#thank you so much!! i will be thinking about this while swirling a wineglass and staring out at the ocean /pos

[selfshipsnail]

you get kinito. like your kinito is... the most accurate in terms of. the. kinito... vers ,???!!'m im clapping my hands like a baby monkey right now i'm just delighted more axie lotel

I am incredibly flattered!!!! I’ve never heard someone say that before so thank you!!! It especially means a lot with Kinito thank you so much bawls into a million pieces BOOM KAPOW!!!!! I always love love seeing everyone’s interpretations of Kinito and I’m happy mine stuck with you in such a positive way :-)

Som small Nito things that I’ve introduced/plan to introduce!!!

I hardly ever use contractions for his dialogue! His particular TTS bank has a lot of difficulty using apostrophes, so although he can say stuff like “don’t” or “can’t” in select sentences, I usually refrain bc I’m crazies LMAO

I’m a huge huge huge huge huge huge fan of robots/AI taking their directive way too seriously… I like to treat Kinito where it’s like “it was programmed to be your best friend and goes to any means to achieve whatever that definition of ‘best friend’ is to it” aagaghh ARGH. Argh. Nito loves u so much and wants to show it in the way he knows love. .. definitely feeling the BPD reading with that

Another thing that helps me with writing/drawing Nito is that uhhh. Uhhhhhhh

(Source: i said so)

[dakarimainink]

10 Seconds

WARNING: 18+, SMUT, mention of alcohol, rough fucking, dominating, Dom/Sub-ish, orgasm denial, orgasm (both male and female), bodily fluids, language, clit slapping, punishment, chocking, just... it's explicit okay...

Pairing: Dave York x You (Reader)

Wordcount: 3K

Note: Not betad, all mistakes are my own. This... I just can't stop imagining Dave York being a dominant guy, loving to punish just the smallest things, and seriously; clit slapping is a new passion for me and he fits the bill to do so.

Dave finds out you had a wineglass or two when you were babysitting his girls, and he's not going to let it go unpunished.

Masterlist

You saw the headlights of the car flash across the living room windows. Your eyes darted to the empty wine glass on the coffee table and panic shot through your veins. You jumped up, hooking the wine glass between your fingers and rushed to the kitchen. Turning on the tap, you grabbed the dish soap and squirted the liquid all over the crystal.

Shit, shit, shit. You chanted in your head as you heard voices from the porch. You held the glass under the warm water bursting out of the faucet and spilled water onto your shirt. Fuck! You slapped yourself mentally as you washed away the residue of wine, lipstick and soap on the glass. You gently shook the glass, flicking off the excess water in the sink when you heard someone clear their throat behind you.

You swung around and hid the glass behind your back as your eyes met a suspicious brown gaze. His brows were lightly furrowed as he assessed you where you stood. He was – as always – impeccably dressed; wearing his black two-piece suit and white shirt with polished black shoes, he made your knees slightly tremble.

“Mr. York, you’re home earlier than expected.” You stumbled over your words as you tried to not let panic consume you where you stood. You felt your shirt soak up the water from the glass when you chewed on your inner cheek. You glanced behind him before looking back at him. “Where is Mrs. York?”

“She is in the car getting her purse.” He replied and slid his hands in his pockets. “You look nervous.” He noted and took a step forward.

“Nervous? Me? No, not at all.” Your brain was racing as you knew he saw something was off with you.

He let out a deep exhale. “Let me take you home then.” He turned around and walked towards the entrance. Your eyes followed him until you no longer could see him, before you almost threw the glass back in the cupboard it belonged to.

You made your way to the entrance where Dave stood waiting for you and where his wife was about to take off her coat. “How was the date, Mrs. York?” You smiled politely as you slid on your worn sneakers, a stark contrast to her black pumps.

“It was fantastic dear; Dave took us to that lovely restaurant in town – what was it called again?” She looked up at her husband.

“Rooster and Owl.” He reminded her and she nodded in agreement.

“That’s it. I highly recommend it. How has it been going here? Have they behaved?” She took a step aside as you reached for your jacket.

You smiled at her. “They have behaved as always. We played some games and watched a movie before bedtime. They fell asleep pretty quickly.” You giggled as you thought back at it. “I gave them some grapes to snack on as well.”

“Well, thank you for coming on such short notice. Dave, will you make sure to tip in some extra for it when you drop her off?”

“Oh, Mrs. York, you truly don’t have to-”

“Nonsense, you deserve it dear. You’ve always been so good with the girls. They always tell us about your little adventures the next day.” She interrupted you before you could finish and you just beamed in return. “Good night dear.”

