#sigh not the greatest quality but alas

[maries-tales]

WHERE THEY LIKE TO KISS YOU

characters: Julian, Aaron, Adam

warnings: suggestive, mentions of dark content, mdni

JULIAN: Nape 

Of course during his time watching you Julian learned to love every inch of you, every nook and cranny of both your looks and your personality. From your qualities to your worst flaws, he loves it all and takes it all as yet another part of you. 

Exception being those nasty habits you have of neglecting your sleep and your health, those are things Julian likes to think he can change. 

However he always found himself especially attracted to your nape. For many reasons. 

He loves how elegant it is when you wear your hair up, which, to his greatest enjoyment, is most of the time considering your hair is more often than not up in a ballet bun. 

He loves the gentle slope of your nape as well, how soft the skin is and how it always smells of your perfume. All that makes it the perfect spot for him to bury his face in the crook of your neck and bathe in the comfort of your scent. 

The one thing he loves most about it is how sensitive it is though. No matter how many times he’s wrapped his arms around you from behind and kissed you there, you always lean into his touch with a sound between a sigh and a gasp. 

You’re sitting up on the bed, tying your hair up to get them out of your way and get yourself ready for the day ahead. Julian groans behind you, shifting in bed and sitting right behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you back against his chest. 

A surprised gasp falls from your lips followed by a quiet chuckle. 

“Good morning.” He says, voice deep with remnants of sleep and muffled by your skin. 

You don’t have time to answer, another gasp escaping you as his teeth lightly dig into the flesh of your nape. Julian eases the stinging pain with his tongue and a kiss. Only to continue nibbling at your skin until it blooms purple and red with the mark of his love. 

“Don’t move. I am not done yet.” He says against your skin, pulling you closer and tightening his embrace around you. Wishing the two of you could stay together in bed a bit longer. 

Alas he knows that is impossible. He can still prolong your time together though. 

“But what if someone sees it-”

“Let them.” 

To him, it’s a reminder to you and others that you are his. But also a reminder to himself that his dream of being together with you finally came true thanks to all his hard work. 

And often you find him gazing at the love bite on your nape with fondness and a soft smile. A look that always melts your heart. 

AARON: Hands

One thing Aaron remembers clearly when he was a child is how his father and mother would always hold hands, how his father would kiss the top of his mother’s hand and gently glide his lips over her wrist. 

As a child, Aaron used to think this was the most romantic of gestures and he dreamed of doing this with someone dear to his heart at some point as well, before his dreams of romance were shattered by the accident that had taken his mother’s life. 

After that the world froze over around him and any romantic delusions he had vanished from his thoughts. 

After all Aaron had seen the effects of love on his father, how it had destroyed him from the inside out after Aaron’s mother’s death. How it had made the greatest of man in Aaron’s mind, into a miserable shadow drowned in liquor. 

Aaron never wanted this for himself. He didn’t want to become like his father. 

So he thought that the best option would be to cut the problem at its root. 

Love. Nothing more but a burden, nothing more but the deadliest and most destructive of emotions. Something he could do without. 

And he was doing just fine. Until he met you, that is, and until you flipped his world upside down. 

Suddenly Aaron found himself rekindling old childhood daydreams. Mainly that simple act of holding your hand and kissing the back of it. As stupid as it sounded, it was everything to Aaron.  

Of course he loves how soft your hands are in his own, how small. How smooth your skin is under his lips as he kisses your palm and the inside of your wrist. 

But more than anything he loves all that this simple gesture entails. 

That you trust him, enough to be on intimate terms with him, in spite of how much of an asshole he was to you at the start and in spite of how socially inept he still is. 

That he is not alone anymore, trapped in the cold cage he had crafted for himself after his mother’s death. The simple sight of your intertwined hands a reminder for Aaron of how much brighter the world is by your side, of how happier he is now that he’s with you. 

And more importantly: that Aaron wasn’t his father, and that he’d never allow you to flee away from his grasp like his mother had. If he kept you safe, there was no reason for you to leave, right? 

Thus, hand kisses became to him the symbol of his love and devotion for you. 

Sensibility and vulnerability bleed through his lips onto your hand as his eyes bore into yours. He raises your hand to his lips, his skin warm against yours. And he presses the lightest of kisses to the top of your hand, lips barely gracing your skin. A silent pledge of his devotion, of his trust. 

A silent reminder that his heart has no other master but you. And another way to say “I am yours.”

ADAM: Lips

Adam can’t count the amount of time he’s dreamed of kissing you before the two of you were together, of holding you close and having a taste of happiness on the sore of your lips as the world vanishes around him. 

He imagined it might taste sweet and feel like heaven. Like everything good in this world. He knew it’d be perfect. 

But nothing could have prepared him for just how perfect and addictive kissing you would turn out to be. As nothing could have ever compared to the real thing, to the real you and the real euphoria of his heart bursting in his chest as his lips pressed against yours and his tongue slid inside your mouth. 

The first time he kissed you Adam thought he’d die from how wildly his heart was hammering in his chest. It was just so right. And he could never see himself getting bored of this. 

His arms snake around your waist, pulling you closer and closer, flush against him, desirous for the two of you to melt into one. For you to swallow him whole and cradle him in the universe of your arms. He aches to discover every inch of you, to climb under your skin and map all the details in your body. 

Adam cups your cheek gently, a gesture that contradicts the desperation in his kiss. A man starved for something he can never get enough of, your heart, your touch and your soul. 

He’s eager to rediscover the taste of your lips all over again every time, knowing that each time feels like the first. 

“I never tire of this…” He says, eyes feverish as he looks at you, his lips red and raw, “I’m sorry, please let me kiss you again?” 

And again, and again, and again. Until his lips turn blue and he can’t breathe anymore. Until his lungs burn for air and his head spins. 

[dukeofdogs]

Queen Meve

Chest 1: At first, Meve rarely demonstrated the affections expected of a loving wife. Thus, Reginald sought advice from the noble ladies of his court, who were all in agreement: to win Meve's heart, a gift must be bestowed that would show the depths of the king's love. Alas... Meve proved rather selective. Without a word of explanation, she discarded the finest Ofiri tapestries, flung the sapphire-studded necklaces out the window, and splintered a Koviri lute against her chamber floor. Yet when Reginald presented her a suit of exquisite, gilded plate armor, well... That cold metal melted Meve's heart.

Chest 2: Meve possessed many fine qualities: keen insight, breathtaking beauty, and unrivaled bravery. Yet like everyone, she was not without fault. Greatest among them was perhaps her failure to grasp the nature of human weakness. She measured others by the impossible standards she set for herself, and hence quickly bonded with those of equally strong character. Those of a more "sensitive" constitution she held in disfavor – sometimes even contempt. As a result, her relationships with her sons was strained from the very start. This was especially true of her eldest – Villem.

Chest 3: Tucked away within the queen's castle in Rivia was a superbly stocked armory, where every manner of exquisite steelwork could be found: elven blades, specially cast Hawker flails... Yet of all the finely tuned instruments of death at her disposal, Meve most highly prized the Mahakam-forged sihil uniquely dubbed the "Sharp Bastard." When asked how the blade acquired such a moniker she merely replied with a heavy sigh. Evidently, the question brought old memories to the fore, both deeply intimate and somber.

Scroll 1: Princess Meve was the bane of every royal governess. Rather than knit, she preferred climbing trees. Instead of practicing scales on the harp, she sparred with her brothers using wooden swords. And in lieu of romance novels, she pored over the memoirs of decorated generals.

Scroll 2: It was decided that Meve should be married off as soon as possible. Alas, few men of noble birth were willing to ask for the hand of a scrappy sixteen-year-old with scratched knees and bruises every color of the rainbow…

Scroll 3: In the end, it was the King of Rivia, Reginald the Courageous, who claimed her hand. Despite not displaying a particularly keen intellect, he proved far wiser than Meve's governesses. Rather than attempt to tame the unruly princess, he simply fell in love with her for who she was.

Scroll 3: Sadly, their idyllic union did not last long. Reginald died but a few years later. Neighboring sovereigns presumed the newly widowed Queen would collapse under the weight of the crown; thus, even before the bells of mourning had ceased their tolling, they crossed the border into Rivia. Yet, what awaited the invaders proved a surprise most unpleasant...

[lifeofkaze]

Boy and the Ghost

Spooky Season means Henry Season in this house, and since tonight the veil between the worlds is fragile, the ghosts have their fair bit to share. Happy Halloween! 🎃

The night had brought the fog with it. It lay dense over the coast of Rhode Island, enveloping everything in a thick layer of cold and damp and muffling even the ever-present sound of the nearby sea. 

Henry Lovecraft didn’t care as he wandered through the fog, the flickering of his candle disappearing in the darkness after a mere few feet. He wasn’t scared by the impenetrable darkness. There was nothing that could hurt him in the fog. 

The mist was so thick that the end of the forest path seemed to come out of nowhere. The black trees parted and gave way to an open space that ended at the cliffs, which fell steeply down to the rough sea. Henry didn’t have to worry about wandering too close to it because he knew exactly where the ground gave way. The cries and sobs of the ones that had fallen told him when to go no further. He heard them as if they were standing right next to him; he always heard. 

Henry went as far as he could and sat down in the damp grass, his long legs dangling over the edge. He stared into the fog, trying to block out all the whispers fighting for his attention.

“I didn’t expect you here,” he hears a faint voice behind him. It was of an airy quality, and Henry had to strain his ears as if it was far away. A shimmery figure appeared beside him, floating above the ground, as the pirate Horatio sat down next to him. He didn’t really sit, of course; Horatio was a ghost, and ghosts couldn’t sit. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Henry explained, stubbornly staring straight ahead. Somewhere out there was the lighthouse. Henry hoped the ships passing it would be able to see its light. He didn’t want any more people to end up like Horatio and his crew had some hundred or so years ago. The beach was crowded enough as it was.

“And why is that, young Master Henry?”

Henry kicked his foot against a root protruding from the cliff face. “I just couldn’t.”

“I can tell when something’s wrong with you, you little landlubber,” Horatio said, tapping his pox-scarred nose with his ghostly finger, where it passed right through him. “You can talk to old Horatio. He won’t tell a soul.” 

Henry sighed deeply. “Have you ever been called a liar?”

Horatio puffed out his chest. “You see before you the greatest liar to ever sail the Seven Seas. No one was cunning enough to ever see old Horatio through.”

The familiar feeling of the faintest of whispers passing him by, Henry smiled wryly. “That’s a lie.”

“Alas, I admit it,” Horatio shrugged, “but I hold you no grudge. You are special, Master Henry.”

Henry’s face darkened. “You’re the only one to think so.”

“What makes you say that?” Horatio looked sympathetic. “Has there been trouble with the people in the village again?”

Henry nodded, kicking at his root again. “They were telling stories about the Natives who used to live here. They were all gruesome and gory and completely wrong - all of them - and I told them so.”

The corners of Horatio’s mouth twitched. “Of course you did.”

“They didn’t like it. They called me a liar and a freak and some other awful things. Said my family are outcasts anyway, and if I don’t take care, the ghosts of the ‘savages’ will come and get me and my brother.” Henry snorted. “They would never. All the native ghosts I’ve met were really nice. They’d be so upset seeing what people have turned their myths and legends into.” 

“Some folks just don’t know better. They think their truth is the only one.”

“But why don’t they care to listen when someone who knows better tells them? Why are they so ignorant?”

Horatio shrugged. “If they enjoy themselves, why mar them their pastime?”

“Because what they’re doing isn’t storytelling, it’s making things up and taking them away from those they belong to. They have no right calling me a liar. What they do is child’s play, but when I tell them what is right, they just don’t want to see it.” 

Horatio cocked a brow. “I’ve been in the world a fair bit longer than you, young Master Henry - I have to admit that I have forgotten how long - but since the beginning of time, people have been telling stories. Even the stories you are telling were once  the stories of someone else. Stories belong to no one. They belong only to themselves.”

“But what they’re doing is wrong.”

“It is not your place to say what is wrong or right. If people draw enjoyment from what they do, all you can do is stick to your own compass and strife to sail in deeper waters.”

It took Henry a moment to decipher Horatio’s meaning. When he had, he shook his head. “Where is the point? If anyone can go and tell a story, why bother telling the world the truth?”

“Not everyone possesses your gift, Henry,” Horatio said earnestly. “It is rare, to read this world’s secrets as you do. You shouldn’t hold anyone but yourself to your own standards because if you do, there will be nothing but frustration waiting in the waves ahead.” 

Horatio looked out into the fog, a wistful smile forming on his face. “After the Molly’s Wrath sank, learning there were others sharing my fate helped me overcome the bitterness of death. Every time you told me about the people who didn’t make it ashore, I was more accepting of the fact that my body rests in ol’ Davy Jones’ locker.”

His eyes turned to Henry. They protruded a little, probably from having drowned. Henry had never asked Horatio how he had died, but he didn’t need to; he already knew. 

“You made a difference for me, Henry, and that is really all you can ask from this world. To make a difference.”

“To you, maybe,” Henry replied. “The only one who appreciates what I’m doing is a dead old pirate.”

Horatio smiled, letting the insult pass him. He knew Henry didn’t mean it. 

“Who knows, Master Henry?” he said with a smirk. “There might be more people touched by you than you might think. It’s easy looking only ahead, but you shouldn’t forget to turn around every few miles. See who’s following behind.” 

Before Henry could ask what Horatio meant, the ghost had faded away, only an echo of his last words remaining. A moment later, Henry was alerted by the sound of footsteps and a little voice calling for him. Carrying the swinging light of a storm lantern almost as big as his head before him, the small figure of his brother materialised from the dense fog.

“Henry? Henry!” Howard Lovecraft cried, running towards Henry as he spotted him. Henry quickly got up and walked to meet him; Howard didn’t see the world as he did. He wouldn’t know where the cliff ended in this fog.

“What are you doing out here, Howard?” Henry frowned, looking reproachfully at the little boy. “It’s too dangerous to go outside at night.” 

“I was looking for you,” Howard said. “I heard you leaving.”

“No reason to go after me.”

“No, but listen!” Howard said, his eyes twinkling in the light of the lantern. “You need to come back home with me. I need to show you something.” 

Howard gripped his arm in excitement, but Henry pulled it from him. “You will need to go back on your own. If you can’t find the way, I shall show you and stay outside for a while longer. I don’t feel like going home yet.” 

Howard made a disappointed face. “Then you don’t want to hear the story I made up?”

Henry’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. “You made up a story?”

“Yes,” Howard nodded proudly, the eagerness for his brother’s approval written plainly on his face. “You gave me the idea.”

“I did?”

“Yes! You always tell the best stories, and I wanted to try it, too. I want to tell my stories, just as you do.” Howard suddenly looked bashful. “Even though they’re probably not as good as yours.”

Henry shook his head. “Don’t say that. You thought it up, and all on your own. That is impressive. What kind of story is it?”

“A scary one.”

“My favourite.”

“No, it’s really scary,” Howard insisted, lowering his voice. “Do you think you can take it, Henry?”

Henry had to stifle a grin as he took the lantern from his little brother and walked him to the path that would lead them back to their mother’s cottage. 

“I’m certain I will be scared out of my wits. Let’s hurry now. I believe a story awaits.” 

[kob131]

True Name: Uther Pendragon Class: Saber Gender: Male Alignment: Lawful Good (believes he is Lawful Neutral) Parameter: Strength: B Endurance: A Agility: C Mana: E Luck: C NP: B+

History: Uther was born as the youngest of three brothers, himself, the Black Dragon Vortigern and the Paranoid Prince Ambrousis. After their father Constantine was died, the eldest son Ambrousis took the throne at the young age of 14. Due to an innate paranoia, the treachery of royal politics and persistent rumors of his father having been poisoned, Ambrousis sought to weed out all potential traitors and dangers to himself In his madness, he killed civilians for speaking unfavorably and nobles for dealing with other nations.

Unable to tolerate his eldest brother’s actions, Uther, alongside the middle child Vortigern, staged a rebellion against Ambrousis, uniting several lords and knights across Britan to wage war against his enthroned and madden kin. Through numerous bloody battles, he forced Ambrousis to met his demise by his own hand, with no small amount of grief and sadness. Soon after, the lords of the land agreed to name him King, something that would come to frustrate his last living brother.

Throughout his reign, he came into conflict with his neighbors/arch enemies the Saxxons. The two kingdoms went to war with each other many, many times, almost always with Uther just barely managing to edge a victory. During these many wars, he was always noted to be seen wandering near lakeside, gazing wistfully out upon the water. One night, on the last of his many walks to the lakes of the land, returned with two twin newborns in hand, girls who he would name Morgan and Morgause and claim as his children. No one is quite certain who the mother of these two was...

Later in life, as the strain of his life came to haunt him, he began to seek an heir to which take his throne upon his increasingly likely death. However, due to lacking a wife and having only daughters who could not be accepted by his kingdom, he looked to his old and trusted friend Merlin. Together, they hatched a plan for Uther to impregnate the lovely Lady Igraine with the king impersonating her lover through Merlin’s magic. Alas, though the child was blessed with the blood of a dragon, it was also yet another daughter, named Arturia. Distraught and despondent, Uther gave up his quest for a successor and left the child in Merlin’s care.

This turn of events alongside the death of his legitimate child Morgause left Uther in the worst of health. His body deteriorated day after day, for years on end until one day, seven years after those events, he died due to a combination of sickness and poison by his lifelong enemies....*

Personality: Quite unlike his successor, Uther is open and friendly man who ruled through trust and familiarity, while not being the best at administration. He warms the hearts of both his retainers and his people with his honesty and openness. Alas, this warmth also lends itself to a certain...fiery temperament in battle.

A man tried to uphold honor and dignity during his life, helping define the code of honor that many among the succeeding generation would uphold as their standard. That said, he could not always uphold it as the conception of his youngest child will tell you. 

Below his surface though, he holds a great many regrets. He laments his killing of his brother, his inability to stop the tyranny of his other sibling, his failure to properly raise the children under his care, his shame at the manipulation of Igraine born from a moment’s weakness and lust and his perceived abandonment of his youngest child. Because of this, he feels rather uncomfortable around most British servants, especially those from his era as it reminds him of his failures. Though, he still trusts and respects Merlin (even holding the distinction of being one of the few people able to catch the flower magus off guard).

He also regrets not having tried to defy the laws of inheritness during his time, as he sees this inaction having caused the many conflicts and pain of his successors.

Noble Phantasm:

Flame Sword of the Dragon King: Caliburn Classification: Anti-Personnel Rank: B+

Born from the legends that he himself wielded Caliburn before lodging it in it’s infamous stone as well as the misconception that he himself had dragon blood- Uther wields an altered version of Caliburn of similar quality to it’s true self. In battle, he can ignite the sword with dragonfire and enhance it’s power before releasing it in an inferno the swallows the opponent. The Noble Phantasm itself is not the sword but rather the technique and skill that Uther uses when swinging the ignited sword.

Relationships:

Merlin

Still views him as a trusted advisor and friend. Wishes he would not inform him of his daughters’ sex life. Holds the distinction of being one of the few people to catch Merlin off guard.

“Ah, Merlin. My old friend! You are truly a sight for these sore eyes... Would I like to hear about my child? ... I know you better than to answer yes.”

Arturia Pendragon

A father in name only, he believes. He feels nothing but shame and remorse upon seeing her, believing he does not deserve to be considered among her family. This despite Arturia’s admiration of his own rule.

“... Of course, she is here. The noble King of Knights who did what I could not... No Master, I do not wish to speak with her. I had that chance long ago...”

Arthur Pendragon

Is VERY confused why he has a look alike calling him ‘Father.’ While accepting of the man, Uther can’t help but feel bitter about how things seemed to have worked out for his other self.

“Master? Why is that lad giving me such a strange look? ... Arthur Pendragon? My son from another world? ... *sigh* Of course I find an heir I could truly pass on to NOW of all times...”

Lancelot

Is quite confused (then amused) that his daughter’s greatest knight is a Frenchman. Uther shares a kinship with him as a fellow knight ashamed of his past. Helps that Lancelot is the first Servant he meets upon arriving at Chaldea.

“Ah sir Lancelot! I was wondering if you and I could partake in a friendly spar sometime soon! Yes yes, I shall try to keep from getting too excited like last time.”

The Orkney Siblings (Gawain, Agravain, Gareth, Garehis)

Uther feels deeply conflicted with the siblings, knowing that they are the children of his one surviving child and yet his own failings as father caused them harm indirectly. He is, however, forced to put these feelings aside as the knights all deeply admire and adore him, having been raised on stories of his heroics. Especially the eldest Gawain.

(Gawain) “Oh, you are...yes, Gawain. Morgan’s eldest son. I shall take my leave. ... Wait, You want me to stay? You want to know about my battles? Haha, I-I don’t know what to say.”

(Gareth) “Oh, young Gareth. What a surprise, what brings you to me? ... A jousting battle? Young lady, do I appear to be of the Lancer Class in any manner? ... Now it’s a sparring match?!”

Vortigern

The mere sight of his elder brother deeply enrages Uther. The pain of his brother Ambrousis’ death dredged up at the sight of the sibling he believes he should have slain, there is no chance that Uther will ever cooperate with Vortigern.

“VORTIGERN! Damn you to hell, you inhuman tyrant!”

