent a lot of time in each other’s spaces, that she had leaned over his arm that day, that he had spoken over her shoulder, behind her, some time in the past she couldn’t seem to remember when, his bangs softly touching her cheek. Had she given off a wrong signal somewhere? Had he planned to hit on her from the very beginning?

“That doesn’t sound like him,” Baek Ah had said. But on that day, with the sun shining mischievously in his eyes, and the playful smirk inviting her to look at his lips, Soo could only ungracefully slide away from and off the bench, successfully hitting the ground, then gathering her things and running away.

Her meticulous teacher tone in which she taught him, her straight poise, the perfect position of her glasses on her nose, were all gone the following day. She was hell-bent on lecturing him, on telling him to get lost, on saying a dozen different curses, had practiced for a good chunk of her evening for it, but he only greeted her with a lazy wave, a slight tilt of the head, and the words,

“So what are we studying today, Hae Soo?”

So interested, so focused. He regarded her with a hand on his cheek, and she couldn’t read his eyes, she really couldn’t, she just knew that they robbed her of her composure, and two can play this game, Wang So, so she tried, she really tried to be a good student and speak only of the beautiful words she so loved, to focus on the subjected she mastered. But each passing day brought a question to her mind, a new mystery of Wang So, why did look at her the way he did, was he truly a nice person, why did his quiet lectures work for her, why did he want to kiss her?

The pressed flowers remained shut inside a book in the top shelf she couldn’t reach.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow will make more sense.

Her grades started to improve.

[anonthenullifier]

An Auspice of Scarlet - Chapter 6

A Scarlet Vision Victorian AU

Chapter Title: In which the past is left behind and the future is embraced

Chapter Summary: Wanda adjusts to her new life while also navigating how to interact with Vision outside of the manor. 

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184758/chapters/34942517

I hope you enjoy!

Wanda hunches her back, lifting the wrinkly palm closer to her face, the task of finding the most pertinent lines rendered more difficult by the effects of age and a lifetime of manual labor. “Is fame and fortune in my future?” The question is asked with a good-natured playfulness, a hearty laugh joining the gleam in the elderly woman’s eyes when Wanda glances up at her. This woman is a widow, not a recently made one, or so she informed Wanda the first time she sat on the stool and shoved her hand out. This is, if Wanda is recalling correctly, the sixth time she has read the woman’s palm, the only person from this tiny town that has been willing to dip their toes into mysticism, their avoidance of her more out apathy than fear, she thinks. “So,” a nudge to Wanda’s shin brings her back to the present, “fame or fortune?”

A tight, politely apologetic smile goes along with Wanda’s response, “That is beyond the scope of this reading.” If she wanted to, Wanda could easily delve into the woman’s mind, mine for information she can twist into profoundly prophetic albeit empty statements, but since the séance and its fallout, she has vowed to be slightly more judicious with her powers. “Based on the branching of your life line,” Wanda traces the line etched deep in the woman’s palm, “you have been blessed with extra vitality, some would consider that quite fortunate.”

“You know,” the tone and cadence of these two words is known by everyone, the drawn out, condescending preface of someone who believes they are better versed in a matter than the expert they’re talking to. Wanda can’t afford to lose her one client so she clamps her annoyance down and remains silent. “The readers in the city,” a term that is loosely used by the inhabitants of quiet communities to speak of any conglomeration of people larger than 200, “always tell me fame, fortune, and love are just around the corner.”

Wanda fully believes the other readers claim this, regardless of what the lines actually say, broad optimism the greatest tool of manipulation within the craft, “Well Mrs. Mesnier-”

“Miss—don’t want to scare off potential suitors.”

The wink is salacious, far more practiced than even Stark’s signature smarminess, stirring a small laugh from Wanda’s lungs as she corrects her statement. “Miss Mesnier, I refuse to interpret beyond the lines.”

A succession of four clicks comes from the woman’s mouth making her disagreement with Wanda’s refusal transparent, her interest in the reading waning as her eyes idly scan the sunlit market visible through the swooping part of the curtains over the entrance of Wanda’s makeshift stall.  “Would you mind re-examining my heart line then?”  

This is the most common request Wanda gets in such readings, though usually from tittering socialites who only recently discovered the idea of romantic attraction and courtship. “I am certain it hasn’t chang-” 

Wanda’s assurance of the uselessness of the act is cut off by Miss Meisner tugging her hand, lightly enough that it remains in Wanda’s grip, but hard enough to direct her eyes to follow along with the woman’s. “Are you certain? That dapper yard-of-pump-water* is quite intently staring at me.”   

There is, in fact, a dapper man watching them, his three-piece suit and matching hat impeccable yet jarring against the rougher fabrics of the people milling about around him. His gloved hands are occupied with a simple, unshowy wicker basket, and even from this distance, she can make out the way he nervously wrings his fingers around the handle. Wanda’s lips curve upwards at the sight of him, an antsiness spreading through her body the longer she stares. “I’m sorry, Miss Mesnier,” Wanda squeezes the woman’s hand before dropping it, “he’s here for me.” 

“Oh, well,” the distinctive clink of a coin against the table harmonizes the disappointed of her voice and the rustling of the large, high-waisted skirt, “I predict fortune and love in your future then.” 

Wanda barely registers the woman leaving, her mind far more focused on the approaching form of Vision and the tentative arc of his mouth that matches her own. “Miss Maximoff,” a slight, polite bow goes along with her name. 

“I thought,” she waits until his bow is over, “we were past Miss Maximoff.” 

Embarrassment flits across his face, a quick gaze to his left accompanying the clearing of his throat as a family walks past them. “I do not wish for anyone to perceive my behavior as untoward.”   

“I see,” it’s an unfounded concern, no one in the town will likely notice or even be aware of the norms of high class culture, but Wanda determines to play along for now, both to make him feel comfortable and as a way to channel her own nervousness. “Well, Mr. Vision,” she stands just a bit taller, chin snapping up to mimic how she’s seen women in expensive parlors act, “wouldn’t it be quite untoward if you didn’t offer me your arm?” 

The effect is instantaneous, his discomfiture falling away in time with his lips turning ever so slightly up, a sight she hopes means that he has not spent the last two weeks ruminating about her abhorrent actions and all the pain she wrought on both him and Stark. “I had been informed that such offers suggest a lack of independence and I did not wish to insult your self-sufficiency.” 

His tone is surprising, wholly welcome and exhilarating, but still contrary to what she’s come to expect from him when manners are involved. “Would Robert Robert’s approve of such cheekiness?” 

“Mr. Roberts would not condone this visit in the slightest, so I suppose,” a subdued yet what she can only describe as rebellious smirk goes along with the offer of his arm, “there is no need to strictly adhere to his rules while I am here.” 

“Fascinating.” Wanda slides her arm into the triangular gap between his torso and elbow, her fingers curving gently into the folds of his jacket, and it’s only now that she realizes his hesitation at offering his arm the night she arrived unexpectedly at the manor, even through the multiple layers of fabric she can feel the hardness of the rods, if she extends her fingers she can brush the hinge at his elbow. Shame flares beneath her cheeks, something that has been common in the dark hours of the night since she moved, her thoughts relentlessly cycling through her past actions, identifying all of the signs she missed because of her narrowed focus on revenge. But she has learned that with knowledge comes the ability to rectify past ignorance, more than that, is that she is finally at peace with all that has happened, content and proud that, though she still harbors a strong, unshakable distrust towards Stark, her hands no longer erupt with scarlet when the memories stir. “So,” but now is not the time to delve back into the depths of her regrets, her past is immutable and her hand is on the future, “what is on your list?” 