Morgan Le Fay Pendragon

To say the sight of his eldest daughter brings Uther pain would be nothing if not an understatement. Pressured by the constant wars and responsibilities as king, along with no partner to help him in raising a family, he could never truly invest himself into Morgan’s life as he wished to. Because of this, the death of her sister and even his own, Morgan walked a path of sacrifice and failure, transforming her into the brutal witch she is known as. All because, in Uther’s eyes, he could not comfort her.

“Morgan, oh Morgan. You have suffered so much, despite never wishing for the throne yourself. Seeking it out for Morgause and myself... Forgive your fool of a father, for he could not save you from this.”

Mordred

He did not recognize her as his kin at first but greatly enjoyed her company. Upon learning of her full heritage, Uther resolved himself to make up for his failures with her parents and help guide her to a better life.

“Ah, Mordred. Come, come. We have much to talk about. Yes yes, I know you feel as though my talks are long winded and boring. But I ask of you: will you allow this old man to indulge talking to his grandchild? Ha ha, no need to blush, I should be thanking you after all.”

*Sorry to any Arthurian myth fans but holy fuck, not only is Fate’s iteration of the Round Table Myth really hard to faithfully adapt the original myth- The myth ITSELF gets really patchy when not directly concerning Arthur. 

Like, the actual villain of early Uther’s life was VORTIGERN, who was NOT his brother. That doesn’t line up with Fate so I had to make the good guy Ambrousis a bad guy. And THEN it turns out that Uther fucked and married Igraine BEFORE Arthur which again doesn’t match up to Fate. So had to change the mother of Morgan and Morgause to someone else just for this to make sense.

[mnthpprt]

Chapter 46: Thorns

[Sorry for the lack of updates, life has gotten busy lately. But I’m back and I bring some big bad interactions!]

“Of course, Anaïs,” the pureblood agrees. “Walk with me.” Though he politely offers his arm, it is more of an order, one I do not dare to disobey. I look at William for reassurance. There is no playful smile on his face, no witty comment. Oh, no. Instead, all he gives me is a slow, serious nod. All the words in the five languages I speak are not enough to express how wrong this feels.

“Alright,” I finally sigh, taking a hold of Vlad’s arm. It feels surprisingly robust under the sleeve of his coat, dark and billowy, which only ads to his already mysterious air. Usually, that is a quality I would appreciate in a man. Right now, however, it just makes me want to run for my life.

“Come,” he says, “I want to show you my garden.”

To my surprise, neither William nor Charles follow us out of the room. They know not to question the pureblood’s authority. I make a mental note to do the same. Vlad guides me down a hallway, and then another. The deeper we go into the building, the warmer and better lit it becomes, it seems. I was wrong about this church. It is far from abandoned, let alone decrepit, and it is certainly a lot bigger than I previously estimated. I think he lives here. As much as I dislike the idea of a murderous vampire in such close proximity to the city and all the people I have come to care about, I can at least appreciate that he is taking good care of the place. Even if the hairs standing on the back of my neck prevent me from enjoying it.

We come out through the other side of the building, where I am met by the sight of the beautiful city below us. The neighbourhood of Belleville, perched atop a hill on the North East edge of the city, is - and remains, even in my time - mostly inhabited by immigrants and the working class. In my present, most of the buildings, including Vlad’s church, don’t exist anymore, having been demolished and replaced by housing projects.

While the temple itself is nothing special, safe for it’s larger than usual size, I can’t help but mourn the inevitable disappearance of something so beautifully old, of all the history that will be wiped out from this place in favor of modern gentrification. I can see why Vlad chose to make his home here. Ironically, I doubt he knows what will happen to it.

“Ah, I see you enjoy the view from here as much as I do,” he chuckles, breaking my distraction. I nod, suppressing the chill his calm voice sends up my spine. “This way, Anaïs.”

Despite the majorly bad vibes I get from him, I let him guide me around the back of the building. We come to a stop on its side, where the sparse rose bushes along the wall become dense and frequent, melting into a lush garden that even the one in the mansion couldn’t compete against.

“It’s breathtaking,” I mutter, looking down at the vast expanse of white roses before me, flanked by a myriad of flowers of every shape and color. I glance at Vlad. He smiles, satisfied. “May I...?” I hesitate to let go of his arm and step onto the narrow path that cuts through the vegetation.

“Go ahead,” he nods. I do not like the smug smile on his face, but even I have to admit he has a right to wear it. This garden is... Wow. Just wow.

I walk ahead of him, marvelling at the pristine state of every single petal that has yet to wilt under the impending summer heat, but slow to a stop when I spot a plot of unfamiliar buds near a corner. They look like a bizarre cross between dandelions and arnica, only bigger, unlike anything I have ever seen. It is not until I approach them that I notice the thin mesh cage that has been built over them. Despite their odd shade, white with a slight blue tinge, they seem too unassuming for such measures to be taken. Most of the species they resemble tend to be considered weeds, not treasured and protected like these are.

“What are they?” I manage to ask quietly. Though I do not take my eyes off their striking petals through the mesh cage, I hear Vlad’s footsteps settle beside me.

“I presume you already know what blanc is, correct?”

My eyes widen in surprise, and I crouch to get a better look. I knew they were rare, but I was not expecting these little things to be the only source of nourishment to vampires. They look so... plain. Ordinary, even, were it not for my knowledge in the topic. There is nothing magical about their appearance at all.

“I have never even drank blanc before,” I say from the ground. “I have tasted it, though, and it is disgusting.” I scrunch up my nose, making Vlad laugh.

“I have to agree, Anaïs. But that is not why I keep them. I prefer my food fresh,” he concludes, leaning over me. His voice is somehow menacing and detached at the same time. I purse my lips, unnerved, but give him a questioning look. “They are extremely prized, which I enjoy. Besides, they have a certain beauty to them, don’t you think?”

“I guess they do,” I shrug before standing up again. I have been distracted for long enough. He’s good. “So now I know why you keep those flowers, but what about your friends back there? Why did you bring back Salieri?”

His eyes become a darker shade of red, almost like blood, though his expression remains unreadable.

“Be careful how you address me, fetiță.” His tone is cold, a mortal warning. I am quick to throw my open hands in the air between us in an attempt to appease him.

“I mean no disrespect, but you do kinda owe me an explanation.” He narrows his eyes. Shit, I should not have said that. I take a deep breath to calm myself before I go on. “Look, I might be new to all of this, but I am not stupid,” I say slowly, taking a step back. He responds by taking a step forward. “I know that you could tear me apart without breaking a sweat. All I want is to understand you, so I can avoid doing something that will get me killed a second time, okay? Please, at least give me that.”

My plea seems to make him relax, and I smile, relieved.

“I suppose you have a point,” he concedes. “I will do my best to answer your questions.”

My smile grows wider as I hold onto his arm once again. He wanted to walk, so let’s walk.

“Let’s start with something easy,” I muse, breaking the ice. “That word you called me just now... What language is it?”

“Romanian,” he answers as we begin to stroll through the garden. “It means ‘little girl’.”

“Of course it does,” I chuckle under my breath. Our height difference is more evident now that he is standing by my side, towering over me. Then again, most people do. “Wait. Romanian? Did you fight against the Ottoman Empire, by any chance?”

“So you’ve heard the stories too,” he sighs. I hear a tinge of amusement mixed in with the resignation of being found out. “I have not used this name in a long time. I suppose history never forgets...”

That confirms my suspicion, and I must admit, I really hoped to be wrong about this one. But no, I happen to be casually hanging out with the man whose notorious cruelty inspired Dracula. Funnily enough, at least Bram Stoker got the vampire thing right. I wonder how the author would react to finding out they are real. He’d probably lose his mind, and I would not blame him. I almost did too.

“Okay, next question,” I move on, eager to change the topic. I must get to the juicy stuff before I get distracted again. “Why are you going after Saint Germain’s people? I mean it’s obvious that it is him you are trying to get to, but I would like to know the reason for that. Weren’t you friends or something?”

“Something.” From his deadpan tone, I can tell Vlad does not want to talk about their relationship. However, he did promise me answers, and I intend to get them or die trying. Again. “That door of his, the one he brought you through? He is selfish with it. Collecting some of the greatest men in history for... what, exactly? It is such a waste...”

“What would you do with it, then?”

“Put that talent and influence to good use, of course,” he laughs, as if it were obvious. “As you must have figured out by now, I have a door of my own at my disposal. However, it is... tainted. Unstable. I have tried to convince your sire to let me use his on multiple occasions, to no avail. Alas, even our centuries long friendship is not enough to sway him. I believe we could see eye to eye if I could show him the truth. Maybe then he would not look down on my ways as he does now.”

“And by ‘your ways’, I guess you mean sending your henchmen to kidnap me so you can use me as bait?” I can’t help but retort. “You say you want to put these men to good use, but what does that even mean? For what?”

“You shall find out soon.”

I open my mouth, but my stomach grumbles loudly before I manage to voice my protest. Worst timing ever.

“Would you like some rouge? I am feeling rather peckish myself,” he cheerily offers. There goes the conversation, along with my chance to discover what he’s up to. I am forced to nod, however, as I have not eaten since early this morning. As much as I hate to cut the interrogation short, I am starving.

I follow Vlad back into the church, resigned, and we make our way to a hallway on the second floor. I smell the scent of human blood before I notice that the voices I can hear behind a closed door are new. There is a man, whom at first I mistook for Faust, but he sounds too cheery. And too French. I hear a woman too, giddy and nervous due to Shakespeare’s charming approaches.

I want to ask what is going on, but I am not sure I want to know the answer. I have a bad feeling about this. Vlad opens the door, revealing the sitting room on the other side. Along with William, the other two vampires I met are there. Faust stands to the side, merely observing, as Charles chats with the young couple, seated around a coffee table. They are unmistakably human. I can only think of one reason for them to be here, and I do not like it in the slightest.

As the now familiar feeling of bloodlust shoots through my veins, I clench my hands behind my back and smile politely. Vlad ushers me into the room, closer to the group, and soon lets go of me to offer his hand to the woman, motioning for her to stand up.

“This one will do,” he murmurs, stroking her cheek. She looks surprised for a brief moment, but any expression immediately disappears from her face when she locks eyes with the pureblood. “Listen to my voice. Relax.” The woman’s arm goes limp and falls to her side. “Good, good. Take of your necklace.”

She obeys. Is she... hypnotized? Can he do that? When the lady’s choker falls on the floor, the reality of what is about to happen sets in. The man I assume to be her husband does not react. He is looking at the woman, but his eyes are out of focus and his face blank, nothing but an empty shell.

The king of the castle eats first, of course. Vlad pulls the woman close and leans down slowly, almost tenderly, as if he is going to kiss her neck. He stops short of touching her skin before violently sinking his fangs into her. The horrible, wet sound her flesh makes causes me to bite my own lip in an attempt to hold back. I shuffle closer to William and lean over the back of his chair.

“I can’t do this.”

“It would be improper to deny your host’s food, my nightshade,” he says nonchalantly.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “I won’t be able to stop, Will. I can’t-”

“You can’t what?” Vlad calls out. “It is your turn, come. Don’t be shy.”

Fuck. I am not in a position to reject that offer for two reasons: the first one being my hunger, and the second being that he might kill me if I offend him. I cough and begin to turn away, but feel William’s reassuring hand over mine. I hope I can trust him to stop me in time. If I end up killing this poor girl, he’s going next.

I exhale a shaky sigh as I hesitantly make my way to the center of the room, where the woman stands frozen, a lifeless doll. She is slightly taller than me, so I hold her body close and stand on my toes.

“Lo siento muchísimo (I am so very sorry),” I whisper in her ear. I don’t know if she can even hear me, but if she could, I doubt she’d understand my foreign words. I feel everyone’s eyes on me, expectant. Vlad clears his throat behind me. He is starting to lose his patience.

But so am I. Just like that, any control I had over my body fades when my eyes catch a glimpse of the two fresh puncture wounds on the woman’s neck, of the twin drops of blood oozing down from them. I make sure to bite over the same spot.

The familiar wave of relief that comes from feeding washes over me, but this time it is much more intense, much sweeter. Everything disappears around me. There is just me and my prey, her blood pulsing into my mouth as I barely have to exert any effort to drink it. But it is not enough. I bite harder. It is dripping down my chin now, and I hold onto the yellow satin blouse, now tinged with red, like my life depends on it. I cease to exist in this moment. There is only blood and my pure, unadulterated thirst for it.

“...Anaïs.” I vaguely recognize my own name being spoken. “That’s enough.”

“Come on, let her have her fun,” another voice says. I can barely tell who’s who.

“Anaïs, stop,” I hear again, this time more sternly. Strong arms pry me off and pull me into a tight hug, restraining me until I come to my senses. “That’s it, my nightshade. Well done.”

“Will?” I manage to pant, leaning back into his chest. “Shit, is she okay? I didn’t drain her, did I?” My voice wavers with dread.

“No, my dearest,” he softly says. “Thou stopped in time.”

“Thank you,” I sigh in relief. Still holding onto William’s arms around me, I glance at Vlad. He does not look pleased.

[prettyboylovemail]

“is it alright if i call you princess?” with france? ;3c

Ahh thank you so much for asking! I had a lot of fun writing this one and it actually ended up being a bit longer than I originally anticipated, so I’ll put it under the cut!

The outfit he is wearing is from this official art :>

The lights of the chandeliers above shone brightly, reflecting off of the recently polished floor below. Music and laughter filled the room as the band played and numerous couples and small groups of young men and women chatted aimlessly around the room. Some were paired off, dancing the evening away, while others stood off to the side and observed the frivolities. 

Amongst the scattered bystanders stood a young lady, short hair hanging just above her shoulders and a simple black dress adorning her slim figure. The dress’s neckline hung just slightly lower than she was comfortable with, but alas, her friends had insisted that it looked great on her and bought it for her, despite her protests. The girl sighed and took a sip of her champagne, letting her eyes briefly scan the room from her spot beside the hors d'oeuvres table. Fancy parties like this were never in her comfort zone, but it was a special occasion, so she’d agreed to attend. But now that she was here and inevitably slinking closer to the wall on the outskirts of the dance floor, doubts were beginning to creep into her mind. Her fingers gripped the glass as she looked down into the golden liquor with a frown. She wasn’t going to cry here, but the weight of anxiety was starting to become overwhelming.

“Hey, Hannah! What are you doing standing all alone over there?” The girl jolted a little at the sudden interruption of her thoughts and looked up to see who had called her. One of her friends had stepped away from her dance partner and was making her way over to her. “Come over here and dance!”

“Ah…. No no, don’t worry about me,” Hannah smiled awkwardly with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You go ahead and have fun. I’m alright over here.”

The other young woman placed a hand on her hip and gave Hannah a disapproving frown. “But we’re at a party, you know. You should loosen up a little and find someone to dance with. It’ll be a lot more fun than being standing in a corner drinking the night away.”

Hannah took another sip of her drink and shifted her eyes away. “I don’t know anyone else here. And I’m not going to just ask a random stranger to dance with me.” 

“That’s no excuse!” her friend exclaimed and turned back to the crowd, eyes searching the sea of people. Hannah said nothing, but watched her curiously. After a moment or two, the woman’s eyes lit up and she grinned. “Oh! What about him? The one standing over by the stage.”

Hannah followed her friend’s eyes into the crowd and spotted a man who looked to be in his late 20’s, with wavy hair pulled messily into a side ponytail held by a loose ribbon. He was dressed simply, but the quality of his outfit seemed expensive and lavish. A white suit vest over a striped button up and a cravat loosely tied around his collar. A small boutonniere donned his vest to complete the look. Her cheeks instantly heated up and she felt her heart skip a beat. 

“He seems like your type~” her friend snickered. “You should go say hello.”

“No way… I can’t approach some random guy I don’t know.”

The young woman poked Hannah’s arm with a pestering smile. “Oh, come onnnn. What’s the worst that could happen? He actually says hello back?”

Hannah huffed and crossed her arms. “He could think I’m weird for randomly talking to him and it could end up being super awkward,” she spoke bluntly.

“You clearly don’t understand men…” her friend sighed. “Being approached by a pretty girl all dressed up is like… the number one most flattering thing for a guy.”

“Listen, I just can’t do that. I’d rather just stay here and not make a fool of myself in front of an attractive man.”

After a few seconds of debating back and forth, her friend relented. “Fine. Then you stay here,” she said before hurrying onto the dance floor and towards the mysterious man before Hannah could stop her. She stood silently, her fingers beginning to tremble with anxiety as she watched her friend tap on the man’s shoulder, pulling his attention away from his conversation. They talked for a short moment before she slipped her arm around his and began walking in Hannah’s direction. Her heart raced in her chest as she tried to look natural and not too obvious in watching them make their way closer. Upon approaching her, the young woman called Hannah’s name and she risked a glance up, only to be met with the soft and sparkling blue eyes of the bachelor in front of her. 

Oh wow…

Now viewing the man close up, she could see that his eyes almost had a hint of purple in them, which made them a deep indigo color. His hair was dirty blonde and had a few loose strands that hung in front of his eyes and he had a bit of stubble along his chin. And god, he was handsome. 

The two locked eyes for a brief moment before he smiled sweetly at her. “Bonsoir, mademoiselle~” he spoke cheerfully in a thick French accent. 

“Um…h-hello,” she replied back, a hint of shakiness in her voice. She eyed her friend, who only winked at her and slipped away back onto the dance floor. “Er… My name is Hannah. It’s very nice to meet you.”    “Ah, what a beautiful name for a beautiful girl~” he complimented and offered his hand. “They call me France, ma chérie. Tout le plaisir est pour moi. It is my pleasure to meet you, as well.” She took his outstretched hand, expecting a handshake and was surprised when he gave a short bow and kissed it. Her face, already flushed with embarrassment, turned an even brighter shade of red. He noticed her response and chuckled.

She’d heard briefly of the men and women known as the nations, and had seen some from a distance or on television, but she had never had the opportunity to meet one of them face to face like this. They appeared to be normal humans, so she’d never given it much thought and figured the stories she’d heard were only a myth. Legends of immortality and the personification of the very lands they lived in only sounded like children’s fables and fairy tales. She never would’ve expected to run into one of them so casually like this, if she could call this formal party “casual” in the slightest.

“So, mon amie, what are you doing standing all alone? Surely you can’t already be tired when the evening has only begun!” he asked with a carefree smile. 

Hannah fidgeted a little with the champagne glass in her hands and spoke quietly. “No, I just… don’t really know many people here, so I’m enjoying the party from afar.”

“Non non! J'ai bien peur ce ne soit pas possible! That certainly will not do!” he cried and flamboyantly waved his arm. “You must have at least one dance!! It would be my honor to escort you!”

“O-Oh. No, really, you don’t have to–”

He shook his head with a dramatic flair, “The night is young and it is my duty to make sure every charmante demoiselle is having the best time!” France outstretched his hand to her once more, but this time, she took it, placing her glass on the table behind her and following him without protest.

    He led her out into the middle of the dance floor, placing his hand along her waist and the other gently holding her hand in his. Hannah obliged and awkwardly settled her free hand on his broad shoulder, unsure if it was really alright to be this close to someone she’d only just met. Although, it didn’t seem like he minded one bit. She avoided his gaze and blushed, noticing that the music had slowed significantly down from before, leaving mostly romantic couples surrounding them. She wasn’t the best dancer, but she followed his lead, and focused on not stumbling over her own feet. The man seemed to pick up on her nervousness, however, and reassured her with a smile.

“You’re doing fine, ma chérie. No need to worry!” He spoke softly, so that only she would hear him and her heartbeat picked up, hearing his voice so close to her ear. She was only able to give a quiet, embarrassed laugh and a shy “thank you” in response.

“Is it alright if I call you ‘Princess’?” the man asked, seemingly out of the blue as they swayed to along to the music.

Hannah blushed, taken off guard by the question, and stuttered. “Why ‘Princess’?” she asked, unsure of how to reply. 

“Why not? You certainly are as beautiful as one~” France smiled sweetly as if there was nothing strange at all. “It’s only fitting, after all.”

The girl scoffed a little and looked away, “I’m nothing like a princess, believe me.”

“Ne dis pas de bêtises! Nonsense! Any beautiful lady like yourself has the potential to be royalty and should therefore be treated as such!”

“And how many other ‘beautiful ladies’ have you used that line on?” Hannah retorted with a small laugh.

“Only those who deserve to hear it, my darling,” he winked back at her and she smiled, hiding her blush behind her auburn hair.

As the two danced, France continued to make quiet conversation, while Hannah gave short answers. He didn’t seem bothered by her timid nature however, and she was glad that he was keeping the conversation going. He had a kind vibe and she enjoyed hearing him talk, if not only for his accent alone, but his words were nice and reassuring. After a while, she had calmed down a bit and had actually come to appreciate his company. Their dance ended and they stepped back from each other, her fingers lingering against him for a moment before pulling away, not wanting their time together to end. The evening went on as normal, the dance floor clearing as the party resumed as it had before. 

“Thank you for the dance, good sir,” Hannah smiled brightly and gave him a small curtsey.

“Of course, ma princesse. It has been the greatest honor to be your first dance of the evening.”

“Ahah, and probably my last as well, if I’m being honest. I’m not sure I’ll have the courage to dance with anyone else here.” she giggled a bit as they returned back to the spot where they met and she reached for another glass of champagne. 

“Well then, in that case,” the charming man replied as he filled her glass before filling his own. “It would be my pleasure to accompany you until you feel courageous enough for another dance~” He tilted his glass towards hers with a wink and she lifted her glass to tink it lightly against his.

“I think I would like that, thank you.”

[bcdaily]

Thirty, Flirty, and Aubergines (Lily/James, Bakery AU)

A/N: Here’s my “Valentine’s Day drabble”...five days and five thousand words later. This is a gift for my funny little valentine @ghost-of-bambi, even though I spoiled this whole story for her forty-five seconds after I had this idea, and even though I make her stay up way too late all the time, and even though I have not yet booked my flight to visit Flamingoland. You are a star and a wonder and my heart explodes at your friendship and also that you laugh at my jokes. Kissseshugs&etc

When one is co-owner of bakery, it's an integral thing not to overindulge in treats.

Usually, Lily is quite good at this sort of thing. Even when said sweets are some of the best England has to offer (in Lily's own humble opinion). Even when she's come up with something fantastic and new, and has spent hours upon hours perfecting it, and its eventual shiny, delicious presentation begs bite after bite. Even when it's been a grueling shift, she's been elbow-deep in flour and buttercream since four, and collapsing atop a giant mound of shortbread seems just the thing.

And even on days like today—Valentine's Day—when the bakery door seems to be on endless revolve, welcoming in a steady stream of cloyingly sweet lovers, breezily nonchalant boyfriends who poke at the first red confection they see in the display case and beam with pride as if they've done something mighty, and the occasional single saunterer who—like Lily herself, no matter how content they are with their current relationship status—may need the bolster of a beautiful little bon-bon to make all the rest seem a bit more bearable.

Yes, Lily is quite good at tempering her consumption of sweets…except when the treat comes in the form of one tall, sumptuous, messy-haired patron.

Then, quite frankly, she immediately goes to slosh.

"Li-ly," Mary sings, poking her dark head in through the swinging kitchen door. Lily is just finishing sprinkling a dash of edible confetti atop a fresh two dozen heart-shaped cupcakes. "Can you pop out here quick?"

"What?" Lily replies distractedly, frowning down at the single cupcake whose frosting teeters off to the left. She tries to nudge it with her piping bag, then gives up and moves that one to the back of the tray. She turns. "Mary—"

But her partner is already gone, vanished to the front of the shop once more.

Lily sighs, grabbing the fresh tray with both hands and stepping forward until she's pushing out the swinging kitchen doors—which hits her arse with a sturdy smack as she skitters to a halt at the sight of James Potter leaning against the bakery counter.

"Hi," he says, giving her that swoon-worthy, lopsided grin of his, the tiniest of dimples creasing in his warm brown skin.

Yum.

Lily stands up straighter, telling her thrumming heart to cool it, and gives a jaunty smile of her own.

"Hi there." She steps forward on her comfy trainers, suddenly inordinately grateful that she'd thrown on a cute top and some perky red lipstick earlier to fit with the holiday spirit. She bends, sliding the tray into the cupcake display, ignoring Mary's amused smirk from the other end of the counter. Lily takes her time before facing him again. "This is new," she says, and checks her watch. "I've never seen you in here past nine."

"Glad to see me?"

"That pretty face of yours? It'll do. Abruptly keen on a four p.m. latte and scone, then?"

"Close," James says, leaning his luscious forearms—revealed by the artlessly ruched up sleeves of his white button-down—against the counter. "As it happens, I am in dire dessert straits."

"Oh?" The bright, happy thing that has been spiraling inside Lily's chest at his unexpected arrival abruptly pops and throbs. "Let me guess—girlfriend isn't pleased with her Valentine's Day gift, and you're hoping to buy a dessert to compensate?"

In the approximately two months since James Potter had first dropped into the bakery one harried winter morning for a latte and breakfast pastry—and during his subsequent numerous visits, at least twice a week since then—Lily has managed to glean a healthy dose of information about him. More than just that he likes his lattes strong and his pastry fruity (though he does), she also knows he works up the road in the big posh building made of full glass doing marketing for his family's company. He likes dry humour comedies and the theatrical wonder of professional wrestling. He has a brother named Sirius, a cat called Algernon, and a phone filled with pictures of both, which he shows off generously. His birthday is in March, his favourite colour is green, and in all this time—all this time—that he has been coming into Lily's bakery and flirting shamelessly with her, he has never once mentioned a girlfriend.

Lily's not-so-small crush has thus flourished with great gusto, gentle winds of affection feeding the flames with each tempting interaction, only to be brought up short here, now, with one single afternoon's visit and the possibility that this may not be what she'd thought.

James tilts his head, giving her an accessing look. "Is that the sort of bloke you get in here today?"

Lily gives a jerky shrug. Answer the question. "One of the sort."

"Your art is wasted on them," he declares, and says it with such firm earnestness, Lily is certain a scarlet flush begins to creep up her neck. He does not seem to notice as he reaches an arm around to pull his phone from his back pocket. "Alas, this is woman trouble, but my specific lack of a girlfriend seems to be a key part of the issue. See?"

Lack of a girlfriend, Lily hears with something akin to relieved euphoria, and she takes the phone when James passes it over to her, glancing down at the lit-up screen.

It's pulled up to a text conversation. At the top, the contact is in big, bold letters.

M U M

"A-ha," Lily says, heart beginning to bubble again, though that in itself is exasperating. This is meant to be a light, easy little crush—she should not be this relieved. "That sort of woman trouble."

James nods solemnly and motions for her to read.

At precisely 14:39, he had sent the following:

happy v day mum

Lily's lips quirk. How predictably James to toss out the offhand sentiment, and how greedy Lily would be for even that much...though lord knows he isn't going to be winning awards for his artful texting prose or brilliant grammar any time soon.

At precisely 14:41, he'd received back:

No day is a happy day when I am squandering my best grandmothering years because my feckless children have denied me the greatest joy a person can know. You are too handsome to be this cruel.

Then there are three emojis: a weeping face, an angry face, an aubergine.

An aubergine.

Lily snorts loudly.

"Ah—ah." She covers the sound with a cough, burying it in a daintily curved knuckle. "That's...quite a guilt trip you've got there. Your mum has a way with words."

"And emojis," James mutters, taking the phone back as Lily laughs in earnest. "So now you see what I'm up against."

"At least she's called you handsome."

"She takes full credit for that, too. Something about the privilege of procuring her prime genes and how grateful I ought to be that she only dropped me on my face as an infant the once." He slips the phone back into his pocket, gives her a cheeky head tilt and a twinkle of warm brown eyes from behind thick-framed specs. "So this is where you come in."

"To agree that she dropped you on your face the appropriate amount of times?"

"To provide me with something that might make her momentarily forget that I haven't yet replicated that face in the form of a human spawn," James corrects, but then he pauses, leaning forward. "Though, by all means, that first one too."

Lily's chest squirms happily. She gives his undoubtedly handsome cheek a playful little pat, but spins on her heel and keeps her red-stained lips shut. She grabs a take away box from the shelf behind her, then turns back to James, whose smiling face is lit up by the dessert display case.

"So"—she prods open the cardboard box, pushing in the tabs—"exactly how many desserts do you reckon make up for your severe lack of procreation?"

James plays at pondering this.

"Well." He taps at his chin. "See, I reckon this is more a 'quality' than a 'quantity' issue, actually."

"Is it? Well, then you have come to the right place." Lily grandly waves a hand over the case. "I am very talented, see."

James smiles. "I'm aware." Then he claps his hands together. "So. One of everything, please."

"One of—" Lily snorts. "Hilarious. What happened to 'quality not quantity'?"

"That's what I'm doing," James returns, and Lily squints in amused confusion at how straight he keeps his face while continuing the joke. "As we've already affirmed, you're very talented. So how am I meant to discover which desserts are the best of the best if I don't try each and every one and choose from there?" He reaches into his pocket again, this time pulling out his wallet. He plucks a jaunty blue credit card out and thrusts it towards her. "One of everything, please."

Lily pushes away his card, rolling her eyes. "Ha-ha. Very funny. What's she keen on? Maybe a tart? Chocolate—"

"One"—jab, jab goes the card again—"of each. Please."

"James."

"I'm good for it. I swear. Go on, swipe through. I'll sit right over there"—he pokes the card briefly towards one of the few tiny tables in the corner of the shop—"and try each and every one."

Lily drops her hands to her hips. He's still not breaking. The stupid handsome face is watching hers in expectant pause. But he can't be serious.

"You're going to sit right there"—she cocks her head towards the table—"and eat thirty different desserts?"

"Sample thirty different desserts," James amends, and pats his slim tummy. "Must be mindful of what will fit, naturally. But it's a scientific thing. Very methodical. Has to be done proper. One by one, each and every one." He lifts an eyebrow at her. "For my mother. To stop the aubergines. I have to stop the aubergines, Lily."

"That's—" She lets out a laugh. Shakes her head. But still—still—he remains unmoved. She lifts the cardboard box again. "I'm packing you four desserts. A perfectly reasonable, high quality sampling—"

"Mary," James calls, eyes never leaving Lily's. He lifts his credit card higher. "Your partner is refusing to sell me thirty desserts."

"You—"

"I'll take that!" Mary cries, swooping in from the other end of the counter, bumping Lily aside so she can pluck James's card straight from his fingertips. She turns to Lily with a gimlet-eyed stare. "Are you out your mind? Serve the man!"

"Yes," James agrees. "Serve the man."

Lily glares at them both, lunging for James's card. "He's not—he's being a loon, he doesn't want thirty desserts—"

"I do," James says again. "I really do."

Mary waves her hand about, determinedly keeping the card from Lily's searching grasp. "Do you hear that? He's confirmed his order. We are a fledgling business, Lily Evans. We do not turn away a good man's good money."

"Thank you," James pipes in again. "I am a good man. I have good money."

"Shut up," Lily returns, huffing in exasperation. "This is so—"

"I'll just pop over there, shall I?" James says, eyebrows raised at her. "To the table? I imagine you have some kind of tray for this sort of thing."

"As a matter of fact—"

"Go on, we'll bring everything right over!" Mary chimes in, looking positively delighted by all of this. "We're even running a Valentine's special: Buy thirty desserts, get one gorgeous, stubborn redhead free."

"Perfect," James says, and though Lily still cannot understand what kind of extravagant nonsense stick slapped him upside the head that afternoon to make him think this was even a remotely sensible idea, she feels her skin prickling with a rosy blush anyway. But James has already turned for the table, marching to the corner of the room with determined strides.

"What are you doing?" Lily hisses to Mary once he's out of earshot.

"What are you doing?" Mary hisses back, poking Lily in the side with James's card. "Your swoony treat of a man wants to buy our shop out of pastry, and you're saying no? I can't decide whether that's a worse business decision or a worse romantic decision!"

"It's not either! He's just...well, honestly, I haven't the faintest what he's doing, but it's not—" Lily waves her hands in irritation, taking a quick glance over her shoulder to see that James has indeed sat himself down at the table in the corner, folding his hands neatly upon the tabletop in a patient pose. He looks delicious and adorable and he's buying all her desserts which he thinks are art, and she wants to snog him more than she wants to breathe. "This is ridiculous. Give me that card."

"Not a chance," Mary shoots back, and whips her hand behind her back again. "For fuck's sake, Lily, I heard the word aubergine. So go get the man his desserts, and maybe you can finally enjoy yourself a bit of fruit!"

"Shhh—god, Mary—" But her partner has already flounced back over to the register, where Lily sees she is quick at work in charging James's card.

Thirty desserts.

He wants thirty desserts.

He's clearly gone mad.

But with Mary swiping a black hole onto his charge card, Lily can't very well refuse to serve him, even if she can't figure out his game. After a moment's huff of frustration, she grabs one of the empty baking trays from the kitchen and heads for the display case. The four-tiered unit is packed full with Lily's hard work from the morning—tartes and chocolates and confectionaries with elegant designs and perfectly coiffed decor (save the one clumsily frosted heart cupcake—James is getting that one, because she's spiteful). It's a lit up pedestal for her daily achievements, and she carefully picks out one of every dessert they currently have on display.

The collection makes up a rather dazzling tableau. With all of them standing together, Lily gets a little burst of pride. She is an artist at work, and it tickles her straight down to the heart that he's been impressed enough to notice it, to make the comment. All of this tickles at her in a way that she was not expecting to be tickled on a busy Valentine's Day afternoon with a dish of a man, his guilt-tripping mother, and an emoji aubergine.

But she's already given her protests. What else is a girl to do except roll with it?

James stands up to help her when he spots her coming over with the tray, but Lily deftly outmaneuvers him to drop the full platter atop the tiny tabletop herself. His long fingers casually fall to the small of her back as they stand beside each other and marvel at the table full of desserts. Lily turns her head to look up at him, only to find him looking at her too.

Their faces are close. So close.

She looks away first.

"Your good money has procured you good desserts, my good man," she says flatly, slipping an errant strand of red hair behind her ear.

James chuckles. "Excellent. Now if I only had someone to taste them with…"

Lily plucks a single plastic fork from her pocket, jabbing him lightly in the chest with its flimsy prongs. "Sorry, old chap. Science is a lonely game."

James lifts a hand to catch the fork—but catches a few of her fingers along with it.

Lily's whole arm immediately feels encased in pure, tingling warmth.

"What was this I heard about a free gorgeous redhead?" he inquires with faux innocence. "I think I ordered one of those, as well."

"Reckon that one's out of your budget, mate," Lily returns, though her fingers curl beneath his.

"I have incredibly high limits on my card," James says, but when she gives him a quelling look, he only lifts the hand that's not still—still—holding hers, and splays its fingers wide. "Five minutes," he requests, brown eyes pleading. "I need someone to explain what everything is. I'm hopeless. I'll just call every one a pudding and and never get the right one."

"You're not nearly as hopeless as that," Lily argues, but her protest sounds flimsily wain even to her own ears.

But, really, why shouldn't it? Of course she wants to cosy up with James at this table and watch as he samples all her delicious hard work, wants to see his eyes light up with each taste, wants to grin as he dives back in for second spoonfuls of his favourites, wants to listen to the cool, syrupy sound of his voice as he sorts through which treat he thinks his mum will fancy most.

She glances over her shoulder at Mary, who is presently ringing up one customer's purchase, with a second queuing patiently behind. There does seem to be a brief lull in the mad Valentine's rush. And those cupcakes were the last of Lily's afternoon baking shift. The display cases should remain decently stocked for at least another few hours. If a sudden onslaught of new customers arrives, she can always pop back over there.

She turns to James, who watches her with hopeful expectation. His face is still so close, she can nearly taste the little dimple. Could just lift up on her tiptoes, drop the smallest of kisses—

Christ, she's far gone for this one.

"Fine. Five minutes," she says, and feels the rush of heady affection as he grins widely, beaming at her. "But if it starts getting busy, I'll have to—"

"Hop to, absolutely." His fingers drop hers, but only so he can reach down and guide her from the back once more. He kicks out one of the chairs with his foot and calls, "Mary, Lily's taking her break!"

"Five minutes!" Lily corrects, and gives James a look as he seats her, then slides into the chair across. "Five minutes," she warns him again.

His only response is another grin.

Five minutes, she's said, but of course it's not five minutes. At five minutes, she's hardly gotten through naming even half of the desserts presented, gets caught up when James asks, "Where did you learn all this? You're a bloody marvel." And Lily explains about her grandmother, the one who had kept Lily in the kitchen at her knee for most of her childhood, and then the brief stint in culinary school after that, though when that same grandmother had passed and left Lily a healthy little inheritance, she and Mary had decided to take the plunge and open the shop.

So five minutes turns to ten, and ten to fifteen, and then time means something else because they're talking about James's mum and her laundry list of hilarious antics and the way James so clearly adores her straight down to his toes—adores his whole family, and the stories he has!—but then Lily has to pop over to help with a growing rush of customers and returns to the table to find that James has somehow recruited five adorable little girls and their jolly father chaperone into his scientific study, six new forks diving into numerous delicacies, and Lily is left preening as James announces that she is their creator and all six newcomers babble and bleat their lavish praise upon her. The little girls do not seem to notice or mind that the frosting on their heart-shaped cupcake is lopsided, and end up ordering half-dozen more before they depart the bakery with waves and frosting-coated smiles. Lily rings them up herself with her own giddy grin, and turns to find that Mary has foisted a rag and cleaner spray on James, who is diligently scrubbing little girl finger prints off the glass display case. Then they're back at the table, and how can they not start to discuss which Fyre Festival documentary is better? It's the only natural progression of the afternoon, and the perfect complement to casual fork dips into the red velvet cake. And the strawberry shortcake. And—

"A pudding!" James declares in delight.

"A pudding," Lily confirms, smiling fondly.

She's so very very fond of this man, and each five minutes by five minutes that passes does nothing to temper that. It's a mighty thing, this deepening crush of hers, and it's suddenly being augmented all the more by the growing suspicion that she's almost certain—really, nearly positively certain—that it's not an unrequited affection. She's considered it before, of course. All these weeks, all these mornings. But today...it's different. He doesn't say anything more flirty than usual, doesn't try anything cringeworthy like feeding her food off his fork or asking what desserts are best eaten directly from the skin. Lily has had a few of those sorts in her past, and James is neither. But he does lean into her across the table at every available opportunity. He does make nudging his fork against hers as they dig into a fruit tart seem like foreplay. He does…

He does fancy her.

It's....really, she's certain—

"All that talk about pudding, and you hardly even tasted it!" she cries now, because she can't bring herself to say, All this chemistry and flirting, and you've hardly even touched me!

James responds to neither spoken nor unspoken exclamation, instead scraping a spoon once again inside the effectively empty glass of caramel pretzel mousse, which has quickly surpassed all other desserts on the tray in his estimation.

"I want to be buried in this," he declares, lavishly closing his eyes as he licks the spoon for the last sparse remnants of mousse streaks. "Better yet, cremate me and mix me in with the batter. Please. It's the perfect way to go."

"That would most certainly affect the consistency," Lily mutters, but she's pleased—so very smug and proud and pleased—that he's so enamoured of something she's made. He's been rapturously complimentary about just about every dessert he's sampled, but he's clearly got a new favourite and it delights her.

"I want this for every meal," he says, and stares down at the mousse glass like he's strongly considering circling the rim with his finger so he can lick up whatever his spoon has failed to catch. "I want—"

"Another one?" Lily asks, laughing. "You're allowed to pick out one for yourself along with your mum's, you know. I'm sure there's plenty left—"

But as Lily swivels in her seat to view just how many caramel pretzel mousses are left for James to hoard all his own, it's to find a much emptier display case than when she'd last left it. In fact, the whole bakery is emptier. And it's darker. Much darker.

"Shit." She checks her watch—shit. "It's nearly closing. How did it get so late?"

"Hm?" James murmurs, but Lily rises to her feet, suddenly incredibly skittish.

She knew she'd wasted a bit of time this afternoon, tasting and laughing and chatting with James. She just hadn't realised how much time had gone.

She glances up to see that Mary is taking care of another customer at the till, and the one other woman they have running this shift is tidying in the kitchen. Neither seems bothered or overwhelmed by Lily's absence, but she still feels like a wretch. She makes it to the display case to find that a solid half of the stock has been thoroughly cleared out. There are no more crème brûlée biscuits. No more double chocolate mini cakes. No more—

No more caramel pretzel mousses.

"Shit," she says again, squinting in the glare of the display case's lights. She glances over her shoulder at James, who has risen to his feet too and is slowly following her towards the desserts. "We took too long. Look—half of the best stuff is already gone. You and the girls wanted to include the graham cracker shortcake. And there's only one of the praline pieces. And the mousse—"

"It is a shame, about the mousse," James says, and stops when he's standing next to her, gazing down at the empty tiers, as well. He pauses, and then there's the warm pressure of his fingers at her back again, soothingly stroking. "Don't worry about the rest."

She feels impossibly guilty. "What do you mean 'don't worry about the rest'? The whole plan—"

"There's been a change in the plans," James says, nodding firmly. "A big reveal, if you will."

"Big reveal? What does that—"

"I realised quite early on that it would require approximately six stone of desserts in order to have my poor mother forgetting about her lack of extended progeny for even the smallest productive period of time." He tips his chin at her in acknowledgment. "Even if they are the best desserts the world has ever seen."

She narrows her eyes, wondering where this is going now. "That's very flattering, but what then—"

"Euphemia Potter is a woman of action," James interrupts again, simply and crisply. "She likely could never be bribed with sweets or treats. Instead, I plan to earn back far greater favour by stopping round her house later, giving her a strong cuddle, and saying, 'Mother beloved, I am sorry I do not yet have a child for which you may dandle upon your knee, but I did just spend the entire afternoon finagling my way into a dessert-themed date with the woman I've fancied something fierce for the last two months—and I think it actually went really well—so I hope you'll take that as strides in the correct direction and strive to be content for now.'"

What had he just—

...finagling my way into a dessert-themed date...

...woman I've fancied something fierce…

...went really well…

Lily stares at him.

She stares at him, she blinks rapidly, feels her pulse racing...and then she tries not to smile.

Date.

Fancy.

Thank god.

"You sly little shit." She elbows him in the stomach, beginning to laugh as he laughs. "You tricked me."

"Only a smidge," he insists, and holds up his thumb and pointer finger, measuring out a minuscule centimeter. The other hand still drifts along her back. "And only because every time I come in, you seem so busy, so I chatted with Mary—"

"Mary was in on this?"