“Nothing in particular,” the nonchalance of the comment is yet another surprise for a man she assumes has lists and detailed plans for every aspect of his day, control over the environment a vital aspect of his butlering. Vision pulls her gently towards a stall, “I am simply examining the potential of the merchandise.” 

Wanda watches with interest as they move through the stalls, the precision and repetition of his examination mesmerizing, whether he is investigating lettuce, carrots, radishes, cuts of meat, or gaudy penswipers, he is always diligent in selecting the most pristine specimen. “How are things at the manor?” 

A tomato is tossed back into a bin, deemed unacceptable. “Quite hectic, actually.” They move towards a cabbage stall, his lips pursing as he forms his next statement, “Mr. Stark and I are in the midst of preparing for several demonstrations and he seems to prefer completing the work in the middle of the night.” Vision’s distaste for such antics is clear, the shedding of his butler persona more pronounced the more the distance between himself and the manor increases. 

“What are you-” she stops her question, a deep vexation building at the sight of Vision paying the mustached man at their current stop, “Did you just pay forty cents** for that?” 

“I-” Vision’s eyes move between the incredulity on her face and the head of cabbage in his hand, “yes.” 

Wanda shakes her head, lips fighting against showing the mirth bubbling up at the guilty look on his face.  “You’re being swindled.” The comment is loud enough to reach the farmer at the stall, his attention quickly moving on to the next customer as he shoves the money farther into his pocket, but Wanda isn’t going to insist on rectifying the con, if she’s being wholly honest, she has, quite unapologetically, overcharged poshly dressed gentlemen for palm readings before. “I think it’s the hat.” 

Vision’s eyes rotate up to study the brim of his simple, yet elegant top hat, “I believe the absence of my hat would do little to negate the dissimilitude of my clothing.” A fact that is irrefutable, Normanskill is a labor community of roughly sixty people, almost all of whom work at the lumber mill and none of them likely own a three-piece suit, much less one near the quality of Vision’s.   

“It might be worth losing it anyway.” They both know the suggestion is ridiculous, or so she presumes his raised eyebrows indicate, but Wanda uses it as a small redirection meant exclusively to goad a more relaxed quality of conversation from the butler. The absence of any obligation to serve creates a striking difference in Vision’s demeanor, subtle enough she doubts anyone else would describe his precise movements and polite words as casual, but she finds herself growing even more enamored and fascinated with him in this setting. 

Vision gently removes his arm from hers, bending to place the overpriced cabbage into his basket before reaching up and lifting the hat from his head. “Better?” 

He is still overdressed, and will no doubt continue to be taken advantage of, yet it does create a marginally less moneyed persona. Wanda gives an affirming nod, “Much better, you should get lower prices now.” 

“I personally,” a tiny, likely-improper-for-a-butler shrug accompanies his words, “see no reason to argue over cost. Mr. Stark will not care if I pay two cents or forty, so the affront to my dignity is worthwhile if it means giving money to someone who will notice it.” 

The mindset of limitless money is foreign to her, to everyone around them, her own pockets practically empty, the people here are sensible, practical, and have relatively low levels of superstition, a fact that is both an issue for her income but also a boon for her ability to not be chased from town or have her tools thrown into a river. “That’s very noble of you.” 

Vision picks the basket back up, his top hat perched on its lid, and offers her his arm once more, ignoring the sardonic drip of her comment, “Shall we?” They stroll casually along the dirt road, occasionally stopping for Vision to buy more produce, a companionable silence between them that matches the serenity of the cloudless day. “Wanda?” She tilts her head up to look at the budding question on his face, “Are you happy here?” 

It’s a multifaceted question, happiness determined by far too many things to provide a simple but truthful answer. “No one has thrown me into a river or destroyed my belongings, so...” 

“That is good.” 

If Wanda thinks about the question deeper, however, it’s been almost thirteen years since she has experienced a moment like this—her hands calm, mind clear and unworried, and her heart palpitating at a casual, mostly even pace. When she fled to the wilder parts of New York, traveling far from the city that had first welcomed her to this new life, she believed she had left her past behind and with it the turmoil of obsessive vengeance, clearly, however, she was mistaken. Yet now that she’s in this moment, arm linked with Vision and the sun overhead, surrounded by people who are not outwardly staring or crossing themselves, she’s at peace. She squeezes his arm, relishing the small smile he gives her, “It is.” 

They stop walking eventually, the stalls behind them and a small, intricately crafted and easily recognizable carriage in front of them, “I-” the reality of the situation only becomes apparent when Vision eases his arm away, opening the door of the carriage to place the basket inside before turning back to her, hands clasped at his waist, “thank you for joining me today.” 

Wanda almost succeeds at not rolling her eyes at the supposition that she wouldn’t have spent the afternoon with him, “Of course, Vision. When-,” they had not spoken of anything beyond this first meeting, a tentative agreement to explore whether or not this would become a regular occurrence, and now that he’s leaving, Wanda knows what she hopes will be the conclusion of the experiment.  Regardless of her wants, there are two people involved, her powers snaking through her body, tempting her with the offer of an easy way to establish if he feels the same, but she clenches her fingers, determined not to resort to such measures. Wanda proceeds with what she hopes is a casual, unconcerned tone, “Do you think you’ll be frequenting this market?” 

Vision allows his eyes to roam over the small cluster of people and haphazardly built wooden stalls filled with vibrant fare. “I believe it has some merit,” words that send her heart into a maddening rhythm, one that increases at an alarming rate when he looks at her. “Unfortunately,” Wanda’s eyes narrow at the term, defeat harshly pulling her heart back into place, “the carrots are much better up in Schenectady, though,” the twisting of his sentence is dragging her through far too many emotions, the one most prevalent now is hope, anchored both on his word and the shy upturn of his mouth, “the company here is far preferable.” 

“Well there is more to see here than the market,” a fairly empty comment as there is the market, the lumber mill, one tavern, and the ravine, none of which are particularly out of the ordinary. 

Vision glances back towards the market, “I was thinking,” his uncertain gaze slides back to her, “instead, that perhaps I might make good on my promise to teach you paille maille.” 

“I believe that is an acceptable alternative.” 

Elation threatens to break the seam of his polite lips, “Then I will see you next week.”   

Wanda steps back, watching him climb into the carriage and waving as he pulls away. It’s only once he is out of view that a full-bodied grin erupts on her face, her mind already lost in the future.

The sun glints off the metal hoop half buried in the ground, it is idle, nothing changing about its position or size and yet it taunts her.  Wanda squints, readjusting her feet to be just a tad farther apart, knees bent slightly, hands wrapped firmly, but not too firmly, around the handle of her mallet. Off to the side, just barely in her periphery, she can sense an underlying flicker of cockiness in Vision’s silence, two games already down and she has not once gotten close to the hoop before him, something he keeps reassuring her is nothing to be upset about, a sentiment that would be more believable if his thrill at being victorious was not so loudly pouring from his mind. The last game she hit the ball too hard, sending it careening into the tall grass beyond their makeshift alley.  This time she is utilizing a strategy of incremental, easy hops. Her arms lift back as the head of the mallet rises behind her and then it falls with a swish through the grass, sending the ball in a small arc before it bounces and rolls to lay about a foot in front of the hoop. Satisfaction fills her arms as she swings the mallet up in front of her, bringing the head to rest proudly on her shoulder.