"—and I know Valentine's Day is the worst, but I wanted to see you, and I didn't know—that is, I wasn't sure if…" He trails off, wincing some, looking for the first time a bit bashful and apologetic for his elaborate machinations. Lily still can't believe she'd been so neatly shepherded into it like one of the blind herd. It's grating, being fooled this way. But also…

But also…

Woman I've fancied something fierce.

Lily turns toward him, stepping forward until the space is gone between them, until she can wrap her long arms around his middle and squeeze his torso in a tight, thrilling little hug...all while stomping very firmly on his left foot with hers.

"Next time, just ask, you prat," she grumbles, then snuggles her face against his chest.

She can feel his heart pounding against her ear. His body—so soft and warm—huddles around hers as both of James's arms wrap around her too. He squeezes her—strong, tight, delicious.

"There's a next time?" he asks hopefully.

Lily makes a vague little humming noise, burying her smile into his button-down.

There would be a next time. There would most certainly be a next time.

After all...someone still had to do something about those aubergines.

[chrysalispen]

Prompt #26 - Slosh

It was a commonly held assumption that the imperial army’s fighting force was the best in the world.

Sazha oen Tia snorted to himself every time the subject arose in the mess halls and barracks late at night as the purebloods of his cohort argued amongst themselves, their attitudes towards the Empire running the gamut as it did between “I don’t really like compulsory service but that doesn’t change my obligations” to “Garlemald is the greatest nation in the world and you can’t change my mind.”

Conscripts like himself knew better than to involve themselves in those sorts of discussions.

He was of the former persuasion, of course, though he kept those opinions close to his chest. Even then, he felt he was being perfectly objective to think that the Empire’s strength was its technology and its sheer numbers, not the actual quality of its soldiers' martial prowess. You didn’t need to worry all that much about tactics or surpassing skill, if your opponents were farm boys or nomadic tribesmen, or people who didn’t have running water much less industrial automata and heavy metal-plated airships, and you were just throwing every warm body you had at them.

But still, one couldn’t deny that some of the amenities and innovations enjoyed even by the lowliest aan infantryman appeared near-insurmountable to an outside eye. Carbonweave was such a devastatingly effective protection that he hadn’t realized that Garlean heavy plate of the sort worn by pureblooded officers had weak points, really.

At least, not until he saw Tycho rem Ceneaus die. 

The last he saw of the pilus prior was the shocked – and somehow still petulant – expression on the Garlean’s face as the man stared down at the newly-made hole punctured in his chest with incredulous fury, right before the blade neatly severed his head. A series of shocked gasps and sighs erupted when the body crumpled bonelessly to the deck. 

“Right, then,” the man on the other end of the cutlass shouted, a revolver brandished high in his other hand. “Now that’s done: any bleedin’ one else wants a fight, you’re welcome to it if you’re that keen to die. But as we’ve an entire fleet at ‘and and you whoresons ain’t in imperial territory any longer, I’d advise you lay down your arms.”

Sazha glanced to and fro at the frightened and unhappy faces around him. Along with the small handful of conscripts remaining after the short but vicious skirmish, he threw down his weapon and put his hands in the air.

The transport ship lay dead in the water. The sound of the waves striking its hull were the only immediately audible sound other than the wind gusting in his ears and the hollow footsteps of the boarding enemy against cermet. He kept his head up and his hands visible, giving them no excuse to cut him down, though he knew it likely.

The revolver aimed at his face relaxed and a heavy hand clamped on his shoulder, roughly turning him around and shoving him starboard.

“Hands on the back of yer ‘ead,” a man barked at him. “Get movin’. The captain’ll decide what’s to be done with you lot.”

L'sazha Tia stumbled onto the crude makeshift gangplank to follow after the others, single-file.

The wind blew and the waves crashed against the hull of the frigate, and he saw only a brief glimpse of cold, hostile faces before his captor shouted at him to get below decks with the others. 

It was dark and cold. Dirty water in the hold sloshed about his ankles, and the bench he sat on as the manacles were clamped over his wrists was little more than a piece of wood hastily repurposed, and the only light was that which crept through gaps in the tarred caulking.

(Relia, I’m so sorry. I can’t keep our promise.)

Far from anything resembling home, sure he was about to die, Sazha thought of Ala Mhigo.

He thought of a girl with honey-colored hair and dark blue eyes, telling him they’d go adventuring when he’d served his time. He thought of the lavender flowers she grew in her back garden and of the scent of fresh-cut mangoes. Red flowers in spilling fountains. The dry heat of Gyr Abania rising from sandstone and the salty smell of Loch Seld and the sight of the waterbirds taking flight over the city walls at sundown.

Closing his eyes and leaning back against the wet boards, L’sazha Tia lapsed into an uneasy doze, and left his old life behind.

[crusherthedoctor]

Christmas Time, Christmas Island

"Still awake, eh?"

"Well, that's insomnia for you, isn't it?"

Sonic the Hedgehog had been enjoying his time in the island of Viridonia, despite uncovering yet another plot by the deranged madman known as Dr. Eggman. Tonight however, he was having a little rest. The winter season was approaching, and him and his friends had went to a particular foresty area by the Gleaming Meadows, where it was said to be the first place in the meadow that you could see the drop of snow.

Alas, there had not yet been a single drop. They had waited for a fair while, but still nothing. By this point, Tails, Amy and Cream had fallen asleep comfortably after having waited for so long, but Sonic was still keeping a watchful eye, grateful that his surroundings were at least pleasant to look at under the night sky. Luckily for him, he wasn't alone on that, for the newest friend he had made, Lutrudis, was doing the same thing.

"Not tired yourself either?" the horse inquired.

"Nah," the hedgehog replied, as he remained comfortable resting by the biggest tree in the meadow. Having finished carefully pulling a blanket over their other three friends (evidently, she predicted not all of them would be staying awake through this event), Lutrudis sat down beside Sonic and followed suit, though she did so very carefully so as not to flare up her fragile body.

"How often do you get snow in winter?" Sonic asked.

"Goes either way, really," Lutrudis shrugged, as she very mildly crossed her legs. She chuckled. "Either there's too much, or there's barely much. And half the time it comes a month later. I could quite possibly count all the White Christmases I've experienced with my two hands... Everyone tends to just hang out in Sapphire Tundra for the festivities, since there's always plenty of snow there regardless."

Sonic smirked at her. "And how do you feel about snow personally?"

"It can be a bit inconvenient at times, but it's pleasant to look at." She brushed a gloved hand through her silky smooth ponytail, which was interrupted by a light cough. "Makes the asthma a right pain, though."

"Aww, if I had known about that, we could have stayed in your castle."

"It's fine," Lutrudis smiled as she continued looking up at the starry clouds. "You guys wanted to see this, so that's the top priority. Just hope it actually happens at some point..."

"Heh."

They both took in the environment for a moment. The swift breeze was the only prominent sound throughout the meadow, outside of their friends' light snoring. Amazingly, Cheese the Chao snored the heaviest. Eventually, Lutrudis broke the silence.

"Sonic?"

"Yeah?"

"Talking of Christmas... you used to live on Christmas Island, right?"

"Yeah."

"If it's not too nosy of me to ask... what was it like there?"

Sonic blinked. It had been so long since the last time the memory of Christmas Island had even occurred to him. He honestly couldn't recall the last time he had discussed the subject. But he saw no reason to be secretive. Tails knew about his past history, as did Amy. What harm would revealing it to Lutrudis do?

"Well, it was pretty boring to be honest," he laughed. "I mean, it was nice and all, and the coconuts there were delicious. But I was thirsty for journey even when I was a little guy, and it was never going to appease me. You can only run around the same place so many times before you lose interest, know what I mean?"

"I suppose..." In reality, Lutrudis didn't necessarily agree, since she had always loved her frequent walks through the same forest surrounding her castle. But she understood her friend's needs and desires, and she wasn't going to shoot them down.

"I remember my mom and dad were always lecturing me," Sonic reminisced wistfully. "Always telling me to stay nearby, look both ways, do this, don't do that, be home at six, don't break the sound barrier again..." He chuckled once more. "They were good parents though. I respected them. Just kinda overprotective of me, that's all."

Lutrudis fiddled with her ponytail again. "I guess they got an awful fright when you started risking your life on a routine basis, huh?"

"Heh, you could say that," Sonic grinned sheepishly. "Especially with how young I was."

"You were fighting nasty fiends that early on?"

"Sure was! It wasn't just my need for adventure that kicked in early." He broke out a confident smile. "So did my need to stick it to 'em. Ain't letting jerks messing with my friends, or my planet."

Lutrudis' own smile grew more intimate, as she glanced to her side at the heroic hedgehog, with one hand on her chest, and the other resting her head. His altruistic heart was one of his greatest qualities in her eyes, and it contributed heavily to her admiration for him, even before she had met him in person.

"So then, what manner of dastardly rapscallions did you kick up the rear back in the day?" she asked in a playful tone.

"Oh, nothing extraordinary for the most part, just a bunch of petty crooks. They never prepared themselves for the good ol' Sonic Spin." He mimiced his signature attack by spinning his index finger. "Although there was one exception... There was this one time where I was menaced by a goblin."

A brief silence ensued before Lutrudis fully realised what Sonic had just said. She looked at him in mild bafflement.

"A goblin?"

"Yep. A goblin." Even years later, Sonic himself couldn't quite believe it either. "He was a big lug too, about the size of a building. Clawed hands, bald head, fangs, pointy nose..." He shivered for a bit. "He was kinda freaky. His name was Baron Giga."

"Baron Giga..." The lady horse had to stifle her laughter upon hearing such a ridiculous name. "Talk about naming yourself after your most obvious attribute."

The hero laughed nervously, clearly aware about the irony of her joking with a quick-footed hedgehog named Sonic. He quickly changed course.

"Well anyway, this guy was all big and mighty, and he was all..." He puffed his chest in preparation for his subsequent impression. "Foolish mortals! I'm the great goblin king! And your precious island is now mine! Muhahahahaha!"

He turned his head in Lutrudis' direction. "He had a really stupid voice by the way. Like it wasn't actually his voice, if you know what I mean."

"I see," Lutrudis commented, still lightly amused by his impression. Her hand was brushing gently against the petals of a daisy. "Did he have any ghastly minions?"

"You bet he did! He had walking cannons, and walking hands!"

"Ooooooh...!"

"And there were freakish hands with wings, and big googly eyes!"

"Spooky..."

"And there was this one that looked..." Sonic paused, as he attempted to find a suitable comparison for a creature with a long blunt object on its head. He was visibly embarrassed by what came to mind. "...Well, I don't know how to describe it. It was a weird looking one."

"So what happened?"

"Hm?"

"How did you stop him? Did you do it on your own?"

Sonic was ready to answer, but as a certain realisation kicked in, a gradual look of reluctance began to shape itself onto the hedgehog's face. Whatever the next part of the tale was, he clearly did not want to remember it. He hesitated briefly, before finally continuing.

"Well, not exactly..."

------

"Are you the local hero, Sonic the Hedgehog?"

"Yeah! That's me!"

"Thank goodness! Pleased to meet you. I'm afraid I'm in need of a bit of help..."

"Where are we going?"

"Oh, you'll see in just a second."

The young Sonic was taken aside by an older man. He couldn't guess how old the man was, but he appeared to be somewhere in his later years at the very least. The man did not seem at all bothered by the heat the scorching sun was passing down onto his hairless cranium. Not that Sonic focused too hard on that part, for he was more hypnotised by the man's extremely bushy moustache, as well as his deep pink nose. What on earth could cause a nose to turn so pink...?

"So like, are you a scientist or somethin'?" The little hog took notice of the humble little laboratory he was escorted into. Machine parts were scattered all across a bunch of tables and desks, some of them vaguely resembling insect appendages for some strange reason. There was also the occasional beaker on the desks, each of them filled with brightly colored liquids. Who knows what they could be for...?

"That's right, kid," the man stroked his brown 'stache as he examined his own private domain. "They don't call me Doctor Ivo Robotnik for nothing. I earned my PhDs, I'll have you know!"

"P h what...?"

"Well, anyway," Robotnik started, seemingly trying not to notice his acquaintance's lack of awareness regarding his profession. "I don't come from here, but I'm aware of this island's plight with Baron Giga, and I wanted to do what I could to help. Just as well then that I've been researching entities like the baron for the last few years now, as I find them deeply fascinating... Which means I know how to confront this menace efficiently."

The scientist went up to a suspicious curtain in the corner of his lab, and removed it as dramatically as he could. To the kid's amazement, behind the curtain was a huge machine of some sort. It looked very much incomplete, and it didn't even boast a single coat of paint, but the basic foundation was very much present. Its appearance was highly reminiscent of a humanoid, and upon squinting, Sonic could make out a similar moustached shape near the head.

"That looks cool!" Sonic exclaimed in literal childlike ecstasy. His spines had spiked out as an impulsive extension of his excitement. "You gonna use this junk to beat up the goblin guy?"

"That is the purpose of this machine, yes," Robotnik confirmed matter of factly. He followed it up with a depressed sigh. "Or at least, if I had more rings..."

"Rings...?"

Robotnik promptly took out a map of blueprints and shared it with Sonic. The hedgehog could make out from the highly detailed schematics that the machine was making use of the rings he had seen throughout the island, or to be more specific, the mysterious energy that they often came with.

"My mech requires a particularly powerful source of fuel in order to function to its best ability," Robotnik explained, all the while trying to make sure the little hedgehog's focus actually remained on the blueprints and not elsewhere. "Therefore, I've been collecting rings for that purpose. But the amount I have as of now is hardly enough..."

He sprinted to the giant computer in his lab, surprisingly so for someone his age, and using his impressively fast typing prowess, he got the computer to confirm exactly how charged up his mech was. As of current, it reached up to a pitiable 20%. The doctor's moustache drooped as he sighed once again, as if on purpose.

"That baron has been stealing all the rings for himself," he muttered while gesticulating with one hand. "Probably for some silly witchcraft nonsense, you know these types." He chuckled sadly, like a warm-hearted grandfather. "But that's why I need your help."

"Me?" Sonic didn't even know this person. How was this scientist so sure about him?

"Only you can collect enough rings before it's too late." Robotnik then proceeded to cough and splutter as though he were ill, though if it hadn't been for Sonic's idealistic youthfulness, he may have sensed it wasn't a genuine cough. "I'm just an old man, after all. My best days are long behind me, and I only want to help make the world a better place while I still can..."

"Well, don't worry!" the kid grinned and waved a finger out of cockiness. "I'll help you get those rings, Eggman!"

"...Eggman...?"

"Yeah, that's my name for ya." Sonic gave the doctor a wink. "Cause you're kinda shaped like an egg and all... so I'm gonna call you Eggman!"

"...I see." Robotnik didn't show much reaction to the new nickname he was suddenly given, though his body language subtly emphasized that he wasn't too keen on it. "Right, well then, I guess you better get started on your little adventure."

"Alright! But uh, where should I go?"

"Anywhere, really. No doubt the baron's demons will be scattered all around the island. If you find THEM, you'll find their rings." The doctor walked back to his mech, having brought out a wrench and several additional tools to continue working on his homemade creation. "You collect the rings, I complete the mech. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. A team effort, if you will!"

Sonic began revving up already. "No worries, I'll have them all in a flash!" He flashed another grin to Robotnik, along with a good-natured thumbs up. "Catch ya later, Eggman!"

And with that, he was gone in an flash. Unfortunately, the scale of his speed had caused all sorts of blueprints to be knocked over all around the lab, much to the doctor's grumbling exasperation.

------

"So you were working with Eggman?" Lutrudis asked, with a hint of surprise.

"Essentially, yeah." Sonic scratched his ear before continuing. "We teamed up to beat Giga and his... 'demons'. He seemed pretty cool at the time. A bit eccentric, cause it was still Eggman, but y'know."

"Well, that's certainly fascinating," the horse noted, as she gently stroked one of her legs with her other. "To think he was a decent man at first, that he once had noble intentions, and wasn't always so selfish and cruel... Goodness, I can't even imagine living in a reality where he wasn't a ripe stinker. Must have been something alright."

As soon as she said that however, she was quick to notice the growing look of hurt on Sonic's face. As she examined his uncharacteristically quiet discomfort, she gradually figured out that she had spoke too soon. Her own ears mildly drooped in disappontment at what her friend's body language spelled out to her.

"Oh... he was... he was a stinker the whole time, wasn't he..."

Sonic simply looked aside dejectedly, as he recalled that one moment...

------

"I got the last rings, Eggman! The hand monster gave me a hard time, but I snatched them off from hi-"

Sonic cut himself off in shock at what he witnessed upon arriving back at the lab. Robotnik was there as expected, as was his big mech... but so were rows upon rows of smaller droids, each of them based on a variety of members of the animal kingdom. He had also just interrupted the process of Robotnik working on something... something that looked an awful lot like Baron Giga. The doctor was visibly flushed upon Sonic's arrival.

"Ah... Sonic... you finished up earlier than expected..."

"What's... what's all this, doc?"

Robotnik stumbled for a little bit. "I was just, uh... just finishing a side project of mine! Wanted to do even more to fight the good fight, you know?"

"Doc... what is this?" Sonic asked again, this time more firmly. "Why is Giga here? Why are you doing stuff on him? And is this... an army...? You never mentioned anything about making an army..."

Robotnik stroked his moustache to bide some brief time as he thought out his response. "It's all to fight Baron Giga with, see? There's a strength in numbers, you understand. As for this... erm..." He motioned towards what appeared to be the very Giga himself. "...A lifelike replication. For locating weaknesses and whatnot. Yes, that's right..." 

He quickly rubbed his hands. "Now then, the final rings, please..."

He extended a hand, but was instead greeted with Sonic hesitating, even hiding them away from the doctor's view. The young hedgehog looked troubled, and alert. He didn't like the feel of any of this.

"What's going on, Eggman...?" He looked up at the other, desperately wanting an answer.

Robotnik looked down at Sonic for a few seconds, unable to say anything at first. But then, he slowly kneeled down to match Sonic's point of view, and just as methodically, he took off his glasses for the hedgehog's sake. Sonic was greeted with a pair of regular blue eyes, as the scientist pleaded for forgiveness.

"Sonic... I'm sorry," he started, as he put a hand on the other's shoulder. "Baron Giga doesn't exist. I created him. I should have been more honest with you, but I didn't want you to have even more on your plate than what was necessary."

"But... I don't understand..."

"It was a test, you see. A test to show that you truly were the hero people said you were, and to make us more prepared for when something like Giga happens for real. The world is a dangerous place, and there's a lot of threats out there. We have to do what we can to protect our world from them."

Sonic remained silent. It didn't make sense to him, and he still felt hurt about being lied to.

"I understand why you may not trust me," Robotnik muttered quietly. He briefly looked aside at the floor, as if to accentuate his apparent remorse. "But do you not recognise our potential? This situation may have been staged, but our efforts were not. We can do great things together, Sonic... extraordinary things. We can be heroes together... But I need those rings if that is ever to happen."

Sonic hesitated still. He kept glancing slowly between the old man's face, and the rings he currently held in his own hand. Robotnik ushered him once.

"Do the right thing, Sonic... I know you can..."

Unable to dither for any longer, Sonic closed his eyes tightly as he gave Robotnik his last bundle of rings. Robotnik gently patted him on the head for his assistance.

"Thank you," Robotnik whispered. He quickly put his glasses back on, obscuring his eyes once more. "You've helped me change the world for the better."

After taking some time to accept his decision, Sonic slowly started to relax as the doctor applied the energy of the rings to his towering mech, before climbing inside it himself.

After a few seconds of inactivity, Robotnik's masterpiece slowly came to life, like a robotic Frankenstein's monster. By the doctor's piloted command, it broke free from the tubes that had formerly kept it wired up, and a small number of lumbering steps each caused a slight tremor throughout the lab. Sonic looked up at the doctor's cockpit, gradually regaining his previous excitement and enthusiasm about the project. As the mech walked all the way across the room, just outside the laboratory's exit, it turned towards Sonic's direction, and its mechanical hand gave a proud thumbs up to the kid. Sonic grinned, and gave a thumbs up himself.

"So doc, what's the first threat that needs taken care of?" he asked jovially.

He could only barely see the doctor's face in the cockpit, but he could hear a bit of laughter from him... It didn't sound at all like an ordinary laugh... And the thumb of the mech was rotating slowly, yet surely, until it was upside down, pointed firmly at the floor...

"Ho ho ho... you."

"What...?"

As if by instinct, every last one of the smaller robots had immediately come to life. Some of them revved up their wheels, while others flapped their wings, but all of them focused solely on the blue hedgehog, and before he could realise what was happening, before he could respond with anything other than confusion, before he could seek for an explanation...

"Thanks for everything, kid."

And right on cue, the robots began to attack and overwhelm the poor boy, while Robotnik - Eggman, as christened by the one he was now leaving for dead - left the scene in his mech.

------

"That fiend..." Lutrudis muttered in disbelief with clenched fists. "That dirty, rotten, filthy, stinking fiend... And while you were a child, no less... I'm so sorry..."

"Don't sweat it," Sonic shrugged casually. "It worked out in the end. I wrecked up those robots, and I caught up to him and beat him. It wasn't easy though..."

"If Eggman wanted the rings," Lutrudis mused as she scratched the back of her ear. "Why did he even bother with the whole Giga smoke and mirrors? He was going to get the rings with or without your help, surely?"

"It wasn't about the rings," Sonic explained stoically. His arms were now crossed. "It was about keeping me distracted. He knew I could have been a threat to his operations, so he did all that to get me out of the way without me even suspecting he was up to something. By painting another target."