“That was a respectable hit.”

The satisfaction crumbles into a glare, “You can stop gloating.”

It is late in the morning and yet it is stifling, not even the shade from the tree providing a reprieve from the summer’s attack, a day that would be perfect for a dip in the lake, a thought that instantly leads to a sharp guilt as she watches Vision frown at her comment. “I am being sincere,” the surest sign of the heat is the sight of Vision sans coat and hat, though he is still in a waistcoat and shirt buttoned all the way to the top, cinched shut with a bow tie. His mallet hovers in the air, directing her attention towards the two charcoal colored balls in the grass, “You have utilized a classic block to ensure a win is not feasible on my next turn.”

“Well that was definitely the intent,” Wanda finds her entertainment at discovering his latent competitiveness outweighing her annoyance at the thinly veiled dubiousness on his face. What does not surprise her is the utter seriousness of his gameplay, every turn he walks around his ball at least three times, scrutinizing its position relative to the hoop, currently he is using his mallet to steady himself as he lowers into a squat, torso moving left and then right as he studies the predicament of her block. “You can concede my victory, if you want.”

“I believe,” he stands with a deliberate slowness, a wince occurring as he straightens his legs, “I shall attempt to persevere for a bit longer.”  One last assessment of the area and Vision nods, strolling up to his ball, mallet lining up just right of the sphere, a couple of practice swings confirm the strength and angle of his shot, and then he moves slightly, body crouching, fingers opening and then closing until his grip is perfect, and with ease he sends his ball rolling across the ground and straight into hers, sending it flying into the trunk of a tree.

“What was that, you hornswoggler***?”

A breathy laugh meets her words, his unabashed amusement in the face of dirty actions threatening to consume her own irritation. “Nothing in the rules prohibits such actions.”

The only rules she was made aware of were that they each get one hit per turn, must stay (as best they can) within the bounds of the course, and that the ball must enter the hoop from the front to win. “How convenient to leave that out.”

“It is far more important to develop the basic skills,” his face attempts to remain serious in light of his surging glee at continued domination in the game, “before introducing the intricacies of the gameplay.”

This development radically changes her perceptions of the sport and her own strategy, a wicked smirk forming on her face as she pokes the tip of her pole against the top button of his waistcoat. “Pride goeth before destruction, Vision.” Despite his face remaining neutral, even tipping towards good-natured, she does not miss the ripple of worry from his mind nor the intrigue as he watches her saunter towards the tree.

Her elbow rubs against the rough bark of the oak, one foot on a protruding root and the other on the ground. It seems impossible to recover from such a disadvantaged spot, but she reasons if interference is allowed then a small utilization of her own unique skills could fall under that rule. She notes the way Vision squints at her, the sun peaking above the tree to obscure his sight, another advantage as she sends a mist of scarlet into the ball. A hard swing and a flick of her wrist and her ball soars through the air, thudding into the dry soil just to the left of the crisscrossed surface of Vision’s ball.

There is no respectable hit this time, just a glower, a suspicious stare, and his brow wrinkling at the turn in gameplay. “Interference,” he explains, feet uncertain where to go with her ball directly in his path, “during the other player’s turn is prohibited.”

“Understood.”

An ungentlemanly sigh accompanies his decision to switch sides, hands rearranging along the mallet to adjust to the change in approach, his stance significantly less confident than before. Wanda is prepared for a conveniently strong wind to knock his ball off its path, but finds such interference unneeded, his shot too weak to reach the hoop. Vision waves his mallet towards her, a silent, somewhat sour invitation to finish the game.

The path to victory is unobscured, a bit farther of a distance than she would like, her accuracy still a work in progress, but it is likely the only chance she’ll get.  Wanda lines up, striving to ignore the intensely focused stare of her opponent, her powers surging through her arms in preparation if things go poorly, and smacks the mallet against the ball, watching it hop with each bump in the ground, its course going exactly as planned until it unexpectedly hits a particularly large rock sending it in the opposite direction of the metal hoop. Anger boils in her chest at her slow reaction, knowing if she uses her powers now it will be too obvious. “I guess you’ll be victorious yet again.”

Vision frowns, eyes flicking down at the sure victory. The moral thing to do is end the torment quickly and painlessly, something he has done quite willingly in the other matches. This time, however, he seems less ecstatic in his movements, still taking the same conscientious assessment and body position as his other turns, but he hesitates. “Vision.” It does not take a mind reader or a soothsayer to predict his considered action, her voice stern in redirecting him away from such perceived chivalry, “I don’t need your charity.” An understanding nod precedes his hit, the ball easily rolling through the hoop. “Congratulations.”

“Wanda, wait,” Wanda pauses mid-bend, her hand hovering over the etched surface of her ball, “I think it would be beneficial for you to continue, your long game is quite commendable,” there is no underlying sarcasm here, a fact that makes the day feel just a touch hotter, “but your short game is absent finesse.”

“Oh? What would you suggest?”

“Please,” he waves towards her ball, “set yourself up as you have been doing.” Wanda plays along, feet out wide and elbows bent, eyes focused on him as she waits for feedback. “This is excellent for a long range shot but for a shorter distance your feet need to be closer,” her boots shuffle towards each other while Vision hovers several feet away, gesticulating with his mallet to emphasize his instructions, “Your right foot should be a bit more forward,” she adjusts her foot, “good, now your right shoulder needs to rotate roughly,” he swivels his own shoulders, assessing the amount of movement and positioning, before providing her directions, “fifteen degrees to match your foot.”  

Wanda relaxes her body as she follows his instructions, “Better?”

“A bit more,” she acquiesces, “too much,” she brings her shoulder back, “no I—” she can sense the division in his mind, whether to remain at a respectable distance (despite the lack of onlookers) or come closer. It’s been a battle he’s been waging all day, the lack of socially acceptable reasons to be close always infuriatingly pulling him away. This time she decides to determine the outcome for him by purposely over-rotating her shoulders. Vision grimaces at her correction, “Not quite—”

Wanda strives to remain outwardly attentive yet aloof, laying the final steps of her war plan. “You can come closer, if that would help.”

Discreetly he scans their surroundings for an audience before placing his mallet on the ground, stepping forward, and puncturing the bubble of propriety, his body a foot away now, hands timidly held in the air, acting as if they have never touched, that she has not held his hand, nor run her fingers along his skin, that he himself did not wrap his hands around her waist and pull her close. But to acknowledge those moments would require them to rip open barely healed wounds, and there has been a silent contract between them to simply enjoy these meetings, pushing back any reckoning and unanswered questions for another time. “May I?”

As much as she wishes to act like he is alone in this nervousness, the question causes her heart to betray her attempt at self-control, face growing hotter as if the temperature of the day is controlled by the nearness of his hands. “Of course.”

His fingers curl around her upper arms, applying a slight pressure to turn her body. Wanda tries to remain relaxed in his grip despite the fluttering tingle overtaking her being while her eyes scan his features, mesmerized at the wind stirring the hairs just above his ears. “There,” the comfort of his touch vanishes and Wanda considers ruining her stance to bring him back but he moves away from her too quickly. “Now you should be focusing on a point just beyond the hoop.” Advice he gave her at the very beginning of their time together, a task that should be easy yet the rustle of his clothing behind her and the proximity of his person is distracting. “I have-Wanda remember to keep your eyes beyond the hoop.”