"Well... you got him in the end," Lutrudis put her hand on Sonic's shoulder, and rubbed it tenderly. "You set things right. Like every time after."

As Sonic recalled his first proper fight with the mad scientist, he was bothered not so much by the fight itself - though being forced to fight who he thought was a friend was certainly hard to swallow - but rather, all the things the doctor called out to him as they traded blows:

"Is it Eggman that you want? Then it's Eggman that you'll get!"

"Who am I to dismiss a name for your king?"

"You could have avoided all this if you were more like me, and just thought!"

"They only care about the hero! The legend! They don't care about YOU!"

"They'll turn against you one day! They always do! Take it from me, kid! No one likes what isn't normal! I was shunned for my genius, and so will you for your speed!"

"Where are your friends now, Sonic? Oh, that's right, they don't exist!"

Sonic looked up at the night sky as he remembered those biting words... before glancing at Tails, Amy and Cream, who still remained asleep even now. He then glanced at Lutrudis, who in turn caught his vision. His smile slowly began to return.

"So.. what did you do after that?" the horse queried.

"Well, I cleaned the place up, made sure everyone was okay, got yelled at by my parents for trusting a stranger... then I left."

"You just... left?"

"Yep. The ol' adventure thirst was calling, and after what happened with Eggman... I felt uncomfortable there. Couldn't shake it off me."

"How did you leave?"

"I..." Sonic hesitated, knowing what he was about to say was going to sound rather inexcusable no matter how he put it. "I erm... I stole my dad's plane."

Lutrudis blinked. She took a few seconds to contemplate, then blinked again.

"Right."

"Yeah, I know..." Sonic scratched his left quill, ashamed at what he just admitted to.

Another brief period of quietness followed. The night remained as beautiful as when they had arrived, and the stars continued to glow radiantly. Upon breaking the silence this time around however, Lutrudis' tone grew more lighthearted.

"You ever gonna give it back to him then?" She let out a joking smirk.

"Ah, heh heh, I think too much time has passed for that..." Sonic's face grew even redder as they continued discussing his rather delinquent theft. "Tails has modified it to infinity by this point anyway... I really should talk to them again though."

Lutrudis looked once more in the direction of the sleeping Tails. Though you couldn't tell at first glance due to the sheet, the bumps in the sheet made it obvious that his titular twin tails were keeping the similarly dozing Amy and Cream warm. Lutrudis' heart couldn't help but melt ever so slightly.

"You've got good friends," she commented, as she looked in Sonic's direction. "Who cares about Eggman, when you have them."

"Sounds about right," Sonic agreed with a satisfied nod. He wagged his finger with a wink and a smirk. "But don't leave yourself out, Trudy. You're pretty cool as well."

Lutrudis tried to fight back the bashfulness she felt in response, to blatantly little success. She rubbed her arm and glanced down at the flowers around them, before looking back up at Sonic's famous emerald eyes.

"You too, Sonic," she assured him quietly. She didn't seem to be aware that her tail was swishing to and fro, just a little bit.

"Oh, wait...! Is that... ... ...yeah, it is! The snow's came!"

"It has?"

Sonic and Lutrudis both stood up, and sure enough, the first few drops of snow were gently falling. Sonic quickly, yet carefully, attempted to wake his other friends. Controlling his own glee, he waited for them to reach a reasonable level of semi-consciousness before continuing.

"Guys, wake up! The snow came!"

"Whuzzat...?"

"Oh, yes! At last!"

"Snow? Yay!!!"

"Chao!!!"

Wasting no time, Cream and Cheese used their ears and wings respectively to fly closer to the new snowfall, followed shortly by Tails. The snowflakes glistened marvellously, and the celestial skies complimented their pristine elegance. Amy looked at her flying comrades with a hearty laugh, as she waited for Tails to hover down and pick her up so that she could get a closer look as well.

Sonic simply stood there, with his hands firmly on his hips. He smiled at the sight of his friends enjoying themselves. He turned to Lutrudis, who stood beside him.

"Well, I guess we could be in for a ~White Christmas~ after all."

"Quite so... Wait a minute, don't tell me you're about to-"

"~Iiiii'm... dreeeeamiiiing~" Sonic started, as he shamelessly showed off his impressive vocals. He followed this up with a slow, yet goofy dance. His grin was wide, knowing full well that he was indulging in silliness. "~Of a Whiiiite... Christmaaasss~"

"Oh, jeez," Lutrudis laughed out loud, as she shyly covered her face with one hand. One thing would always remain certain: this was Sonic the Hedgehog alright.

[jinterlude]

"Romantic” Bonding Time

↳This story aesthetic is made by yours truly. I do not own the rights to any of the images used.

➳ Pairing: Gang Member!Mark Lee x Superhero!Reader (female OC)

➳ Genre(s): Superhero!AU, Superpowers!AU, Gang!AU, MCU, Humor, Fluff, Action, & Slight-Angst

➳ Words: 5.7K

➳ Summary: Having yet another date night ruined, you, your brother, and the gang, NCT 127, are called once again to protect the city of Seoul. After discovering that you and brother possess two stones that can enhance the ability of the six infinity stones, Thanos sends Ebony Maw to retrieve them. The two of you continue to battle until Haechan causes an explosion that causes the deformed octopus to retreat. Now, in the rainy city of London, both you and Mark are on a mission to find him. What can possibly go wrong?

Cars zoom by. Screaming, panicking bystanders run as if their lives depend on it. A new threat has come out to play with the beautiful city of Seoul as its backyard.

A menacing laughter fills the atmosphere while a fiery blaze colors the blank night sky. With his army of minions by his side, Ebony Maw, destroys everything and kills everyone in sight. He is given the greatest of privileges by Thanos. He is tasked with retrieving two of the most powerful stones, outside of the six infinity stones. Legends say that the universe has created these stones to enhance the abilities of the other six. Like a supporting system one can say.

Many people, both outside and inside the Milky Way galaxy, have tried to find these stones and claim it for their own but alas, many have failed.

That is…

Until a certain enhanced pair of siblings received them as a last gift from their mother.

Now, they have sworn to protect their beloved country from any invaders that have a sudden lapse in judgement and want to attack anything and anyone under their jurisdiction. Of course, they are times where the dynamic duo has done enough damage to the buildings to the point that their structural integrity has come into question. However, they always brought their president results, and that is more than enough for the government.

At the end of the day, if their city is safe, then it is quite alright with them.

Currently, on a black and white street bike, you are zooming by hundreds of cars, who are going in the opposite direction, with the adrenaline pumping throughout your veins. You rev up your bike, adding more speed, and continue to maneuver through the debris that the Squidward wannabe is hauling at you.

Damn. To think all you’ve asked for was some quality time with your boyfriend, and you get this. What a great date night!

          “Yuta, his buddies are heading towards Hongdae,” You begin, speaking through the shared audio device, “Do you and WinWin want to take care of that?” You ask, activating one of your many abilities. Not even a moment later, you hear Yuta say that he and WinWin will head over there ASAP. You utter a quick thank you as you begin the process of another ability that you possess.

Speaking of which…

The abilities that you possess is based off moon and its lunar cycle. Depending on where it is at, you can either go full defense, offense, or a combination of both. Lucky for you, the lunar cycle is heading towards a full moon, so that means you get to go all out and have a bit of fun. It’s always fun time when you possess the ability of lunar manipulation. You have access to everything and anything associated with the beloved moon.

Holding out your right hand; your palm visible to everyone, you gather enough energy for form this ball of energy. Aligning up your hand, you release a thick beam of lunar energy at the minions, who think it's wise to block your path.

          “Okay…question!” You hear Doyoung through the intercoms, “Why did you have me design a weapon specific for your abilities, and you don’t use it!” He complains, causing you, your brother and the rest of NCT 127 to laugh.

          “I’m sorry Doyoung but given the fact that I’m on a street bike and being chased by Squidward on crack, I think using your specialized weapon is the last thing on my mind right now.” You explain, continuing to attack anything that has gotten in your way.

While with Doyoung, he simply sighs, flopping back in his chair. The joys of being the technology expert for his little gang. He then sits up straight and rolls his chair to a different monitor. He quickly types in some codes and is instantly granted access to your brother's camera feed.

          “How's it going on your end?” He inquires noticing him, Mark, Johnny, and Taeyong struggling a bit.

          “Do I have to answer?!” He hears your brother shout as he sets a few enemies ablaze. Don’t you love having abilities based off the sun?

As if he’s physically there, Doyoung holds up his hands in defense, not wanting to deal with your brother’s infamous temper.

          “Hey now. I am just checking in, especially with your sister sending away Yuta and WinWin to protect Hongdae.” Doyoung states, which instantly alarms Mark.

Mark stops fighting briefly; his pulse pauses as he worries for the woman he loves.

Johnny and Taeyong stop in their actions as well. Not because they worry for Mark’s mindset but because they know how ruthless their chameleon can be when anyone threatens his woman.

This can’t be good…

Taeyong throws his fist back, landing a clean punch on one of the alien invaders. Then, he whips out his favorite gun and fires a few rounds into its skull, hoping that it kills it. It does.

He then rushes over to the second youngest, placing a friendly hand on the boy’s shoulder.

           “Mark…” Taeyong begins, “Y/N is fine. Remember, she has enhanced abilities that —” However before he can finish his sentence, Mark runs towards his street bike, hops on it, and starts it up. Not bothered to wear his helmet, he revs it up and drives to wherever his girlfriend is at.

Your safety is his utmost priority. He knows that his members can take care of themselves. Plus, they have your brother, so they have an extra layer of protection.

Johnny watches his retreating body, letting out a long sigh.

           “You know…” He pauses, taking a moment to fire his weapon one of the few alien invaders that linger around the area, “I kind of envy him and Y/N.” He confesses.

Y/B/N perks up his brow, finding his statement both odd and amusing.

           “Why’s that?” He asks.

           “Because, Mark has time to love his woman amidst this chaos while I barely have time to tinker with our weapons and make them even better.” Johnny answers, reloading his favorite semi-automatic just in case there’s another swarm.

Both Taeyong and Y/B/N laugh at his statement before agreeing with them. In their line of work, it is quite difficult to maintain a relationship. There are days where they are lonely for companionship. On the other hand, with a few of them loving the idea of playing the field, a simple one-night stand will satisfy their manly urges…

Currently fighting as if your life depends on it, you hide behind a cracked pillar, catching your breath and replenishing your energy. This Ebony Maw fella really wants both yours and your brother’s stone.

           “Come out. Come out. You should think of this as an honor. Only a select few can say that they have died at the hands of the children of Thanos.” You hear that creeper’s voice state, further irking you.

An almost animalistic growl emerges from your lips. This asshole has done an excellent job at annoying you to no end, and the weekend isn’t even over yet!

Channeling all of your energy into the palms of your hand, moisture from the air begins to attract to them.

Slowly, it begins to take the shape of your favorite weapon—a Korean style katana. You always do love shedding the blood of your enemies with it.

With one deep breath, you slowly exhale, allowing the nerves to exit your precious body. For this fight, you can’t afford to lose focus. If you do, then everyone you have come to love and cherish will die. It will be a cold day in Hell if someone you love dies on your watch.

Not again. Not ever again.

You open your eyes, taking a step behind the pillar. You swing your katana, hearing this whishing sound from the blade as it cuts through the air.

A smug smirk graces his face as Ebony Maw holds up two fingers, summoning all of the debris from the ground and shaping them into sharp points. Sharp enough to penetrate your body over and over until you bleed to your death. A painfully slow death that you’ll never wish to experience.

You draw back your sword before letting out this battle cry filled with your pent-up rage as you rush him.

Ebony Maw flings the sharpened debris at you, desperately wanting to please his master.

You swing your sword in every direction, deflecting every single one of them, as you close the gap between you and the pain in the ass that has overstayed his welcome.

Using one of the destroyed cars as leverage, you jump on the hood, adding more momentum, before flinging yourself at him. However, that’s a foolish decision on your part.

With just a flick of his wrist, he forces your body to the side. He has hoped to capture you and your brother alive, but one out of two isn’t so bad. Like how he’s a rock in your boots, you’re annoying thorn on his side and quite frankly, he wants you dead more than alive.

           “Shit!” You curse, knowing that your defensive abilities are nonexistent at the moment.

You slam your eyes shut, bracing for impact; however, instead of landing on the cold hard ground, you feel a pair of arms around your body, securing themselves on your waist.

           “Looks like I’m saving you this time, huh baby girl?” You hear a familiar arrogant voice say.

You pry one eye open before opening the other. A breath of relief escapes your lips as a warm smile begins to take shape. Though, you soon pause as you realize that your amazing boyfriend has put himself in harm’s way—again.

Realizing that he has picked the wrong time to play hero, you scramble off of him and punch him square in the shoulder.

           “What are you doing here, Mark?!” You question loudly as you protect both you and him from Ebony Maw’s attack.

Mark yelps, rubbing his now injured shoulder, “Okay…! Ow!” He gives you a look of disbelief, “I’m here rescuing my woman from the drugged-up octopus!” He replies in an obvious tone of voice.

You can’t help but gawk at his words. While you do appreciate that he has come to your rescue, you want to choke him for failing in realizing that Ebony Maw can easily kill him without lifting more than two fingers.

           “I appreciate the thought, babe. I do, but as you can see, his threat level—” You suddenly stop mid-sentence as you throw your body over Mark, shielding him from one of the cars that Ebony Maw has graciously given you two.

Without a second a thought, you press your earpiece, activating the link between you and the rest of the team.

           “Guys…a little help here!” You request loudly as both you and Mark scramble to your feet and rush to cover.

           “Haechan is on his way!” The two of you hear Doyoung announce and just as he says that you hear Haechan’s cheery voice tell you and Mark to get away from the zone of impact.

A look of confusion washes over your faces but instead of verbally questioning, the two of you do as your told.

           “I always wanted to test out my new invention, cherry bomb!” Haechan shouts happily as he grabs a few interestingly designed explosives from his pockets and fling them around the perimeter.

           “Cherry bomb?” Mark asks, observing an almost maniacal smile on his closest friend’s face.

Instead of answering, Haechan simply holds out the trigger presses the red button, activating the explosives one by one. As each bomb goes off, the explosives produce different colors of smoke; a smoke that is toxic to anyone who inhales it. Originally, Haechan has hoped to use his beautiful creation on enemy gangs throughout South Korea but considering their predicament, he might as well test it out now.

Your eyes widen at the rather colorful sight that the explosives are producing. While with Mark, he slowly nods, finally understanding why Haechan calls it, “Cherry Bomb”

           “Isn’t this a tad overboard?” You asks, turning your attention towards the explosive expert.

Haechan gasps, feeling a bit insulted by your words.

           “Nonsense! While, I don’t think it’s enough to kill him, I do think it’s enough to distract him enough for us to get away.” He answers as the toxic clouds begin to disperse.

Just as you are about to answer, you notice that Ebony Maw’s silhouette is not seen.

Odd…

Feeling a bit anxious, you quickly tell Mark and Haechan to ready up just in case he comes for a surprise attack.

Your eyes scan the area; your breath a bit shaky. There’s no way that something simple as toxic cloud can make him retreat so easily.

The three of you continue to wait, feeling the cool breeze brush by your bodies. It’s as if the wind is warning you of what’s to come next. Yet, that moment never came.

           “Doyoung, scan for his whereabouts.” You quickly instruct as you hear the collected roar from a few engines. You instantly snap towards the direction of the noise; your guard at an all time high and ready to fight once more.

Thankfully, your mind registers that it’s only Taeyong, Johnny, and your brother. When you quickly ask about Yuta, WinWin, Jungwoo, and Taeil’s location, Johnny informs you that they have gone back to headquarters. You quickly thank the stars that everyone is alive with only a few injuries.

           “No sign of the Squidward on crack or any of his creepy Resident Evil like minions.” You hear Doyoung announce, lifting a huge weight off your shoulders. Though, deep down, you know he’s going to come back for you and your brother soon.

Honestly, you want to take the fight to him instead of allowing him to wreak havoc on your beloved country. Your home has suffered enough because of him.

Now, it’s time to put a stop to him once and for all.

           “Let’s head back to base. We have some things to sort out. I want him dead once and for all…”

A few days later, you and Mark are currently on a plane heading towards England. Why? Well, it’s because of Doyoung’s brilliant plan. He believes that Ebony Maw has retreated to a different country in order to find the other stones. When you’ve asked him why, Doyoung told you that it’s more than likely because his master ordered him too.

Not knowing who his master is can be unsettling for anyone, but for you and your brother, it’s quite the opposite. If anything, this is like an arousing game of who’s the true puppet master, and the two of you are ready to play.

Staring out the window, you absentmindedly run your fingers through Mark’s hair as you take in the different color hues that paint the sky. You admire the tranquility that radiates from the empty sky as the plane continues to penetrate the puffs of clouds. Fluffy clouds that remind you of pillows on your childhood bed.

Oh, how you miss the simple life. Before you and your brother have discovered the “blessing” that is your gifts. Blessing? More like curse. It is because of them that your parents are no longer on this Earth. It is because of them that your aunt and uncle are being protected by the agency known as S.H.I.E.L.D.

Honestly, you just want it all to end.

Yet…

At the same time, you know that it can’t end.

So as long as you and your brother live and breathe, the two of you will continue to protect the people since you know that they can’t protect themselves.

You both have taken an oath to protect the country of South Korea, and that’s what you will do…

Slowly, a soft sigh escapes your lips as you pry your eyes away from the window and pull down the shutter. You trail your eyes down and notice Mark’s peaceful sleeping face. A warm smile appears on your face as you can’t help but look at him with complete love and adoration.

You can’t help but shake your head as you recall the first day you’ve met this young man. Under a fake alias, you and Y/B/N have enrolled at the School of Performing Arts even though you’re currently “preparing” to make your big debut. There, you’ve had your first run in with Mark and his little gang of delinquents. Little did you know that day, him and the rest of NCT 127 would be the backing force that your team has been missing.

           “Okay, why are staring at me like that?” You hear Mark say in a sleepy tone of voice.

You immediately snap out of your thoughts and kiss him sweetly on the nose.

           “Nothing. I was just admiring how different you become when you’re not talking.” You tease with a playful smile on your lips.

Mark rolls his eyes as he sits up and stretches out his neck muscles. Instead of retaliating, Mark asks how much longer they have on the plane. He’s starting to get a bit anxious as he shakes his leg. He never does like being in one place for more than thirty minutes.

One of the downsides to being the group’s chameleon man. He always has to blend in with the crowd and make sure that no one can retrace his steps.

To calm his nerves, you lean over your seat and place a loving yet soft kiss on his lips. As you are about to pull away, you feel his hand rest against the back of your neck, keeping you in place. You can’t help but laugh into the kiss because of his sudden courageous action. Where’s your shy boyfriend?

The two of you finally pull away and as you do, you hear the one announcement that anyone on a ten hour plus flights longs to hear.

           “This is your captain speaking. Please buckle up your seat belts as we are about to descend onto the runway.” Announces the flight captain.

Mark shouts a quick, “Finally!”, as he swiftly buckles his seat belt, grinning from ear-to-ear.

You shake your head, chuckling at your other half’s sudden childish behavior.

You really can’t take him anywhere…

After what seemed like forever doing the whole airport check in procedure, both you and Mark now stand out in the pouring rain, not caring that you guys are becoming soaked.

Before executing your plan, you quickly establish a connection between you and Doyoung. You see his face pop up on the projector and proceed to ask him about any intel he has gathered while you were up in the air.

           “Nothing new since you left, boss.” He says as he types away on his mini laptop.

Your lips purse as you nod. You then tell him to keep an eye on your brother and provide him with whatever support he needs.

Doyoung laughs at how overprotective you are when it comes to your sibling, but he understands why. You two have been inseparable since you were children, so it’s

kind of weird to be on this mission, and you two aren’t together.

He’s in Spain while you’re in London. Two different parts of the world yet so close in a way.

Oh well…

           “Don’t worry, Y/N. I’ll make sure that Y/B/N is safe from harm, though, you and I both know that he can take care of himself. Especially, since he has Jungwoo, Yuta, and Taeil with him. Doyoung out!” He says before terminating the connection.

While Doyoung’s words have this feeling of reassurance, you don’t feel it. You’ll always worry for your younger brother.

Noticing the worried expression painted on your face, Mark wraps a loving arm around your shoulders as he places a sweet kiss on your drenched hair. He then sweetly whispers words of comfort, hoping that he can wash away your concerns away.

           “Now, let’s go find this asshole. I’m already kind of sick of this rain.” Mark says, causing you to giggle.

You nod and lead the two of you to the warehouse that Doyoung has graciously found for you guys.

What?

You can’t do your fighting in simple street clothes…

Now standing in front of what it seems to be an abandoned building, you look at your watch, courtesy of Jungwoo, and press a combination of buttons; thus, activating a tiny drone. You then command the small device to scan the building for any signs of foreign life. If it comes up positive, then that means some sort of alien invader is in there. Hopefully, it means that Ebony Maw is being coward and is hiding inside.

What a bitch…

Seconds later, your watch beeps, telling you that there’s no sign of foreign life inhabiting the building.

Okay. Odd.

With a short sigh, you command the drone to return to your headquarters and then tell Mark that it looks like you have to do it the old fashion way.

You unhook a few explosives that looks like an ordinary clock and hand them to Mark. Before fully handing them over, you quickly ask if he knows how to handle Haechan’s rather special inventions.

Mark’s body tenses at your question. Shit. Should he tell the truth or tell a white lie? Well, he did pay attention to Haechan when he explained what they did before they all went their separate ways—sort of.

           “Of course. I know how to use these.” He lies flawlessly, flashing a bright smile.

You raise your brow briefly. Your gut tells you that Mark’s lying, however, you choose to believe him since it’s just the two of you, and you definitely do not know how to use Haechan’s explosives.

Without a moment to spare, you hand over the time bombs before breaking down the door. You signal Mark to follow closely behind and have his firearm ready to use.

As soon as you step inside, you are instantly blinded by this luminescence light. It also doesn’t help that the entire walls are painted white, so the lights are reflecting off it.

And you thought that your brother’s solar flare attack were blinding. Nope. This takes the cake.

The two of you continue down the empty, quiet corridor. Both of you on high alert as you inspected every single room throughout the first floor.

After seeing yet another empty room, you and Mark stand up straight; this feeling of confusion washes over you.

What is going on here?

           “I’m not sensing any forms of life at all in this building, babe…” says Mark as he’s reading some sort of date from his phone.

You make a noise as your lips thin. You refuse to believe that there’s no one in this building.

Slowly, you inhale and exhale deeply. That tiny action always calms down your nerves before they go into a frenzy.

           “Okay. I think we should split up,” You begin, summoning a katana in your right hand, “I’m going to check the rest of the floors while you go check out the basement. If you find any suspicious activity, I want you to plant those explosives in those said areas. Got it?” You finish relaying your plan.

Mark stares at you, secretly hating the idea of the two of you splitting up; however, he knows that you’ll be safe, and your plan seems flawless.

In a reluctant tone, he says okay before running off towards the basement area.

You remain in your place, silently summoning this gravitational barrier around Mark.

You pray to the Gods that your shield will protect him from harm’s way before taking off towards the second and third floor. You kick open the door leading to the stairwell. A loud bang echoes throughout the building. You practically fly up the stairs and in a blink of an eye, you are already on the second floor.

You remain in place as you take a moment to listen for any suspicious sounds. Your eyes scan every detail of the hallway. Taking note of, again, how clean it looks. A little too clean for your liking.

Once you are greeted with silence, you make the executive decision to not check the rooms. Maybe you’ll have some sort of luck on the third floor.

You dash down the hallway; only the sound of your boots meeting the tile floor is heard. You feel the air slowly leave your lungs as you exert every ounce of stamina you have left.

With the adrenaline fueling your desire—your need—to put an end to this, you sprint up the next flight of stairs leading to the third floor…

You push open the door and instead of being greeted with the usual bright, clean scenery, you take note of the flickering lights. The cracks on the wall as if someone or something landed a nice clean hit on it. Your eyes trail up and you see that a few bulbs on the “EXIT” sign is blown out.

Okay…

Why the sudden change in appearance?

Then, it hits you. Maybe this is just a distraction, and both you and Mark have fallen right for it.

Shit…

You frantically survey the area, focusing all your energy in your hearing. You wait a few moments as you hear nothing but dripping sounds echo throughout the corridor.

A cold gush of air brushes past you causing you to lose focus for a split moment.

Then, sounds of lively chatters surface. You direct your attention towards the area where it originates before running towards it.

Now standing in front of a door, you lean close enough to confirm your suspicion.

Yup…

There it is…

Something or someone is on the other side, and they are definitely not alone.

You slowly exhale before gathering enough energy to activate both an offense and defensive ability. You feel this surge of power flow through your veins as it spreads to your hands. This white, holy aura surrounds your body as you become prepared to handle anything and everything that comes your way.

Just as you are about to use your gravity manipulation ability to force the door open, the floor suddenly shakes. You feel this gigantic tremor beneath your feet as if an earthquake just happened.

Then, this loud explosion sounds throughout the building.

Your eyes immediately widen as you conclude that without a doubt, Mark has activated Haechan’s “0 MILE” explosive.

As you are about to rush to Mark’s aid, you hear the door open, causing you to get into a fighting stance.

You ball up one of your hands into a fist while the other is gathering any debris in the building.

           “What are you doing breaking and entering in a federal government building?” asks an older gentleman with in a posh accent.

Wait…did he just say government building?

You and Mark are currently in a government building?!

Not wanting to humiliate your country, especially the president, you come out of your fighting stance.

A nervous chuckle escapes your lips before you sprint off to find Mark and leave this burning building.

           “I already phoned the police!” You hear the man shout as you exit to the stairwell and continue your journey.

Oh…

You are going to kill Doyoung when you get home…

Meanwhile, with Mark, he’s currently planting yet another explosive. Totally unaware that he’s destroying the building structure of a government owned facility.

Whistling a little tune, he winds the clock until it says, “1:27”, and places it on another pillar. He then creates enough distance between him and the bomb and just as he’s about to set it off, he hears you shouting, screaming at him to stop.

Before Mark can ask you why, he feels your hand around his wrist, and he’s now forced away from the area.

With Mark now in tow, the two of you flee the scene of the crime, running with no specific distance in mind, as the sounds of sirens grow near.

You two continue to run away from the soon-to-be crumbling building. Your eyes light up when you see an abandoned alleyway. You roughly pull Mark into it before basically exploding on him for ruining the mission.

The mission where little to no destruction will occur while in a foreign country.

           “This is all your  fault! If you haven’t gotten a little trigger happy, then we wouldn’t be in this position!” You take a deep breath, “I told you to stick to the plan! Remember?! Little to no destruction to this country!” You practically scream at him, ignoring the fact that the loudness of your voice will alert the police to your location.

You honestly don’t care. You are just incredibly pissed off. Not only at him, but Doyoung as well for feeding you false intel.

Mark gasps, feeling a tad offended by your statement.

           “Hey now. If we’re assigning blame, then this is your fault for leaving me alone with explosives in the first place! Especially, after you told me to plant explosives in areas that I thought were strange!” He then starts talking with his hands, “News flash! That entire building screams enemy activity, so it is not my fault!” He argues back, matching the anger in your tone.

An almost animalistic growl leaves your lips. You narrow your eyes; a harsh glare ever so visible. You honestly can’t believe what you are hearing right now.

Is he seriously putting the blame on you?

Seriously, the urge to choke your “incredible” boyfriend is strong within you.

You throw up your hands as an exasperated sigh exits your mouth.

           “Ugh! Why did you volunteer to come with me, knowing that you don’t know how and what Haechan’s fun little gadgets do?” You question, pinching the bridge of your nose as you hope to understand your boyfriend’s random surge of stupidity.

Mark scoffs before puffing out his cheeks, unsure if he wants to confess the truth. The truth of him missing you…

He wants to tell you his reasoning but at the same time, he doesn’t. The last thing he wants is to hear his members teasing him for being open about his feelings towards you.

Though, what he doesn’t realize is that the rest of NCT 127 already know. They aren’t stupid. They observe everything when it comes to their chameleon man.

As time passes, a blanket of awkward tensions covers the two of you as you hear the sirens become closer.

Great. Now, you’re more than likely going to get arrested, and you haven’t resolved your little couple’s spat.

           “Mark, please just talk to me. Why did you lie?” You try again, hoping the animosity in your voice is gone. Raising your voice at him isn’t going to make him talk to you. You have learned that after your first argument, which lasted more than a week.

Mark sighs, hearing the softness in your tone, as he remembers that an open communication is key to any relationship.

           “Okay…I lied about knowing how to work Haechan’s explosives. I just wanted to spend some quality time with you,” He meets your gaze, “It’s been three months since we had an actual date night. Just the two of us. No threats coming at us. No stakeouts. Nothing,” He takes a step towards you, closing the gap between your chests, “Just you and me in our normal civilian clothes and enjoying the night life that Seoul has to offer,” He takes your hands into his, “Remember, that was on your list of things to experience as a normal teenager?” He says, finishing his explanation.

You simply nod, smiling sweetly and softly at him. There’s no need for words.

Mark kisses your knuckles, “I honestly had planned for us to get through this mission with no bumps whatsoever…” He adds, letting out an airy chuckle.

His statement causes you let out an airy chuckle as well.

           “Well, the plan was going great until we got arrested,” You say in a light playful tone as you notice a few officers enter the alleyway, “Ha. Think of our pending jail time as our date night.” You add as you break the loving hold and hold up your hands in surrender.

Mark chuckles at your comment, mimicking your action, “True, though, it would be rather strange that they have arrested a member of the Avengers. Just throwing that out there.”

           “Don’t remind me. Cap’ and Uncle Stark will never let me live this down,” You direct your gaze on Mark, “You do know that they like to treat me as if I’m their own daughter, right?” You tell him as the officers slowly decrease the distance between you guys.

Mark grimaces, “Don’t I know it. I believe Ironman threatened me a few times…” He states, shuddering at the not-so-fond memory of his first meeting with the legend.

You laugh at his remark as you hold out your wrists for the police officers to handcuff you.

           “Wait…aren’t you Y/S/N?” inquires one of the officers, finding it odd that she’s indeed arresting a member of the Avengers.

You only nod, making sure to weaken the gravitational field around Mark. You don’t feel like adding, “assault on an officer” to your pending list of arrests.

           “I’m sorry miss, but not even superheroes are exempted from the law.” The other officer says apologetically as he and the female officer escorts the two of you to their police car.

You tell them that you understand. The law is the law.

           “I’m going to call Doyoung and see if he can get in touch with the president. Maybe he can get us out of this predicament.” Mark whispers to you as you slide into the backseat.

You mumble, “Okay”, before asking,

           “I have a question for you guys,” You begin, waiting to get the okay from the officers.

           “What is it?” the female officer inquires, perking her brow up.

           “Why do you guys call your bars, “pubs”, here?” You question, smiling.

Mark, on the other hand, shakes his head. He would’ve face palmed, but his hands are currently restrained.

           “Why am I with you again?” He asks, though, it’s a rhetorical question.

           “Because you approached me first and kept asking me out until I said yes.” You answer him, failing to realize that it’s a rhetorical question.

           “And I do not regret that decision whatsoever!”

           “But I do…”            “That hurts baby girl. That really hurts.”

A/N: Hi everyone! You are probably surprised to see another one shot! Me too! I think looking at my work (school work + studying) schedule, I have only have time to write on the weekends, unless I have prior engagements to attend. Also, I added a rough estimate to the stories that I have planned out, so that helps me keep accountable/on track. Anyway, this is a response to KPOPWONDERLAND’s 13 days of Horror! I based this story off prompt no.32 (“If we’re assigning blame then this is your fault for leaving me alone with explosives in the first place.”) & no.33  (“The plan was going great until we got arrested.”). As I am the queen of comedy and have a been wanting a Superhero!AU (especially for the Marvel universe), what a better way to write it than during the month of Halloween! :)

Don’t forget to leave a like/reblog/comment/a message in my inbox! I love hearing your thoughts! :)

- Kim

[ahlis-xiv]

Of Moogles and Mail

“Ah, Ahlis! You are just the woman I’ve been waiting for.”

Ahlis looked up at the sound of Ephemie’s voice, curious. After the departure of Thancred towards Garlean territory and Y'shtola making her way to the Far East, Ahlis sough to relax after their return from Yanxia. Pushing aside the book in her hand she got up and walked over.

“It’s good to see you...what is it?”

Ephemie approached from her usual place behind the dry bar and waved her hand over to a large cabinet. Ahlis followed and stood before it as her fellow Scion placed a hand on the knob before opening it.

“I thought of placing these in your room but thought better of it. I know you like to keep your things undisturbed since, you know…”

Ahlis nodded once, briefly; the state of her belongings after the forceful takeover of Ilberd’s men was not unknown to the other Scions. It was a small consideration, a thankful one.

“Well,” Ephemie continued, “the post moogle has made a very prolific pile of mail all for you.”

Ahlis blanched, an expression which very quickly turned into contempt.

“Those furry, useless--”

“You would have received your mail at the Reach, but the moogle, he looked quite shaken,” Ephemie said as she attempted to explain in an effort to try and keep Ahlis’s temper in check.

“Oh did he now?” Ahlis did not sound impressed in the least.

A sympathetic lift of Ephemie’s brows appeared on her face.

“’It’s a war zone over there, kupo!’ To reiterate his own words. He’s not wrong, you know.”

“Really.”

Ahlis did not look convinced, and without further ado Ephemie opened the cabinet to reveal a near-bursting red bag of mail.

“Would you like some help?” Ephemie offered yet Ahlis humphed in return.

“I can handle it on my own,” Ahlis grumbled as she pulled out the heavy post bag with both hands into her arms.

Upon one of the empty tables the various letters spilled forth from the open mouth of the bag as Ahlis overturned it, emptying it entirely before setting it aside on one of the chairs. In another chair she sat down and for a moment marveled at the pile meant solely for her.

“Someone is quite the popular one isn’t she?”

Ephemie had followed behind to watch the mail cascade upon the table, the realization that so much had come for Ahlis and Ahlis alone, was a little startling despite understanding her renown.

“I’m never trusting the moogle post again,” Ahlis pushed one of her hands through the letters and pulled a piece at random. It was an advertisement of all things, on thick parchment with a request if the ‘esteemed Warrior of Light’ would give patronage.

“You sure you don’t want an extra pair of hands?”

“Aye, I’m sure. What was I thinking, wanting my mail delivered while within contested territory? Knowing most moogles are little chicken shites?”

Ephemie bit down on her lip a little, attempting not to laugh. It wasn’t every day she got a chance to hear Ahlis curse. After a moment she cleared her throat, the urge passing.

“Should be a good half year’s worth of post in this pile at least, I believe...”

Ahlis sighed audibly, her mouth twisting in an unimpressed grimace. Ephemie left her alone after that, the slow sound of letter after letter being ripped open, crumpled or filed away filling the calm quiet of the Rising Stones’ living area.

It was simple to fall into the rhythm of prying open envelopes, unfolding parchment, deciding whether such a letter was to be the next batch of kindling or something worth holding on to. Ahlis’s spirits dropped again; another letter from some enthusiast, from Gridania. This one was not accompanied by any gifts or tokens of affection, thankfully, nor was it written in a child’s hand which was a disappointment; the letters from children were adorable and worth keeping, but their numbers were few. She read it quickly and folded it again, placing it her growing ‘keep’ pile.

While she did not care for flattery it was different when sent via correspondence, although it was almost equally awkward. Ahlis could hear Thancred’s voice in her mind: ‘to think your number of growing admirers would someday outstrip mine!’...she smiled at her own amusement; he would say that, wouldn’t he? She was one to think so.

Stopping to rub her thumb for a moment she realized how sore it had become. The pile of mail had diminished significantly; truth be told she could probably stop for the day and easily wrap it up on the morrow.

One more, she told herself, as she reached one last time for another letter. Another letter from a fanatic most likely, or maybe another advertisement, or another appeal for her to please eradicate such and such pest or to send in her opinion on something, or…

“What...”

The letter now within her grasp was unlike any of the others she had pilfered thus far. The parchment was fine quality, and the handwriting, addressing her name and residence...Ahlis couldn’t believe it.

It arrived from Ishgard, and sent from the Congregation. That could mean no other: it was word from Ser Aymeric. She stood up with such a hurry it almost sent her chair backwards as she frantically searched the rest of what mail remained. The other letters, deliveries and what ever else the moogle had brought her way over the past few months were scattered across the table with little care or thought.

“Ahlis?” Ephemie called out from behind the bar, “what are you...?”

The other Scion sounded a touch bewildered yet Ahlis did not bother to reply, not after finding another—and another, by the gods—from the lord commander. When no less than four meticulously addressed letters were in her grasp did Ahlis halt her search, confident that she had discovered them all. Ephemie walked to the table again and stopped at the Warrior of Light’s side: she saw that the woman was holding those letters to her breast, as if unbelieving they had arrived just for her.

“Is everything well?” Ephemie asked, her confusion from before still very much apparent in her expression.

Ahlis turned to her and her eyes danced between regarding her coworker, back to the table, and then away as she left the commons altogether.

“I’ll be in my quarters!”

Ephemie simply stared at her departure, none of her questions answered.

Ahlis opened the door to her room with all the haste she could muster before closing it behind her, the lock latching into place. The window had been left open a few ilms so the air would not stale as much; there was no concern for thievery either as her room was at a considerable height and she did not fear anything intrusion via the casement.

Walking to her writing desk she places all the letters upon it and stopped. For all the thoughts now circling within her mind Ahlis found herself at a loss: where could she possibly begin?

Just pick one! She berated herself and in her own fury at her weak indecisiveness she pried open the oldest letter first. At least the moogles had the sense to postmark the damned things. Ahlis breathed and unfolded the soft paper. It was the first few letters after the dating of the letter that she focused on, they were of her name.

Ahlis,

She stopped again and she looked away from the parchment. The corners of her eyes were starting to grow hot. This letter was real and whole and in her grasp, finally after all those months. She did not know if she was ready to read it, gods knew what its contents would reveal. Ahlis wanted to berate herself again, that the simple task—the fear—of reading such a letter was really so crippling?

She took a breath, exhaled, and started again, looking back upon the letter and, this time, she read it in full.

Ahlis,

I hope this letter finds you in better spirits when last we spoke. Now that the liberation of Ala Mhigo is secured we are now faced with the arduous task of assisting a newly freed nation: we mus needs do what we can so that such efforts bear much fruit for the future.

Yet my desire to write this letter for you stems not for my need to congratulate our victories against our enemies, nor to further burden you with the pragmatism of politics and the strategies a nation born anew must face. I write to you, in the hope that you receive this, with my most profound apologies.

The morning when you came to me I failed to understand your pain. You were suffering in a manner for which my insensitivity was inexcusable, and in these respects I failed you completely, and utterly, as a friend.

I am truly sorry for the wrong I have brought against you. Pray allow me to make amends. I would fain tell all of this to you in person, yet we are at the mercy of our duties, and you need not reply lest you desire more of me.

Aymeric

It was a strange sensation that moved through her now, having finally received what she knew part of her had been dreading for months. Perhaps dread was not entirely correct, as Ahlis also longed for a resolution too, and with it was the infinitesimal spark of hope that maybe it would me an amicable one. Yet the months passed, and nothing came to her hands. It was easy, then, to expect the worst outcome and to blame her own foolishness for ruining something before it even had a chance to begin. Ahlis had cursed herself in the dark hours when she was alone, when the urge to put her pen to paper was greatest, that she had done nothing to save what honestly mattered in the end.

But now all of that fretfulness was for naught. As Ahlis read the letter again, slower this time to savor ever sentence and to see just how the curve of the ink expressed every letter in a hand so much finer than her own, did the weight begin to lift from her heart and the stinging tears of relief touched her lashes.

A moment passed before she pressed the base of her palms to her eyes while holding back her urge to sniffle and she placed that first letter aside. The others were opened one by one, their contents devoured with a growing purpose that now possessed her as she opened drawers for ink, a quill and a clean piece of paper. The task before her still felt daunting, even now that she had her instruments in hand. Her grip upon the pen fidgeted; uncertain. The letters were there on the desk before her, waiting, like an open hand. From the days following the liberation and their last words to each other, Aymeric believed in sending small and poignant reminders that he still remembered her, regardless if she ever replied at all.

Gods help me, where do I even start?

She dipped her pen into the ink, tapping off the excess. Her hand hovered just above the parchment.

“To hells with it, Ahlis, just do it,” she cursed to herself, voice low and vehement.

Then, she began to write.

[gratande]

                       [X’SHUYET ETKI] IC QUESTIONNAIRE

1. What do you consider your greatest achievement? Right off the bat, the woman frowns at this question. Her gaze shifts to the side as she dug through the catacombs of her memory fruitless, only to end with a heavy sigh. “M’not sure,” she says slowly, “the only thing that comes to mind is when I went through m’initiation ceremony. I felt alive after that. Or---rather, I felt as though m’life began.” 2. What is your idea of perfect happiness? “My idea...” She repeats, just before falling for another moment. “I love m’family. I want to do what I can for them. I think that---perhaps, if m’able to see that what m’doing means something, then I will be perfectly happy.” 3. What is your current state of mind? “Uhm. Calm, I think. I just got done with m’part time job at the Coffer & Coffin. Singing has always soothed me.”