“Sorry.”

“I have my hand up behind you,” a statement that tempts her eyes but she resists, keeping her attention on the ground while his voice fills the air around her, “on your backswing go until you’ve touched my palm and then let the mallet fall naturally, like a pendulum.”

She doesn’t want to potentially hurt him and so she uses a painstakingly slow pace to lift the mallet, each slight increase in its ascent feels enormous until she finally meets resistance. “So just let it go?”

“Yes, and let your body follow.” She does, arms falling along the arc of the mallet and her hips swiveling slightly at the momentum and they both watch as the ball rolls into the hoop. “Soon,” Wanda turns excitedly towards him, surprised to find him directly behind her, the right side of his mouth wistfully tilted up, “you will be unstoppable and I will need to retire.”

Wanda returns the smile while bringing the handle of the mallet between them, offering it to him, “So would you like to test that prediction?”

“A very tempting offer.” 

“But?” 

“But,” he dips his hand into the small pocket of his waistcoat, thumb clicking open his pocket watch, “I promised Mr. Stark I would be back by sundown and I need to go to Rensselaer before returning.” 

A cloud of scarlet forms in her hands, fingers directing strands to engulf the equipment, drawing the objects to levitate next to them. She is acutely aware of his undivided attention and the way his eyes move with the sway of her powers—intrigued and unafraid, no trace of hesitation as he reaches into the red mist to grab the mallets in one hand and the balls in the other, leaving the hoop for her. There is a tiny smile on his face, the quality of which is different from his others, it is still polite, but almost, if she were to allow a small flight of fancy, adoring. “What?” 

Vision’s shoulders inch up and then drop, the smile disappearing as he talks, though the tone of his voice maintains its effervescent character, “I have found myself contemplating” now he slides back into his typical reserved staccato, “almost daily the efficiency your abilities would add to my work, it’s um,” and now the confession falters, his eyes desperately searching her face for some sign he has not offended her, “not to diminish the—” 

Her powers are a curse, a reminder of all she has experienced, the death of her parents, of her brother, her descent into an unforgivable life, and yet here is someone who sees none of that, considers her powers fascinating and efficient whilst glossing over the horror they have caused to his own life. The scarlet rescinds into her palms, sparking lightly at her fingers. Perhaps it is time to consider reorienting her own views, embracing instead of fearing what is inside her. “It is quite useful,” she closes her hands around the hoop, fully extinguishing her powers and with them the conversation as she parts from him, guiding him down the path back to his carriage, “You are very good at paille maille.” 

“Yes, only because I have the advantage of experience. Mr. Stark and I,” Vision keeps his eyes forward as he answers, “play at least three times a week and I also,” now the surety of his voice lessens, gaze never leaving the gentle slope of the mountains ahead of them, “played competitively while at university.” 

The image of this other version of him is hazy in her mind, a specter of a lost time she has no expectations of ever knowing. “You know you don’t have to tell me about,” she’s not sure what to say, if she means the person he was or the life he had, “if you’d rather not dwell on the past, you aren’t obligated to share.” 

He finally glances at her, his pace slowing moderately, a contemplative silence descending around them. “I truly appreciate that, Wanda.” A tight, painfully mannered smile follows along with the statement. “But I feel disingenuous, given your knowledge, to not share when the information is pertinent.” 

“Thank you for sharing,” the persistent downturn of his features is enough motivation to offer a slightly new focus, “now that I know your expertise, I think it will be my mission to best you next week.” 

Vision doesn’t smile but his lips do return to the equilibrium of neutrality, “I suppose I should leave these,” he holds his hands out to show her the equipment, “for you to practice and, in your favor, Mr. Stark and I will actually be out of town for several weeks, thus you will have ample time to improve.” 

Her feet stop moving as she turns towards him, “You’re leaving?” 

“Yes,” when her stare does not move, Vision swivels to face her, an apologetic, apprehensive slant to his features, “Mr. Stark and I are traveling to New York City next week for the Exhibition of Industry-” 

His admittance from the market floats up from her memories. “Is that why you’ve been working late at night?” 

“Yes, and all the traversing,” something she wondered about as well, each time they’ve met he’s he mentioned numerous towns in the area, but nothing in all the time she has known him indicated his job required much traveling beyond the closest market. “We,” he shifts his arms to counteract the awkward grip he has on the mallets and balls, “well, Mr. Stark, will be bringing three inventions, he is even tasked with performing the opening demonstration for the Exhibition.” 

Wanda can’t contain her scoff at this information, “As if he is not self-absorbed enough.” 

A commiserate and exasperated chuckle meets her words, “Yes, he has required me to watch his performance numerous times, it is unnecessarily showy, in my opinion.” 

It seems wrong for Vision to go, though why, exactly is beyond her grasp of comprehension, or at least, a reason beyond her own selfish desire to spend time with him. If she recalls correctly, Stark returned from the city while she was at the manor, a seemingly clear precedent of traveling alone, a fact that feels pertinent and separate from her own reasons for being upset at the journey. “Why is he forcing you to go?” 

Vision’s face falls at her choice of words. “Mr. Stark wishes to have my expertise in case any of the circuitry malfunctions.” A reasonable explanation, though she would expect no less from the man in front of her.  “I was hoping,” he shifts his body along with the movement of the conversation, eyes glancing towards his carriage down the path, an apparent discomfort at leaving with her annoyed, “if you were amenable, that I might visit before I leave.” 

Wanda scrutinizes him, taking in the slight hunch of his shoulders and the crystalline blue of his eyes in the sun, “Yes,” the effect of assent on his features is rapid, body straightening out while becoming slightly less rigid and a softness overtaking his eyes, “Vision, you are always welcome.”  

Wanda rushes between the lines of laundry hanging behind the house, hands plucking sheets and shoving them into a bag while her powers yank down the few skirts and blouses she has amassed to form a new, measly wardrobe, which is why she’ll be damned if they are ruined in this storm.  She has never lived on a homestead like this, her meager earnings from fortune telling typically affording her a bed in a shared room, at most a single room in a larger tenement, but now she finds herself with space, a small wooden home, sparsely furnished with an actual bedroom, a one stall stable, and a coop she has yet to fill. It is too much, or should be, no one has come to collect payments and Vision tactfully avoids the topic each time it is raised. She doesn’t push him too much though, worried the truth may force her to give this up and the freedom of solitude is far too exquisite, waking to the whisper of the earth each morning a wonderful influence on her mental tranquility. The only downside, so far, to her separation from people, is during moments like now, the sky growing dark, grumbling in the distance as the wind picks up, sending the trees into a shiver. 

She finishes her task, rushing to the porch as a peel of thunder rattles the wooden posts holding up the roof and the sky opens. Her breathing evens out now that she’s protected, heart returning to a normal level that brings it to be just slower than the beat of the raindrops. 