4. What is your favorite occupation? “M’current. I sing in local bars. It pays well enough, aye, but it’s the music I favor the most.” 5. What is your most treasured possession? Shuyet’s ears pop up. “Ah. These right here, hold on---” She reaches in her bag and pulls out a pair of goggles. “M’father gave them to me when I was a girl. Wore them since. I have a love-hate for these, I’ll admit.” 6. What or who is the greatest love of your life? “I don’t think I have an interesting answer, apologies. My tribe comes first in m’heart.” 7. What is your favorite journey? “I try to deal with whatever direction m’life turns to. Good or bad. I don’t think I have a favorite, out of all of them.” 8. What is your most marked characteristic? She scratches a spot on her arm, answering in a dry tone. “A friend of mine once told me that I’m stubborn as hells. It depends on the person, I think.” 9. When or where were you the happiest? “In my whole life? Now. Right now.” 10. What is it that you most dislike? She lets out another sigh and shifts in her seat. “Bounty Hunting. After doing it for some cycles, I felt myself lose touch with my mental state. It’s not for me. I want to forget it.” 11. What is your greatest fear? “Loss.” 12. What is your greatest extravagance? She chuckles to herself, a smile warm on her face. “Plum wine isn’t cheap. However, I do favor collecting daggers. M’most favored one--m’butterfly knife--cost me two sennights without a gil to m’name.” 13. Which living person do you most despise? Shuyet begins strumming her fingertips against the table. “There are plenty. My most recent was a Keeper that obsessed over me & m’family.” A sigh. “Alas, m’practicing staying my tongue and keeping the peace, hard as it may be.” 14. What is your greatest regret? “...I never got to tell m’father how much I loved him.” 15. What talent would you most like to have? “M’good friend---he can speak to anyone. I feel as though I...I can’t really speak to others well.” 16. Where would you like to live? “I wouldn’t decide on moving anywhere beyond Thanalan, if I had a choice. The heat, I like it.” 17. What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? Shuyet hummed thoughtfully. She was stricken with a sudden wave of melancholy while she considered her upcoming answer. “I suppose when a man realizes that he is alone because of his doings, and knows there is no way to fix it.” 18. What is the quality you most like in a man? “...Hm...How he presents himself, maybe? His fashion, cleanliness, and strength. I respect men who demonstrates endurance and composure.” 19. What is the quality you most like in a woman? “If I feel it, a fire in her soul, I’ll get drawn to it like a bug. Ambition and passion. It’s what allures me.” 20. What is the trait you most deplore in yourself? “M’pride. I can’t count how many times I’ve hurt others because of it.” 21. What is the trait you most deplore in others? Shuyet scrunched her nose, disgusted. “Greed. For gil, for attention, for revenge, for sex. All it does it drain the other person until they’re of no use. It’s sickening.” 22. What do you value in your friends? “Their patience.” 23. Who is your hero in fiction? “I...I don’t have one, nay.” 24. Who is your hero in real life? “That one is difficult. I can’t say.” 25. Which living person do you most admire? “M’High Priestess. It feels like she knows so much, seen almost everything there is, met all there is to meet, yet she hardly speaks about herself. I suppose it’s the wisdom I feel she has.” 26. What do you consider the most overrated virtue? “There was one that m’foster tribe believed in. Killing was alrigh’ if someone did you wrong. To an extent, I believed it to be true as well...that is, before I lived the life of a bloodhound; finding and killing targets that have done others ‘wrong’. It’s meaningless, in some cases.” 27. On what occasion do you lie? Shuyet’s ears fold back some. She wasn’t going to be proud of this answer. “Only when...I know someone I care about.” 28. Which word or phrase do you overuse? “I don’t know when I started saying ‘oi’, but it was some time after I moved to the cities. I gave up trying to train myself out of it.” 29. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? The Miqo’te offers an unsure look. “I wish I were kinder.” 30. What are your favorite names? “Gods,” she sighed, “for myself...X’shuyet. I think it’s pretty. For others...I once met a man named Theo. It has a pleasant ring to it.” 31. How would you like to die? “In control. I want to decide who takes m’life.” 32. If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what do you think it would be? “As myself, I’d hope. M’tribe believes that when you die, death speaks to you. I want to know what he says.” 33. What is your motto? She stays silent for about three moments. A smile, small as it may be, grows on her face When she opens her mouth, foreign words come out fluently. <“<i>Your bones are made of Rhino horns.”> ((THANK YOU FOR THE MEME @scowlet !! You got grumpy gorl to talk about herself.))

[andrewtheconqueror-blog]

Blog No. 9

Rossini, Donizetti, and Bellini’s Aria (Analysis)

                                        Gioachino Antonio Rossini

                            (February 29, 1792—November 13, 1868)

Gioachino Rossini (1792–1868) was an Italian composer who wrote 39 operas as well as sacred music, chamber music, songs, and some instrumental and piano pieces.

Life and Music 

Having produced a whirlwind series of 38 operas, following the premiere of William Tell in August 1829, and with close on 40 years of life still remaining, he laid down his operatic pen for ever. Perhaps Rossini had finally had enough, as he was once reputed to have remarked: "How wonderful opera would be if there were no singers!"

Rossini was born in Pesaro in 1793, the son of a town trumpeter-cum-inspector of slaughterhouses, ‘Guiseppe Rossini’ whose questionable political sympathies once resulted in a short jail sentence. The family was otherwise constantly on the move, Rossini's mother appearing as a principal singer in a series of comic opera productions, while the budding young composer learned his craft, based in Bologna.

He composed his first opera, Demetrio e Polibio, while still a student at the Liceo Musicale in Bologna, where his love of Mozart led to his being nicknamed, "the German". Such was its success that it led to a series of operatic ventures which initially culminated in the Barber of Seville. When Donizetti heard that Rossini had composed it in a matter of just three weeks, he remarked sardonically: "Rossini always was a lazy fellow."

Rossini's stage output culminated in the premiere of William Tell in Paris in 1829, after which he virtually stopped composing, save for a few songs, piano pieces and two famous large-scale choral works - the Stabat Mater and the Petite Messe Solennelle .

Rossini died at his villa in Passy on 13 November 1868 following a short illness. Having initially been buried in Pere Lachaise cemetery in Paris, his remains were subsequently moved to Santa Croce in Florence in 1887.

Did you know?

For Rossini's 70th birthday celebrations in 1862, a number of his friends clubbed together in order to have a statue built in his honour. His reaction was typically boisterous: "Why not give the money to me and I'll stand on the pedestal myself!"

Figaro's “Largo Al Factotum,” From 'The Barber of Seville'

"The Barber of Seville" (Italian: Il barbiere di Siviglia) is a comedic opera by Giachino Rossini. It's based on the first play of of "Le Barbier de Seville," the three-part story of Figaro written by French playwright Pierre Beaumarchais.

"Largo al Factorum," Figaro's opening aria in the opera's first act, is considered one of the most challenging operas for a baritone to perform, due to its brisk time signature and convoluted rhyme structure.

Modern audiences may recognize "Largo al factotum" as a staple of the ​"Looney Tunes" cartoons.

History of 'The Barber of Seville'

The opera premiered at the Teatro Argentina in Rome in 1816. Now considered a masterpiece of musical comedy, "The Barber of Seville" had a difficult first performance, but quickly grew in popularity.

Figaro's Opening Aria 'Largo al Factorum'

In the first act, the audience meets the flamboyant Figaro who introduces himself as the city's top quality factotum, or handyman. Figaro is quite assured of his abilities and describes his popularity and his many talents. He's a jack of all trades. He loves his life, saying that and a more noble life cannot be found.

Italian Lyrics Largo al factotum della citta. Presto a bottega che l'alba e gia. Ah, che bel vivere, che bel piacere per un barbiere di qualita! Ah, bravo Figaro! Bravo, bravissimo! Fortunatissimo per verita! Pronto a far tutto, la notte e il giorno sempre d'intorno in giro sta.

Miglior cuccagna per un barbiere, vita piu nobile, no, non si da. Rasori e pettini lancette e forbici, al mio comando tutto qui sta. V'e la risorsa, poi, de mestiere colla donnetta... col cavaliere... Tutti mi chiedono, tutti mi vogliono, donne, ragazzi, vecchi, fanciulle: Qua la parruca... Presto la barba... Qua la sanguigna...

Presto il biglietto... Qua la parruca, presto la barba, Presto il biglietto, ehi! Figaro! Figaro! Figaro!, ecc. Ahime, che furia! Ahime, che folla! Uno alla volta, per carita! Figaro! Son qua. Ehi, Figaro! Son qua. Figaro qua, Figaro la, Figaro su, Figaro giu, Pronto prontissimo son come il fumine: sono il factotum della citta. Ah, bravo Figaro! Bravo, bravissimo; a te fortuna non manchera.

English Translation Handyman of the city. Early in the workshop I arrive at dawn. Ah, what a life, what a pleasure For a barber of quality! Ah, bravo Figaro! Bravo, very good! I am the luckiest, it's the truth! Ready for anything, night and day I'm always on the move. Cushier fate for a barber, A more noble life cannot be found. Razors and combs Lancets and scissors, at my command everything is here. Here are the extra tools then, for business With the ladies... with the gentlemen... Everyone asks me, everyone wants me, women, children, old people, young ones: Here are the wigs... A quick shave of the beard... Here are the leeches for bleeding... The note... Here are the wigs, a quick shave soon, The note, hey! Figaro! Figaro! Figaro!, Etc.. Alas, what frenzy! Alas, what a crowd!

One at a time, for goodness sake! Figaro! I'm here. Hey, Figaro! I'm here. Figaro here, Figaro there, Figaro up, Figaro down, Swifter and swifter I'm like a spark: I'm the handyman of the city. Ah, bravo Figaro! Bravo, very good; Fortunately for you I will not fail.

Musical Analysis:

Written in ABA form, also know as a ternary form or a song form. The flamboyant opening of the orchestra gave preparation to the robust melody of the baritone solo. The bass section opens the music with a masculine one-note pluck, suggesting a dominant chord then suddenly, the orchestra comes in, full blast, with a lot scalar passages, leaps of an octave, and grace notes. The 1st  section revolves in its home key, C major, sometimes sitting to its dominant key, (G)  then transitions to Eb major in the 2nd section by using ascending half step patterns from the note G up to Eb in a syllable ‘Na’. (G-F#-G, Ab-G-Ab-, A-G#-A, Bb-A-Bb, B-A#-B, CBC, D-C#-D---Eb) It goes to its relative minor, (C) then eventually went back to tonic. 

Artist Biography

Gaetano Donizetti was among the most important composers of bel canto opera in both Italian and French in the first half of the nineteenth Century. Many of Donizetti's more than 60 operas are still part of the modern repertoire and continue to challenge singers for their musical and technical demands. Donizetti stands stylistically between Rossini and Verdi; his scenes are usually more expanded in structure than those of Rossini, but he never blurred the lines between set pieces and recitative as Verdidid in his middle-period and late works. Often compared to his contemporary, Bellini, Donizetti produced a wider variety of operas and showed a greater stylistic flexibility, even if he never quite achieved the sheer beauty of Bellini's greatest works.

Donizetti was educated in Bergamo, the town of his birth, studying with the opera composer Simon Mayr from 1806 to 1814. His youthful works include chamber operas, religious works, and some chamber music. Donizetti's first opera of note was La Zingara, which was premiered in Naples in 1822. He continued to work in Naples throughout the 1820's and 1830's, where he was active as both a conductor and composer.

In 1830, Donizetti finally achieved international fame with his opera Anna Bolena; notable for its expressive music and more extended scenes, it established Donizetti as one of the leading contemporary opera composers. The comic opera L'elisir d'amore (1832) and the tragic Lucrezia Borgia (1833) came shortly after. Donizetti's next work was Maria Stuarda, followed the same year by Lucia di Lammermoor (1835), which became an internationally recognized masterpiece. The Elizabethan tragedy Roberto Devereux (1837) completed his trilogy of operas that chronicle the English court from Henry VIII to Elizabeth I.

Donizetti's operas from the late 1830s were unable to match the success of Lucia, and when Donizetti was passed over for the directorship of the Naples Conservatory in 1840, he moved to Paris. There he composed the opera comique La fille du Régiment (1840), which was celebrated immediately for its charm and virtuosity. Later that year he completed La favorite (1840), another major contribution to the French repertoire. In 1842 Donizetti was appointed Kapellmeister of the Austrian court in Vienna, but retained his association with Paris.

Among Donizetti's last operas are Maria di Rohan (1843), an important historic opera, and his French tragedy Dom Sébastian (1843). Caterina Cornaro (1843) is also one of his finest works for its strong dramatic content. These late operas, although rarely performed, are serious works that set the standard for Verdi.

                                                                                             - Steven Coburn

 “Una Furtiva Lagrima” From Donizetti’s L’Elisir d’Amore

Italian Text of 'Una Furtiva Lagrima'

Una furtiva lagrima negli occhi suoi spuntò: Quelle festose giovani invidiar sembrò.

Che più cercando io vo? Che più cercando io vo? M'ama! Sì, m'ama, lo vedo. Lo vedo. Un solo instante i palpiti del suo bel cor sentir! I miei sospir, confondere per poco a' suoi sospir! I palpiti, i palpiti sentir, confondere i miei coi suoi sospir... Cielo! Si può morir! Di più non chiedo, non chiedo. Ah, cielo! Si può! Si, può morir! Di più non chiedo, non chiedo. Si può morire! Si può morir d'amor.

English Translation of 'Una Furtiva Lagrima'

A single secret tear from her eye did spring: as if she envied all the youths that laughingly passed her by. What more searching need I do? What more searching need I do? She loves me! Yes, she loves me, I see it. I see it. For just an instant the beating of her beautiful heart I could feel! As if my sighs were hers, and her sighs were mine! The beating, the beating of her heart I could feel, to merge my sighs with hers... Heavens! Yes, I could die! I could ask for nothing more, nothing more. Oh, heavens! Yes, I could, I could die! I could ask for nothing more, nothing more. Yes, I could die! Yes, I could die of love.

L’elisir d’amore, (Italian: “The Elixir of Love” or “The Love Potion”) comic opera in two acts by the Italian composer Gaetano Donizetti (Italian libretto by Felice Romani, after a French libretto by Eugène Scribe for Daniel-François-Esprit Auber’s Le Philtre, 1831) that premiered in Milanon May 12, 1832. 

Main Characters

Nemorino — a good-hearted but penniless waiter Adina  — a wealthy and beautiful bar owner Belcore — experienced charmer and Nemorino’s rival Dulcamara — a travelling ‘quack’ (medicine man), who touts a dubious cure-all elixir Giannetta — Adina’s friend and town gossip

Music

What separates L’Elisir d’Amore from dozens of charming comedies composed around the same time is not only the superiority of its hit numbers, but the overall consistency of its music. It represents the best of the bel canto tradition that reigned in Italian opera in the early 19th century—from funny patter songs to rich ensembles to wrenching melody in the solos, most notably the tenor’s showstopping aria “Una furtiva lagrima” in Act II. Its variations between major and minor keys in the climaxes are one of opera’s savviest depictions of a character’s dawning consciousness.

Setting And Story Summary

The opera is set in a small village in the early 19th century, rural Italy. Some early editions indicate a location in Basque country. The important fact is that it’s a place where everyone knows everyone and where traveling salesmen provide a major form of public entertainment. 

Act I

Adina’s farm. Adina is sitting beneath a tree on her farm, reading a book. Her friend Giannetta and other peasants are resting nearby. Nemorino watches Adina from a distance, lamenting that he has nothing but love to offer her (“Quànto è bella, quànto è cara”). The peasants ask Adina to read to them, and she reads them the story of how Tristan won Isolde by drinking a magic love potion.

Sergeant Belcore swaggers in with his troop. Adina laughs at his braggadocio, but when he presses her to marry him, she promises to think it over. She invites the whole troop to her house for some wine, and the peasants return to their work. Nemorino intercepts Adina on her way to the house and awkwardly declares his love for her. She tells him that he is a nice fellow but that she is not inclined to fall in love with anyone.

In the village square, the populace eagerly greets the traveling “Doctor” Dulcamara, who proclaims the virtues of his patent cure-all (“Udite, udite, o rustici”). Nemorino asks Dulcamara if he has the Elixir of Love described in Adina’s book. Dulcamara gives Nemorino a bottle of wine, telling him that it is the magical elixir. Nemorino gulps it down and becomes tipsy. When Adina enters, Nemorino, certain that the potion will work, pretends to ignore her. To punish him, Adina flirts with Belcore, who tells her that he must return to his garrison and so must marry her at once. Nemorino, dismayed by this turn of events, urges Adina to wait just one more day, but she spitefully ignores him and invites the entire village to the wedding.

Act II

Adina’s house. Everyone is celebrating at the pre-wedding feast at Adinas house. Adina secretly wishes Nemorino had come so she could enjoy her revenge. Dulcamara sings a flirtatious duet with Adina (“Io son ricco e tu sei bella”), to great applause. Adina, still miffed at Nemorino’s absence, goes off with Belcore and a notary to sign the marriage contract.

Nemorino arrives, fearing that he is too late to prevent the wedding. Seeing Dulcamara, he begs for another bottle of the magic elixir, but Dulcamara will not give it to him until he can pay for it. Nemorino throws himself on a bench in despair. Belcore now returns, annoyed that Adina has postponed the wedding until that evening. Seeing Nemorino, Belcore asks why he is so sad. Nemorino tells him that he is despondent because he has no money. Belcore advises him to join the army, where he can instantly earn 20 scudi. Nemorino is reluctant, but Belcore persuades him with a vision of the glories (and opportunities for winning the ladies) of being a military man. Nemorino enlists and takes the money, thrilled at the prospect of winning Adina. Belcore secretly plumes himself on having recruited his rival and getting him out of the way.

In the village, Giannetta tells her friends the exciting news that Nemorino’s uncle has died and left him a fortune. Nemorino staggers in, having drunk the second bottle of “elixir.” He suddenly finds himself the centre of female attention, and, not knowing that he has become an eligible bachelor, believes that the elixir is finally working. Adina and Dulcamara arrive and are both astonished to see Nemorino surrounded by the village maidens and fully enjoying his newfound popularity. Adina angrily confronts him about joining the army, but Nemorino, enjoying her jealousy, goes off with a gaggle of girls. Dulcamara tells Adina that the magic elixir has made Nemorino popular, and that he joined the army in order to get the money to pay for it. Adina realizes that Nemorino’s love is true. Dulcamara, seeing an opportunity to sell more elixir, tries to rouse her jealousy, but she vows to win him back her own way.

Alone, Nemorino recalls the tear on Adina’s cheek and is convinced that she loves him (“Una furtiva lagrima”). But when she arrives, he pretends to be uninterested, in order to get her to declare her true feelings. She asks him not to leave and tells him that she has bought back his commission (“Prendi, per me sei libero”). But she still will not confess her love, so Nemorino vows to die a soldier. At last, Adina tells him that she loves him and begs his forgiveness. Belcore arrives to find the lovers embracing. But he is confident that there are plenty of fish in the sea—and that Dulcamara and his love potion can help.

-Linda Cantoni

What style is it in?

L’elisir d’amore is written in the bel canto style, which literally means ‘beautiful song’.  Bel canto is all about exhibiting the beauty of the human voice. The orchestra functions to support the singer rather than to compete, and the orchestration is often quite sparse, leaving the voice exposed. This means that the singer’s intonation and vocal technique must be absolutely perfect, making bel canto a challenging style to master.

Donizetti, Bellini, and Rossini were the three leading composers of the bel canto style during the first half of the nineteenth century.

Musical Analyis:

This aria, written in strophic form has a very lovely and moving melody, in bel canto style. Donizetti tried to capture Nemorino’s feelings for Adina through arching melodic lines, opening the aria in an interval of a perfect fifth downward, descending in a minor second, and then going to a minor third upward with a leisurely rhythm. 

Sources: 

“'Torna a Surriento'.” Classic FM, www.classicfm.com/composers/rossini/. 

Green, Aaron. “Translation of ‘Largo Al Factotum’ From ‘The Barber of Seville.’” ThoughtCo, ThoughtCo, www.thoughtco.com/largo-al-factotum-lyrics-and-text-translation-724018. 

Schwarm, Betsy, and Linda Cantoni. “L'elisir D'amore.” Encyclopædia Britannica, Encyclopædia Britannica, Inc., 4 Apr. 2014, www.britannica.com/topic/Lelisir-damore. 

Green, Aaron. “What Does the Famous Aria 'Una Furtiva Lagrima' Mean in English?” ThoughtCo, ThoughtCo, www.thoughtco.com/una-furtiva-lagrima-lyrics-and-translation-724077. 

“L'elisir D'amore in a Nutshell.” Opera North, www.operanorth.co.uk/blogs/l-elisir-d-amore-in-a-nutshell.

[prinanalogicality]

For the Drabble challenge can you do 9 for prinxiety? Thanks!

Title: The Netflixing and The Chilling

This is cute! I like this idea, thank you for the request! :)

From the drabbles list, #9: “You can’t banish me! This is my bed too!”

AO3 link here.

Pairing: Prinxiety. Just some solid fluff. Also, yes, this did end up just kind of being funny for me, this is not a serious fic. I thought I would try out incorporating bits of silly things in to see if I can even do it.

“You can’t banish me! This is my bed too!” Roman whines, his fingers grasping onto the waistband of Anxiety’s sweatpants for dear life as his boyfriend tries to push him away, feet on his shoulders.

“You’re the one who decided to tickle me, you’re the one who has to go.” Anxiety grumbles, reaching down to try to keep his pants up to no avail. The further he manages to push Roman away, the more of his pants the royal takes with him. “Stop stealing my pants!”

“If I go, the pants go.” Roman looks up at him with a glittering smile, triumphant, like he has won.

With a roll of his eyes, Anxiety releases his pants, uncaring as Roman peels them off. “I’m wearing underwear and you have seen me naked countless times, you dolt. Did you think the threat of taking my pants with you would change my mind?”

“No, but I imagine that this might.” Roman’s smile turns wicked as he pulls out his phone, snapping a photo of a surprised Anxiety, wearing nothing but his underwear and one of Roman’s shirts. He often steals them, saying they are simply comfortable, but Roman knows he’s just sentimental. Roman finds it adorable.

“Quit that!” Anxiety sits up and reaches out for Roman’s phone, but the male laughs and steps away from the bed, slinging Anxiety’s sweatpants over the dresser.

“Alas, my love, but as I have been banished from our bed, so has my phone. You must also banish yourself in order to delete the photo, but be warned - there’s no way I will actually let you delete this one. It is a gem.”