A faint rumble rises from just beyond the hill, too rhythmic and hurried to be from the sky, the likely culprit a carriage, but that seems ludicrous in such weather. Wanda walks to the end of the porch, her hands wrapping tightly around the bag at her hip as her eyes strain to make out any movement through the curtain of water.  No one ever approaches from this direction, the town of Normanskill itself a quarter of a mile south of her, and there are other, better roads to travel for traders who wish to go to the town center. A scowl drags her mouth down, eyes widening when the idiotic traveler crests the hill. She drops the bag immediately, marching to the center of the porch as the carriage pulls up, her voice loud and failing utterly at keeping her worried fury contained, “Vision, are you an imbecile?” 

“Yes,” the tremble in his voice is clear even above the thunder, “may I please use your stable?” 

How he insists on remaining socially respectable confounds and infuriates her, scarlet oozing from her hands as she points at him, “Get down and come inside,” he begins to gesture towards the stable, “now!” 

Hurriedly, and quite uncivilly, he scrambles down from the carriage, four loping steps bring him onto the porch. “Wanda, I—” 

Her hands connect with his back, shoving him towards the open doorway and away from the rain starting to blow sideways into the porch, “Inside.” Thankfully the horse is docile as Wanda leads it through the rain, whinnying softly in what she assumes is contentment once it is safely inside the stable. She turns towards the downpour, fists clenched and pulsing with red.

Wanda stomps through the collecting puddles, the edge of her skirt soaking up the water almost as fast as her blouse, but she doesn’t care, her attention honed in on the worried fluctuations of Vision’s mind. He is standing in the middle of the room, hat rotating in an uneasy circle between his fingers, far enough from the door to escape the stray drops coming in but still close enough to watch her approach. A polite host (or so she’s gathered from watching people at her séances) always offers to free a guest of unnecessary clothing, doubtfully, however, by sheathing a hat in scarlet, roughly tearing it from his hands, and tossing it on the table. “What were you thinking?” 

“In my defense,” statements starting as such are not what she wants to hear as she circles around him, not caring if he views her actions as untoward when she runs her hands along his jacket to assess its saturation, “it was a pleasant day when I left this morning.” 

“Your jacket is soaking.” 

Vision is already unbuttoning his jacket before she finishes the sentence, hands moving automatically as he continues to explain his abhorrent decision making, “I had to go to Clarksville to collect a number of custom welded parts,” he slips his arms out of the jacket and Wanda grabs it with her powers, sending it to hang on a hook in the wall, “it was not until I was several miles from the town that the weather grew menacing.” She walks around him, palms skimming the silk back of his waistcoat before transitioning to the textured brocade of the front, the cloth only mildly damp in some places, “By then I had three options, I could return to Clarksville, I could pull off to the side of the road and sit inside the carriage with the machinery, or I knew you were equidistant to me as was Clarksville.” The explanation, of course, makes sense, his rationale fairly seamless and lacking any sign of illogic despite still being foolish, “Miss Maximoff.” 

“What?” 

There is a gorgeous smile on his face, one so at odds with the anxiety strangling her mind that it holds her body in stasis, “Are you done undressing me yet?” 

“I—” Wanda looks down, somewhat horrified at catching her fingers actively undoing the last button of his waistcoat, a blush searing along her neck at the realization, but she collects herself, sliding the button confidently through its hole while adjusting her tone to match the merriment in his eyes, “Depends, do your gas pipes**** need to come off too?” 

Her forwardness seems to stun him, eyes widening, brows arching, and what might even be a pinkish tinge forming on his cheekbones as he stutters out a weak retort, “I do not believe that is necessary, I was barely in the rain.” He steps back, breaking her contact with him, regaining some semblance of control and rigor over his voice, and finishes removing the vest, his eyes never leaving her. “If it is acceptable to be concerned about clothing, then might I suggest you change as well.” 

“What...” Now that he seems fine, not a trace of concern or fear left in his mind, all wet articles of clothing removed (at least the ones he is willing to part with), Wanda becomes keenly aware of her own dripping garments and the feel of wet hair falling out of her usually tight bun. “I’ll be right back, please um, get comfortable.” 

When she returns to him, clothing blissfully dry and her damp hair loose, he is still standing in the center of the room, absentmindedly plucking his gloves off while his eyes roam over the minimal decor—a table with three chairs, a small cabinet where she keeps her dry food and cookery, a hearth, and a two-seat settee. What she had considered spacious now feels dreadfully inadequate under his inspection. “It’s not a manor.” 

Vision turns to her, confusion marring his forehead at her apologetic tone, “It is perfectly adequate. I apologize for imposing on you, I am certain you had other things—” 

“Vision,” one cycle of apologies is already too many, whatever her afternoon was going to entail, this is far preferable, “I told you, you are always welcome.” Vision is not her first guest, that honor went to Clint and his eldest son, Cooper, the other week, but where that visit felt easy with little expectation of cordial etiquette, Wanda now realizes she has no notion at how, precisely, to host someone who knows every last rule for such things. She is, however, fairly sure that standing in the middle of a room staring at one another is not considered acceptable. “Would you like to sit?” 

The options are limited, his eyes first moving to the couch but that, she has already reckoned, would require their legs to touch, and thus she isn’t surprised, maybe a touch disappointed, when he takes a seat at the table. “Will you join me?” 

“Of course,” Wanda is aware the appropriate seat to take is the one across from him, an innocuous distance for respectable interactions, which is why she bypasses the chair, settling herself at the head of the table, her feet knocking lightly against his as she adjusts to be comfortable. Now that they’re close, the threat of the weather kept at bay by the walls around them, she can see the exhaustion manifesting in darkening circles beneath his eyes, even his body is less poised, leaning forward with his hands on the table. “So,” his hands are actually on the table, no gloves present nor is he shoving them in his pockets, and it sends a thrill down her spine to know he feels this level of comfort around her.

“My apologies.” 

Vision’s hands begin to retreat, but she reaches out, trapping them in a tentative embrace. “No,” the fact he has not flinched nor attempted to remove himself from her grip encourages her to remain touching him, a firm, earnest squeeze hopefully conveying her gratitude at his openness, “I’m sorry for staring.” 

Vision nods, a perceptive smile on his lips as he returns the squeeze, absolving her misstep.  “It is fine.” 

 “Tell me,” Wanda sits back, reluctantly pulling her hand from his, not wanting to cause him too much social discomfort at the onset of their gathering, “what is so important about this exhibition that Stark is fine putting you in danger?” 

The light jab at Stark is artfully sidestepped with a raised eyebrow of dissent, nothing more. “It is an event to showcase the industrial advancements from around the world. Mr. Stark attended the Great Exhibition two years ago in London.” 

“Did you go as well?” 

Vision threads his fingers together, a melancholic air instilling his actions, “I journeyed with him, otherwise I would have had to forgo my treatments and, well, at that point I had finally managed to walk properly and,” the pause in his thought is deafening and she desperately wants to find something to say, yet her own tongue is silent. Vision shakes his head, a small movement not even strong enough to stir his hair, “but I did not attend the actual exhibition, thankfully, as Mr. Stark was approached by several of my prior contemporaries. It sounded marvelous, however, so much so that once we returned Mr. Stark immediately formed a coalition amongst several private businesses and now,” he waves his hands much like she’s seen mesmerists do when the finale has concluded in their show, though Vision’s is less expressive and showy, “the Exhibition starts on the 14th, even President Pierce will be there.” 

“I don’t view that as a selling point.” 

This receives a deep laugh, one she knows would never occur outside the freedom of their current privacy just as the unfettered delight in his voice would be silenced if just one more person were present, “Mr. Stark is actually hosting a private soirée at the same time as the President’s in protest of his tacit support for the anti-abolitionists.” 

An entertaining fact, one that won’t change her view of Stark, only reaffirming the extraordinary protection of wealth. People will no doubt laugh at Stark, roll their eyes and whisper about the eccentric millionaire whereas if she were seen at such an event, her deportation would be imminent, a concern that shifts to the man next to her, “Are you attending that?” 

“No,” the strength and immediacy of his answer is reassuring, “I purposefully remain at a distance from such topics in public. My only occupational requirements for this trip are Mr. Stark’s inventions and upkeep of Stark Tower.” An imposing structure, one of the only buildings in the city over five stories and one she has possibly cursed at several times in passing. “I have also been ordered,” a word she loathes and almost comments on until he smiles broadly, “to take personal time and enjoy the Exhibition.” 

“Good,” she matches his grin, fighting the temptation to reach out and touch his hand again, “You work too hard for that man.” 

Another avoidance of her commentary changes the focus of their conversation, “How is your business?” A topic they have danced around, for the most part, one that veers them awfully close to thoughts they’ve kept prohibited from their time together. 

“Um,” the easiest tactic is to mirror Vision, avoid it with a wave of a hand or a subtle shift back to him, yet that would only continue them down a road of leaving things that might need to be said unsaid and she doesn’t want that as a cornerstone of their relationship, whatever that relationship may be. “Poorly, actually,” Vision sits up straighter, concern overtaking every inch of his face, “they don’t seem terribly interested in palm readings.” 

His mouth opens, then shuts, a finger raised to ask for a moment’s patience and she watches him stand, walk to where his coat is hanging and rifle through the inside pockets until he pulls out a box and a small, leather bound notebook. “Would it help,” apprehension fills his movements as he returns to his seat, laying the easily recognizable box on the table, “if you could expand your offerings?” 

“How long have you been carrying those around?”

Carefully he opens the lid of the box, removing the cards in two stacks before placing them on the table, his eyes never quite meeting hers, “Since you refused to take them, I, um,” he fiddles with the notebook now, flipping the pages back and forth, showing her the meticulous lines of his writing, “have been transcribing the cards during my downtime and thought you or we—” 

When he first offered her this gift it instilled in her an anger, her refusal predicated on not wanting to think of him whenever she used the tarot cards, of needing to throw away all memory of her time at the manor. Perceptions can shift, however, quite swiftly and strongly, a burgeoning excitement now racing through her body at the thoughtfulness of the action. “You want me to write the Sokovian next to each one.” 

“Yes.” The syllable is drawn out as both a statement and a question, his plan predicated on her agreement and also her ability to write, something that is not a guarantee for individuals of their backgrounds. Luckily her parents were strong advocates of education, insisting she and Pietro spend extra time at the synagogue each week to learn all they could. 

Wanda reaches out, drawing the notebook towards her, “Do you have anything to write with?” Another raised finger and another journey to his coat concludes in her holding an intricate metal fountain pen*****, “Okay,” she tests the pen on the paper, impressed at the smoothness of the writing, “what’s first?” 

Slowly he turns each card, reading her the words at the bottom and then showing her where on the sheet he has it written, his face remaining close to hers as he watches her, an inquisitiveness filling his mind at the translations. The whole activity is calming, diversions peppered throughout as he asks her some interpretations. Apparently, he has been reading about the practice of tarot, finding the disproportionate numbers of alternative meanings alarming. It’s as they move from the major arcana to the cups, that his next line of questioning begins, “Wanda.” 

“Yes?” 

Vision stares at a card, lips pursed and eyes distant in thought, “Did you know English, before immigrating?” 

She’d been expecting another spirited debate on whether a reversed card should be interpreted differently from its usual meaning, not a step into her past, but she obliges, not wanting to be disingenuous, as Vision himself argued the other day, by denying such information. “None, I learned it to survive once I got here.” Amazement bursts from his mind, procuring a small half smile from her, encouraging her to share a bit more. “I actually,” at the time she found the method demoralizing, only in retrospect is she able to accept the somewhat humorous methods of her early months in the city, “I would have to mime what I wanted, sometimes I would resort to clucking to buy chicken.” 

“I never,” he pauses, words escaping him as he looks at her, admiration clear in his features, one she doesn’t particularly feel she deserves, “It must have been quite difficult.” 

Wanda nods at the understatement, “It was, fortunately after several months I ended up renting a room from a couple who were kind enough to teach me.” 

The information is factual, surface level, which means the deep contemplation on his face spurs the nervousness growing in her stomach, she has no issue being truthful, but she is worried that too much truth might lead to an irreparable judgment of her.  Wanda stands, channeling her nerves into ambling towards the window to confirm the rain is still falling. When she turns back he is watching her, head cocked to the side and his face serious, “Why did you leave Sokovia?” 

The tapestry of her life is stitched in a complicated pattern, not one thread able to tell the entire story, yet all it might take to unravel the deeply buried secrets of her life is a tug of gentle, earnest curiosity in a tantalizing accent. She needs time to determine what to say, her mind having been consumed with how he would view her simply based on the séance that she devoted little of her cogitation to explaining the rest, justifying the unjustifiable so as not to scare him away. This, she realizes, is a weakness she had avoided since Pietro died, a strong and unwavering commitment to never grow attached or settle roots. How she allowed it to happen is concerning, but not enough to run just yet, the promise of something more buried in his eyes incredibly alluring.  “Are you hungry?”

Vision blinks rapidly, half rising out of his chair as he responds, “I suppose I could eat, may I help with anything?” 

“You can sit,” he’s too kind, too honest, too genuine for her, “I only have bread and cheese inside, not much to prepare.” The cabinet door blocks her from his sight, his attention stifling in a way that is both desirable and terrifying, her heart torn between celebrating his interest and fleeing into the night. The latter option is not actually considered because she knows he’d follow and she won’t do that to him twice. Wanda returns to the table with two tin plates, no ornate designs or even shiny surfaces to compare to what she used at the manor. She lights a lantern, turning the knob to illuminate the tabletop as the sun sets. “So why Vision?” 

“Pardon?” 

Wanda nibbles on her bread, the diversion faltering already, “Why did you choose Vision for your name?” 

His gaze is wary, a flash of hurt at her redirection, but unlike her he answers, keeping it brief yet informative. “Whenever Mr. Stark was explaining the procedures and the results of my surgeries, the one thing he kept saying to me as reassurance whenever I wanted to give up, was that I was a vision of the future of medicine. If this worked for me, think of how many others could be helped by the same procedure.” He shrugs, eyes turned down towards the plate. “It felt appropriate to assume that as my identity, merely a vision, nothing more.” 

“You are far more than that.” 

A small smile dismisses the affirmation, leaving them to eat in silence, the air around them growing more humid as the rain continues, even the small movement of eating a piece of bread meeting resistance. It is not the weather, however, that Wanda finds most uncomfortable, that causes her lungs to malfunction and her breathing to be labored, no it is that his question hangs in the air despite his politeness to not repeat it. If she wants to lose him, to return to a life of no ties then she should remain silent. “I left Sokovia because I literally had nothing left there.” Empathy curves his mouth down, his food forgotten as he stares at her. “After my parents died, my brother,” she corrects herself, deciding it isn’t worth minimizing the uniqueness of the experience nor the striking pain of losing the other half of her soul, “My twin, Pietro, we survived for many years, odd jobs and some stealing,” she pauses, gauging his response to the minor crime of survival but nothing changes, his gaze unmoving and his mind is calm with openness to hear her experience. “I told you that I volunteered for the procedure for,” Wanda sets her hand ablaze. 