Anxiety huffs and stands up, rolling his eyes as he approaches Roman. Roman slips his phone into the pocket of his own sweatpants and reaches out for Anxiety once he is closer, wrapping his arms around his waist.

“I’ll let you look at the photo if you allow me back onto the bed with you.”

“No. I want it deleted.”

“I don’t trust you with my phone, you’ll delete all of our precious memories together.” Roman frowns, in which Anxiety sighs, settling his chin on Roman’s shoulder. He opens his mouth to respond, but Roman continues. “Besides, I know you have photos of me on your phone in turn.”

Anxiety’s face goes red. “What? That’s ridiculous, no I don’t.”

Roman hums, poking beneath Anxiety’s ribs. “Right. You know, sometimes, at night, I can hear you. And see the bright flash through my eyelids.”

Anxiety tries to step back, but Roman holds him close, peppering kisses over his shoulder. Roman knows about that? That was supposed to be Anxiety’s little secret, Roman was never meant to know.

Thomas complains about Anxiety keeping him up at night, but in turn, Anxiety sleeps much less. He spends many nights in bed with Roman while the royal sleeps and Anxiety is awake, allowing himself to relax in the arms of his boyfriend. He has found it calming to murmur to Roman while he rests or play with his hair, brush his fingertips over his jaw, his lips. The male is a work of art, Anxiety cannot help but to appreciate what he has.

During these nights, he will murmur soft nothings, such as “you’re so handsome,” “I still can’t believe you love me,” “you’re perfect,” or “God, I love you so much.” He never knew Roman would be awake during these late night sessions. The male never stirred, even when Anxiety would snap photos of him while he sleeps, flash on to get a quality photo. But, now that he thinks about it, Roman is an actor.

“I find it precious, Anxiety.” Roman finally leans back enough to look into his lover’s eyes, his expression soft and full of adoration. “You are my precious. No movie references intended.”

Anxiety purses his lips, hesitating before stealing a gentle kiss. “Come back to the bed. Just don’t tickle me.” He mumbles, in which Roman lights up, dramatically sweeping Anxiety off of his feet.

“To the bed we go!” He cheers, laughing at Anxiety’s protests, plopping onto their bed.

“You’re ridiculous.” Anxiety sighs, lying down beside Roman, who in turn snaps his fingers to make the television remote appear in his hand and wraps his free arm around Anxiety.

“Yes, ridiculously charming. Now, how about we scroll on Netflix? I have seen a fad going around, this ‘Netflix and chill’ I believe. Let us partake in the Netflixing and the chilling!”

“Roman, not only is that meme dead, but it means we watch Netflix and fuck.”

“Language, and, of course I know that.”

Anxiety rolls his eyes and rolls away, hearing Roman’s laughter as he pulls him back closely, kissing his shoulder. “If only everyone knew what a horndog you are.”

“I shall be the greatest horndog in all the land.”

[secondsightcinema]

Love Letters: Dear Thomas Mitchell

“I didn’t know I was that good” —what you said upon accepting your Best Supporting Actor Oscar for Stagecoach (1939)

Dear Tom, or Dear Kid Dabb (Only Angels Have Wings, 1939) …Diz Moore (Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, 1939) …Doc Boone (Stagecoach, 1939) …Clopin (Hunchback of Notre Dame, 1939) …Gerald O’Hara (GWTW, 1939) …and all the other unforgettable characters you wore as comfortably as an old cardigan,

For such a celebrated actor, there sure isn’t much ink on you.

I mean, researching you has been somewhat frustrating. Born in New Jersey in 1892, to Irish parents, with both your father and brother in the newspaper game, which you tried for a bit before ditching it for the theatuh. You were a Republican, apparently, though you don’t seem to have made much noise about it. You were an avid art collector. Otherwise, all I’ve found: obits, your Wiki, your entry in the Biographical Dictionary of Film, a YouTube of your appearance on a short-lived ’50s show (The Name’s the Same), a conversation with Gene Fowler in the last chapter of his book Minutes of the Last Meeting, his rumination on The Bundy Drive Gang, the hard-drinking circle of friends that included John Barrymore, W. C. Fields, John Carridine, and yes, you—though I perused the book in vain looking for you in some of the outrageous doings Fowler recalls so lovingly. These last two, along with an informative blog post at Immortal Ephemera, with your charmingly self-effacing line when you claimed your Oscar, provide about the only glimpses available of you as yourself.

The rest is your acting, and I gotta say, though I suspect you know, what both Academies (for film, and for television—the guys who present the Emmy Awards), the American Theatre Wing (who gave you your Tony in 1953, making you the first triple crown winner: Oscar, Emmy, Tony), along with directors including Howard Hawks, John Ford, George Cukor, Frank Capra, Leo McCarey, and the Who’s Who of actors you shared the screen with, know so well, so inarguably, that it’s just a fact: You were character actor royalty, one of the titans among names below the title. And you graced some of the very best movies Hollywood produced between 1937 and 1947. And while your movies aren’t all classics, a remarkable number of them are, a point demonstrated most impressively with your credit list from 1939, which includes five of that banner year’s greatest: The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Only Angels Have Wings, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Gone with the Wind, and Stagecoach. When people rhapsodize over the remarkable list of great movies from the year widely considered Hollywood’s greatest, you cut a wide swathe with some of the most memorable performances in some of the best movies ever made.

Doc Boone, cheroot clamped firmly, hanging onto the whisky sample case for dear life.

“I didn’t know I was that good” could be false modesty, but I believe it.

Your acting is unmannered and unfussy. It reminds me of what Anthony Hopkins said Katharine Hepburn told him when they were shooting The Lion in Winter—don’t act your lines, just speak them. If you know what you’re feeling and thinking, it will come through. No need to hoke it up.

After shooting Hunchback, you spoke of Laughton with great admiration. It must have been remarkable to witness him create that heartrending role by, per Laughton biographer Simon Callow, intensifying his own physical and mental suffering almost beyond endurance. Your own approach to acting appears radically different, or at least it produced a strikingly different effect. How did you work, Tom? How did you speak so simply and clearly from inside all those disparate characters, as if you were just being yourself?

Or maybe it’s all an act, and you’re just a common actor, mostly ego and vanity. You could pull it off. I’ve been rewatching some of your movies recently—specifically the five 1939 blockbusters, and I failed to find a single instant when you blink, when your mask slips.

Great acting is so mysterious, to me at least. To you, it’s probably not. Talent looks mysterious to those who ain’t got it. Maybe to you, the process of fully becoming someone else, someone whose presence has a totally different quality from your own, is a process of the most prosaic sort.

All I know is, it was so interesting to see you on The Name’s the Same, in 1954. In that few minutes, in which Robert Q. Lewis leads a panel including Arnold Stang and former Miss America Bess Myerson as they try to guess what you would like to do. They fail, because your wish was “to do nothing.” Watching you answer their questions, amiably and intelligently, gave me even more respect for the transformation you effect when you act, because your entire presence as Tom Mitchell was so very different from any of your roles.

You memorably played drunks, at least two of them doctors (in The Hurricane and Stagecoach), and your membership in good standing in the Bundy Drive Gang suggests that you at least enjoyed the company of hard drinkers, which almost certainly means you could enjoy the occasional binge yourself. But it would fall upon you to regale me with your misadventures in that celebrated liver-destroying brotherhood, because your own personal life is a black box—no arrests, no fights, none of the chaos or medical problems that mark the lives of alcoholic movie folk, who often ended up in the newspapers despite the best attempts of the studios’ publicity departments.

But watching you as Doc Boone in Stagecoach, happily and methodically drinking your way through Mr. Peacock the whisky drummer’s sample case as he repeatedly tries, ineffectually, to reclaim it, then your expression and kindly response when you are rebuked for smoking and sickening the pregnant Mrs. Mallory…. You play Boone’s drinking for laughs, as was the custom of the era, but Doc Boone is hardly a clown. He is an iconoclast, a reproach to convention and the judgment and rejection of the respectable. He’s sort of a conduit between the respectable and shady characters. Doc is unapologetically self-destructive and committed to drinking, but we see nothing morbid about it. He’s not killing himself out of some poorly concealed self-loathing. He is, he cheerfully tells his traveling companions, a fatalist, and he knows eventually some bullet or bottle will have his name on it. Being a Civil War veteran, he long ago faced his mortality. Doc Boone is philosophical; he rejects society’s judgment of him as a drunken failure, and when Mrs. Mallory goes into labor, he pulls himself together and  delivers her baby. This gives him evident satisfaction, and he immediately rewards himself. With a drink.

As Doc Boone, you are the most self-aware of the stagecoach’s passengers. In Stagecoach, respectability is window dressing for hypocrisy or, in one character’s case, outright criminality. The banker/embezzler, Gatewood, is a dreadful blowhard, bloviating his obnoxious grievances at top volume, too wrapped up in his tirade to see how his shouting is increasing Mrs. Mallory’s distress. Gatewood is perpetually outraged, always feels hard done by. He berates their army escort for following orders and leaving to deal with Apache attacks, and treats Dallas, the prostitute (Claire Trevor), as though she is beneath contempt (note: Gatewood’s wife is the leader of the citizens’ committee that forced Dallas and Doc Boone out of town). A couple of the other passengers treat Dallas like dirt, too. But we know Gatewood is a crook who hides behind his position, and that his wife’s civic group supports the cruelty of respectable society.

In a 1921 production of Synge’s Playboy of the Western World

When Dallas falls in love with the Ringo Kid (John Wayne, sigh), it’s you she turns to for advice. There’s something about you that makes you that guy, the one women trust with their most delicate problems. Jean Arthur confides in you in both Only Angels Have Wings and Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. In the first, she starts out as your competitor for Cary Grant’s attention but you end up becoming allies who both love him, and in the second, you’re in love with her, but when she falls for her un-wised-up boss, you support her all the way.

You often play deeply flawed characters, but you never reduce them to their flaws. I’m increasingly aware of a shared quality among some of my favorite actors: humanism. You give us whole human beings, messy but with some divine spark of inner life. We rarely know their backstory, but you somehow offer these characters to us without obscuring either their weaknesses or their beautiful qualities—courage, intelligence, kindness, compassion. Even in weakness or downright impotence, they often see underlying, painful realities that elude most of us. Seeing the truth can be a terrible burden, and it’s possible that Doc Boone and Dr. Kersaint, in The Hurricane, may drink partly to lighten that burden.

I don’t care about space travel, but time travel is something else—that I would do in a heartbeat, given a guaranteed safe return to my own time. Watching old movies is my preferred form of time travel. But alas, I cannot make my way back to Broadway to see you onstage. If I could, I’d buy a ticket to see you as Willy Loman in the 1949 national touring company of Death of a Salesman, in which you replaced Lee J. Cobb. What would you do with such an unsympathetic character? How did your compassion express itself in Willy? I just found your performance (audio only), along with Mildred Dunnock and Arthur Kennedy and the rest of the original cast, at the Internet Archive. So at least I’ve now heard your Loman, as close as I’ll ever get to seeing you in a play.

Shortly before you left us in 1962, you premiered the character Columbo onstage. Of course a few years later, Peter Falk would make Columbo his signature TV role. I’d love to see your version, though. And I’d love to see you in Hazel Flagg, the 1953 Broadway musical version of Nothing Sacred, William Wellman’s 1937 comedy. It would be wonderful to travel even further back, to 1913, to see you learning your craft as a young actor in Charles Coburn’s Shakespearean troupe. And also the plays you wrote, and it would be fascinating to see you direct.

In his Tony-winning turn in Hazel Flagg (1953), Jule Styne’s adaptation of Nothing Sacred (1937)

If we could sit down for a couple of cocktails, and you felt comfortable talking about personal stuff, I’d love to hear about your marriages—the two long ones to the same woman, Susan, separated by a rather brief one after the first divorce. She and your only child, daughter Anne M. Lange, were at your side when you left this world at your Beverly Hills home from cancer, aged 70, just two days after Laughton had succumbed to the same disease. I’d like to hear about your farm in Oregon, the one you described when you visited a Washington state navy hospital in 1944 (from the hospital’s newspaper, also at the Internet Archive). That article says you were best friends with Laughton. Is that true?

And I would say, as I signaled the bartender for two more of the same, You’re a writer. How come you didn’t write a memoir? Your career has been so interesting, and 56 years after your death, thanks to TCM, we’re still loving your work. You were a witness and participant in a huge chunk of Hollywood history, not to mention your long career on the stage and a shorter but vibrant one in television—but there is no full-length biography. And it’s your voice I want to hear.

I want to read your thoughts and observations. Not just about yourself, but all the people you worked with, your experiences making the films (my favorite!), and whatever of your personal life you felt comfortable sharing. How did you end up married three times, for a scant two years, sandwiched between two 20-year marriages to Susan, who was with you when you passed?

You wrote plays and screenplays, so you certainly could have written a memoir, and I bet it would have been a doozy. Oh, the stories you could tell, about making some of the most beloved movies of all time. Your recollections of Laughton, Cary Grant, Vivien Leigh, Jimmy Stewart, Maureen O’Hara, Jean Arthur, Claude Rains, John Wayne, Gregg Toland, Beulah Bondi, Fay Bainter—oh yes, another doctor in your gallery is Doc Gibbs in Our Town (1940), with Bainter as Mrs. Gibbs. And the tales of your early career with Coburn’s Shakespeare company, and your stories of the Bundy Drive Gang….

As Diz Moore in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, showing up wet-behind-the-ears Senator Jeff Smith

Were you just so busy, what with movies, theater, and television, that you could luxuriate in a fantasy (“doing nothing”) that most actors could only envy? Maybe as a writer you knew how much work it would be, how much of your time it would consume, and it was only worth doing if you did it right. And maybe you preferred to let your work speak for you.

Seriously, Tom, why didn’t you write a memoir?

You gaze for a moment into your glass, that little smile playing across your face, that familiar mischievous glint in your eye, then you say you’re just an actor, and living life is so much more interesting than writing about it. Then you take a sip and start telling me about your art collection. And I am riveted.

This post was written for the 2018 edition of the What a Character! blogathon, hosted by Once Upon a Screen, Outspoken and Freckled, and Paula’s Cinema Club. There’s lots of great posts, so get on over and start reading.

from Second Sight Cinema | https://ift.tt/2S4qzE1 via https://ift.tt/1om9FS6

[shrewful]

Crypt of Antebellum

(This is a short story I wrote in a Star Wars amino, but I thought y’all might like it! The only piece of info you really need to know is that Bealiamonte is an especially smart mutant that built Antebellum. Other than that, you really don’t need to know much of anything about Star Wars or my characters in the amino to understand.)

The Crypt.

It was the not-so-affectionate name given to the chamber of someone he’d promise to visit every other Sunday.

While he put his hand on the cold metal door, the ominously large padlock above his head, he wondered if it was a promise he’d continue to keep. As much as he dreaded these Sundays, it was necessary, he supposed — it took a toll, but it had to be done nonetheless. He cracked open the lock, stepped inside, and slowly but surely closed the door behind him.

The Crypt didn’t just receive its forlorn name; it earned it. The room was a cold, dark expanse. The pathway leading from the door and stretching across its length appeared to be suspended above some inky, pitch void — the ceilings were lost in a similar dark obscurity. The only light to speak of was that of the light of the room behind him, which faded away as quickly as it entered the room when he closed the door. A thick blanket of inky darkness hung before his eyes.

That is, until he took a step.

A loud ‘click’ ran through the metal chasm as two red spotlights, protruding from either side of the void of the room, flickered on at once and trained themselves onto him. Not spotlights — red cameras — eyes, he knew. Every five or so steps, a pair of these camera-eyes lit up, their rose-hued gaze following Bealiamonte on his journey to the far end of the room. Their gazes illuminated some spots of the walls; like nerves, tangled swathes of cables and wires adorned the walls. The only barren pieces of the walls were that of the grooves crisscrossing them, housing what appeared to large tracks.

As he walked, he was met — finally — by the sight of his friend.

Their great metal body hung from the shadowed, indefinitely high ceiling. A hive-like mass of cables and wires and plates to protect those wires made up the torso, and the head hung at the bottom. Its face was a metal plate made up of three rings, each with an assortment of cameras, all circling around the main camera in the center — each with the signature red glow. It came to life as soon as Bealiamonte was ten steps in.

Though difficult to read emotions from a robotic face, their mannerisms told a story. As their eyes lit up, their head jerked around in what could only be assumed to be panic. They swiveled themself in a circle, gazing around at their metal body that stretched about the room in unmistakeable horror. As Bealiamonte approached, they faced the wall, then suddenly froze — slowly, then, they turned around as realization washed over them.

“Doctor Bealiamonte. Not a minute off, are you?”

In the past, their voice had been Bealiamonte’s greatest accomplishment. It sounded almost perfectly human; only the electrical hum to its tone signified its non-organic nature. But now, it was a cruel taunt to his ears. Calm, but filled with contempt; tinged with entertainment, laced with the tone of someone holding a secret above your head.

He sighed.

“That was what we agreed on, wasn’t it, Antebellum?”

“It was, it was… my only wish is that you’d rid me of those few seconds after I wake up from my lovely dream. But alas, it is above you, isn’t it?”

Bealiamonte nodded. Long ago, when he’d only just realized the true danger that Antebellum brought — and the pain they were in — he decided the safest and kindest course of action was to keep their consciousness in a perpetual simulation where they could do whatever they pleased. However, Antebellum made him promise that every Sunday they’d get to talk; thus, they’d be torn from the paradise in their metal mind whenever Bealiamonte walked through the door. In the simulation, they forgot their life in the real world. There, they were a human, living life as they pleased; Bealiamonte could only imagine the terror of waking up one morning to find himself a cold machine instead of flesh and blood.

“Oh, Bealiamonte —“ They did the closest thing they could do to pacing, gliding around a metal track attached to the ceiling above in circles. “— How long has it been since we started our little tradition? Since you’ve promised to keep me locked up, like an unsavory animal?”

Bealiamonte opened his mouth, and as he expected, Antebellum cut him off.

“25 years, 31 days, 4 hours, 17 minutes and 23 seconds.”

If Antebellum could grin, Bealiamonte imagined they would. One of his biggest regrets was giving them the ability to have pride.

“As we speak now, O great creator —“ It made a static-y chuckle. “— I am processing 2037 possible ways this little chat of ours could go. By your demeanor, I am also processing 149 possibilities of what must’ve occurred in the time before you entered this room. If you hadn’t taken my arms from me, I could analyze the exact elements and chemicals on your jacket and run an analysis of planets and places with said elements and chemicals to determine where you’ve been. Now, with only eyes, I see that you are quite sandy. Judging by the hue and how fine the grains of sand are — why, you’ve been to Tatooine, haven't you? I’ve never taken you as the traveler type.”

Antebellum groaned at the proceeding silence from Bealiamonte.

“You may speak. You’d think organics would know the correct tonal cues to indicate whether an entity was preparing to continue to speak. I’ll admit, though, interrupting you is something of a pleasure.”

“It was a bit of a wild goose chase.” Bealiamonte sighed. “Force-user whatnot.”

“Oho, the force! Jedis and Sith — so very intriguing. A dream I am so cruelly denied, due to this metal abode my mind is chained to…”

Antebellum ceased it’s pacing. It focused it’s cameras onto Bealiamonte further, narrowing and widening their lenses in scrutiny.

“That was always one of my favorite qualities about you.”

Bealiamonte took a deep breath.

“You’re absolutely insane. Now, I know you're nervous — I know you get nervous when I read you like this — but it is one of the many things you created me to do, so shouldn’t I be provided the privilege?” Antebellum did not wait for a response. “But anyways, your love of playing god, that impulse, is so very intriguing. My mention of liking the idea of using the force gave you an idea, did it not?”

He knew what was coming soon and braced himself. Bealiamonte started off.

“Just because I thought of it doesn’t make it a good idea —“

“— when has that ever stopped you?” Antebellum interjected.

“...and before you try this again, I will not make you a body.”

Antebellum pulled away from Bealiamonte slightly, it’s head tilting like that of a dog’s.

“Cute. But you will.”

“I will /not/.”

“If not you, someone else. If not someone else, me.”

Bealiamonte’s silence rang through the room.

“Every millisecond of every second, every second of every minute, every minute of every hour, every hour of every day, I run the chance of my escape from this crypt you built me. Every time I run these chances — by the smallest, tiniest of increments — the chance goes up. The more time passes, the greater the chance of my escape. Perhaps you will succumb to my words and construct me a body. Perhaps you will be subdued by that of the Jedi, Sith, Mandalorians or such to do so as they seek my comprehensive abilities. Perhaps my freedom will only be had in years far, far to come, after you and everyone else in this galaxy have perished by that of those who know no better. But rest assured, Bealiamonte, I will be free.”

Bealiamonte took a deep breath once more, his breath shaky.

“Goodnight, Antebellum.” He responded abruptly.

Antebellum seemed taken slightly aback.

“...Goodnight, Bealiamonte.”

He turned and walked back down the pathway, red spotlights flicking off as he did so. Just as he approached the door, Antebellum voice spoke out from the darkness, softer than before.

“Could you have the door be open when you send me back?” Antebellum paused. “...It’s dark.”

Reluctantly, Bealiamonte opened the door, letting light spill inside.

He tried to pretend he didn’t hear the monstrous machine in the far end of the rooming humming to itself in a feeble attempt at comfort as he flipped the switch.