“Yes, you did.” 

“Pietro was with me, he went through it too.” 

The first crack in his visage occurs, a wrinkle protruding from his forehead. “Why?” 

Wanda has asked herself this question numerous times, both with Pietro and after, nothing ever feeling wholly right but that assumes all behavior makes perfect sense. “It paid well,” so well that it wasn’t until she moved to upstate New York that she ran out of the money saved from their trials, “really well, on purpose, I assume, to tempt vulnerable people into the program.” The next part of their motivation is stronger than the money, a firmer, more, in her mind, logical reason for their willingness to be turned into monsters, “They also promised employment if you made it through the experiments,” but she can’t bring herself to tell him the whole truth of this employment, of the guarantee of revenge instilled in their duties. 

“Did they tell you beforehand what they were doing?” 

“No.” 

The empathy fades into an irritation, one that keeps descending into anger, his voice hardened, “That is despicable, that is malign manipulation.” 

There is no denying his statement, his anger mirrored in herself as well. “It was,” she and Pietro almost left after the first round of surgeries, the pain immense, debilitating, but with each procedure and each advancement in the program, with each person that died instead of them, the money increased. “But that’s not the worst of it.” She takes his horrified silence as acquiescence to continue, “After they were done we moved back to Novi Grad, were able to afford an apartment, could eat full meals every meal.” 

“Wanda, what happened?” It’s whispered, tentative, almost regretful, but he won’t look away, desperate to show her he is listening. 

She already told him of Stark’s swift removal from Sokovia, the lasting impact it had on the economy which became a major factor in the way their country responded to other regional events, “There was unrest, rumors of revolutions in the other territories of the Empire*****,” she remembers Pietro’s face when they heard of the German resistance and then of the uprisings in Prague, his heart drumming even faster than his feet at the notion of leading a revolt in their own collapsing city. “Hungary had just changed laws, restricted our language, our trade abilities, our religion.” As the tensions rose in the city, they were instructed to keep a low profile while in public, use of their abilities prohibited unless they were on official business for the Baron, but Pietro started pushing back, questioning why he could not use his speed to help his country. “People were angry and superstitious and ready to fight.” It was a fire in a hospital, people whispered that the Austrian army started it, others said it was Sokovian rebels, regardless of the arsonist, she and Pietro determined they had to help. “Someone saw me use my powers to save a woman from a fire.” Wanda can feel tears on her cheeks, a shaky inhale doing nothing to steady the quiver of her voice, and she finds she can’t look at him any longer, can’t handle the sadness and fear in his eyes. “They accused me of being a witch, they started throwing rocks, bricks, whatever was near, and they were screaming, the crowd just kept growing. Then someone tried to shoot me. Pietro, he,” the image of his body stiffening and then folding in on itself as he fell to the ground is forever burned into her memory, the hollowness of his eyes haunt her almost as much as the fact she never got to cradle him or say goodbye, a supposedly well-meaning man yanking her from the crowd before she died too. “I couldn’t stay there without him.” She can’t hold in the sob, feels her own body crumple, mild confusion cutting through her tears when she lands against a shirt and not the table. 

Vision wraps his arms around her, hugging her close while whispering apologies into her hair, his heart pounding beneath her cheek, the metallic waft of his body bringing her gradually back to the present. She weakly attempts to break from his embrace, palms pressed against his chest as she pushes just far enough away to see his dampened eyes. “Wanda,” her name breaks in half as he says it, his arms rearranging from hugging her to tucking his elbows into his sides, his hands cupping her face, thumbs wicking away the tears crashing down her cheeks. “You,” he strokes her skin with each word, “are extraordinary.” 

The barrier of his hands makes it hard for her to vehemently shake her head, “No, I’m not.” 

A smile cracks under his tears, “You are the single most extraordinary person I have ever met.” 

“No,” he doesn’t know what he’s condoning, his basis of her character relying on partial truths that glance over the most unsavory bits of her life, “you should be terrified of me.” 

He shakes his head, denying her statement without reservation, “I have no reason to be fearful of you, Wanda.” 

“I don’t believe that.” 

“If you truly doubt the veracity of my statement,” it is almost painful, the loss of his hands on her face until he reaches down and grabs her shaking hand, guiding it to his cheek, “you are always welcome to look for yourself.” 

Only Pietro ever gave such a statement, this level of trust unwarranted, misguided, and exceptionally foolish. It is possible he misunderstands the breadth of his offer. “You’re aware you are giving me permission to access your thoughts at any time?” 

“Yes,” his eyes light up, beckoning her into her head. “I have faith you will do so judiciously.” 

It is very tempting to dive in, feel the soothing rhythm of his orderly thoughts, but she can’t, not without confirming he truly understands his offer. “How?” 

He repeats his earlier sentiment, as if it should be readily assumed and unquestionable, “There is no reason for me to distrust your intentions towards me.” 

“You have every reason to distrust me.” 

“No,” the joy fades from his eyes, replaced by a steadfast certainty and strength that stirs a fire in her chest at how seamlessly his devotion and single-mindedness transfers to her. “I will concede that Mr. Stark has every reason to distrust you,” truer words have possibly never been spoken, “but, I do not.” 

“Vision.” 

He does not allow her to counter him yet, “Did you harm me? Yes, immensely,” an admission that causes her to wince, “but it was done inadvertently. I understand and respect your disdain towards Stark though I do not condone your actions,” a fact he has made clear in his avoidance of her demeaning remarks towards the man. “Yet I also believe that relying only on the worst aspects of behavior and negating the good can lead to illogically prejudiced beliefs. Thus,” Vision bends his head to make sure their eyes are level, the brilliant blue of his eyes sparkling in the light of the lantern, “it seems reasonable to separate your treatment and beliefs of Stark from your view of me. Or am I wrong in my assumption?” 

How she found this man must involve sorcery or kismet—kindness, understanding, and a propensity to forgive an uncommon match. “You are nothing like Stark.” 

He places his hand over hers, his face almost as confident as it was during paille maille except for a tenderness in his eyes, one that seems to melt her resolve and give in to the sensation of being two souls swirling together by the flickering light of a dying lantern. “That only confirms my point, you have never harbored animosity towards me. Even after you learned my own secrets, nothing changed. You treat me with the same respect and you still insist on challenging my views instead of reaffirming my place in this world.” 

“Some of your views are terribly askew.” 

His laughter is joyous, twining through her being, igniting her soul, “Yes, I have discovered my ignorance now.” 

Wanda wiggles her thumb free from the cocoon of his hand, running it along his cheek, enthralled at the effect it has, his eyes closing and she realizes how close they are, how all it would take is to lean forward and shatter the last boundary of propriety.  It is immensely tempting, not just to test the waters of mutual affection but to also eschew sleep, stay wrapped in his honeyed voice, allow his subdued laughter and intense gaze to consume her body, but she knows he has barely slept, worries this closeness is a mixture of empathy, exhaustion, and politeness.  “It is quite late.” 

Vision’s mouth dips at her statement, the disappointment in his eyes is painful, but far more excruciating is the moment he leans back, severing their connection as he pats his hands against his chest. A tendril of scarlet leaves her hand retrieving the pocket watch from his discarded waistcoat. His frown deepens when he clicks open the lid. “It is very late.” He tries hard to make the statement sound authoritative, yet his own remorse at confirming the undeniable truth causes a quivering hesitation to shake the words.  A moment later Vision stands, slightly uneven strides bringing him to the door where he examines the pitch black night that no longer rings with rain. “The tavern has beds, correct?" 

“You can’t seriously think it's a good idea to travel now.” 

Despite the gradual easing of his behaviors and the loosening of his resolve to remain proper at all times, the overall influence of his deeply ingrained manners is still strong. “I do not wish to impose further.” 

“You can stay.” 

Her words draw him two steps back into the room, though his face is still not wholly convinced of accepting the offer. “What will people think, if I stay?” The concern in his voice isn’t for him, but for the flimsy social code that polices behavior, particularly against women if there is any blame to be had. 

Wanda shrugs, “No one knows you’re here, Vision. And if they find out,” she channels her own fluttering nervousness at the possibility of staying with him longer into a feigned nonchalance, hoping not only to convince him to remain but to also, perhaps, decipher the true meaning of his intentions, “They will simply assume it was a bundling******”. 

“I-um, I,” 

The fact he does not outright deny it or question it, that he doesn’t ask why they would think such a thing or deem it a preposterous statement enlivens her confidence, a wry smile growing on her lips as she pushes the notion more, “I mean ever since your first visit there’s been a flurry of gossip about my handsome suitor,” a mostly accurate statement, there have been many pointed looks and some bawdy inquiries from Mrs. Meisner and the other bored ladies of a dizzy age******* “No one would mind, they might even expect it.” 

The flabbergasted expression on his face shifts, moving first to denial, then consideration, waltzing briefly with confusion, until it settles on a deeply invested gaze of scrutiny. “Does it trouble you that such prurient******** assumptions may be made?” 

The question brings her to the precipice of her wants for the future, to remain independent, alone, unattached which is safer, or to forge ahead with something new, that carries with it a high price of potential pain if it crumbles. “No.” 

He takes three more steps into the room, the door shutting behind him with an echoing thud and her heart sings at the victory. “I suppose I can stay but I insist on sleeping on the settee.” 

Wanda tamps down the rebellious urge to jostle him further by suggesting her bed, an option he’d in the best scenario laugh nervously at but decline and in the worst, say no and flee into the night. “Of course.”  They find themselves back at the beginning of his visit, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, staring and waiting for the other to set the course of what comes next. Honestly, Wanda doesn’t know what should occur, how far she can interpret his responses, whether he actually wants the people to think they are in a courtship or if he is simply falling back on politeness as he is wont to do. She gives him a curt nod and a “Goodnight, Vision,” turning towards the bedroom to place the decision in his hands. 

“Wanda?” 

The whisper of her name ties itself around her heart and pivots her back towards him, “Vision?” 

“I wanted to thank you for allowing me to stay. I-” the words are ushered out by the restless waving of his fingers and another step towards her, his eyes seemingly torn between her face and watching his hands betray his nerves, “thoroughly enjoyed your company.” 

The emphasis he puts on the thoroughly seems to shrink the room around them, increasing her own awareness of how close they are standing, his even breaths echoing around her and she fears he might be able to hear the rampant drumming of her heart. Wants are dangerous things, unnecessary diversions that can only complicate life, and yet her decision earlier is only strengthened in this moment, staring up into the confused yet curious gaze of this man, of how very much she wants to be closer to him, in numerous literal and figurative ways. Wanda takes a step forward and the room shrinks even more, the space around them narrowing so much any movement, even a simple inhale, would cause them to touch. So Wanda continues, a half step forward brings her chest to brush his and a stream of scarlet from the hand at her hip helps steady her as she rises onto her toes, other hand coming to lay on his shoulder. “Me too.” The cessation of his breath and the crumbling of his calm and orderly thoughts as she presses her lips to his cheek confirms what she had hoped, that perhaps it isn’t merely civility influencing his actions. 

Wanda flashes him a demure smirk as she lowers herself back to the ground, her tongue preparing to say another good night before she sneaks away to privately relish her bravery, but the intensity of his stare gives her pause. “Vision?” His continued silence is disconcerting and a quick, hopefully unnoticed brush of his mind uncovers a fascinating phenomenon as his thoughts seem to collapse into a tight bundle of single-minded ideation. Earlier he had offered her access to his mind whenever she pleased, and now her curiosity, her desire to know his thoughts, gives her the courage to accept that offer, his breath hitching as she lays her palm to his jaw, “May I?” A silent nod grants her permission and she enters his mind.  A broad, goading grin shoves her cheeks up at what he allows her to read. “I’d very much like that.” 

It takes a moment for him to translate her consent and piece it together with her presence in his mind, but once the puzzle is complete, Vision smiles softly, bringing his hands to her face in a purposefully lazy pace, his fingertips skimming along her skin until her cheeks are cupped by his palms.  Wanda’s own smile has to defy the laws of anatomical possibility by growing wider, expanding from her mouth to fill her entire body, her hands wrapping excitedly around his wrists, the contrast between his skin and the metal captivating, and she uses her grip on him to pull herself up just as he bends down. The kiss is tender yet chaste, polite but not devoid of passion, an unspoken, ineffable rightness in the way his lips move ever so slightly against hers. Much too soon he pulls back, his thumb brushing her cheek as he stares into her eyes, flashing her a charming, spoony******** smile that she immediately reciprocates. “You know,” she grips his wrists a bit tighter, “If they believe we’re bundling already…” 

A self-conscious, though charmed, laugh meets her words; if the light was just a bit brighter she knows there’d be a blush on his face to match the one in his mind. “Goodnight, Wanda.” 

“Goodnight, Vision.”  

Victorian Language Decoder:

* yard-of-pumpwater: tall and lanky man

**In 1853, in a small town with steady jobs, the average daily wage was between $1-$1.50

***hornswaggler: cheater

****gas-pipes: Pants, typically particularly tight ones, though I doubt Vision wears tight pants. I just liked the term

*****The fountain pen with an ink reservoir was first available in the 1700s but didn’t meet mass production until around the 1830s in England and the 1850s in the US.

******During the 1840s a series of revolts started where the countries ruled under the Austrian Empire (including Germany, Austria, and most of Eastern Europe) were beginning to demand autonomy, largely encouraged by economic depression and food shortages. The first big revolts were in Poland and Germany in 1846 and then from 1846-1848 there were major uprisings in Slovakia, Romania, and Croatia (there were others but those are closest to where Sokovia would be located).

*******Bundling: a practice in courtship where the two people are wrapped/bundled together in bed (apparently, they were given separate blankets) and were expected to spend the evening talking (I’m sure there was lots of “talking”). It was not super common in the 1800s, but was still practiced in many places in upper NY and Pennsylvania into the late 1800s. There was actually a NY court case (Graham v. Smith, 1846) about the seduction of a 19-year-old woman, but the court was like – “What did you expect to happen when you had them bundle?!” (not a direct quote)

******* Dizzy age: elderly

********prurient: having or encouraging an excessive interest in sexual matters

*********spoony: foolishly amorous/stupid with love