“Good night, Mrs. York.”

Dave opened the door for you and you passed by him, taking in his cologne while you did, and walked towards his car. You heard him close the door and his heavy footsteps following you down the pathway to the car.

The drive home was silent.

~

You unlocked the door to your apartment and gently pushed open the door. You turned around to look up at Dave, who had his eyes burning at you. “Would you like to come in for a drink?” You asked carefully.

“I’ll take a glass of water.” He said and walked past you into the apartment.

You closed the door behind you, kicked your sneakers off and shrugged out of your jacket before making your way to the kitchen. You pulled out a glass and filled it with water, as you turned around, you found Dave standing right behind you, hands in pockets and eyes narrowed at your face. The water spilled over and onto your hand and shirt, making you gasp at the coldness of it and your nipples hardened immediately.

“How much?” He said lowly, his eyes darting to your nipples poking against the thin material of your shirt before capturing your gaze.

You furrowed your brows at him and set down the glass on the counter behind you. “I don’t know wh-”

His hand flew up to your throat and his fingers wrapped around. “How much?” He growled from his chest and you felt the pressure tighten around your neck, his nostrils flaring with anger.

You lifted your hand and wrapped your fingers around his wrist, eyes begging him to let go. As you saw no mercy within his gaze, you dropped your eyes to his slightly heaving chest, cursing at yourself for not cleaning the glass earlier.

“Two glasses.” You whispered guiltily. It wasn’t a lot and you weren’t even tipsy from it, but you knew just one drop was enough to set him off.

He shifted his grip higher up your throat and tilted your head back, forcing you to look at him. His brows were knitted as he fumed. “Two glasses…” He echoed your words. “That’s two too many.” His eyes turned darker by the second, but you couldn’t help the honey dripping out between your legs.

“Please, Mr. York.” You pressed through your throat. “It had been a long d-”

He pulled you up to your tippy toes, noses almost touching and his breath hitting your lips roughly. “I’ve told you to not drink around my girls.” He said through gritted teeth. “I don’t care how little or what excuses you might have.”

He finally let go of your throat and you lowered to your heels, gasping for air and choking a little with each deep inhale. He took a step to the side, grabbed the back of your neck, pushed you forward onto the opposite countertop and bent you down over it, your cheek pressing against the cold surface.

He pressed down on your neck as you slid your hands over the countertop to push yourself up. “Stay down.” He barked and a shiver shot up your spine. Your pulse quickened from the sudden rush of adrenaline swirling in your veins. “You never asked me about how I thought the date went.”

Your eyes widened at his words and you gulped. You knew he had a point to his words, so instead of arguing about it, you followed along. “How did the date go, Mr. York?” You mumbled, feeling his free hand ghost over your lower back. You couldn’t look at him, as your head was facing the opposite side of where he stood, pinning you down over the countertop.

“It was like any other date.” He said calmly. “Great food, good company and passable scenery, but the only thing I could think about…” His hand stroked your right asscheek softly. “Was that dripping cunt of yours.”

His words made you breathe out shuddering. You tried to shift under his grip, but he pressed harder around your neck.

“I had hoped to make this a pleasant experience for you, but when you go and misbehave like that, you give me no choice.” You felt a sharp sting on your ass as his hand landed on your backside. A yelp escaped you at the sensation. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re doing it to get a rise out of me.” Another slap and you inhaled sharply. “Or perhaps you just enjoy being punished.” Your body jolted at the third sting on your ass, your fingers clawing at the countertop surface.

“Please, Mr. York…” You cried out, feeling your panties getting soaked. “I’m sorry.”

“Not yet you’re not.” He let go of your neck, but you laid frozen, not daring to move as you felt him move right behind you. He moved his hands around your waist, unbuttoned your trousers and pulled them over your ass and halfway down your thighs. He cooed at the sight he saw. “So wet.” He murmured as he inhaled your sweet scent, watching your soaked panties. “I guess you do enjoy it.” He jeered and eyed the red flesh on your ass. His hand brushed over the tender spot and you couldn’t help the low hiss escaping you.

“Sore?” He teased with a dark smirk. You looked at him from the corner of your eye. Before you could reply, he slapped your other cheek, making you yelp where you laid.

“Fuck.” You mumbled, feeling the lingering sting as you shut your eyes and furrowed your brows in both pain and lust.

Another slap and your whole body jerked. “Language.” He growled, letting his hand rest on your warm flesh he just smacked. He let out a sigh as he softly caressed your ass, watching you fight against squirming under his touch. His hand slid down to your clothed mound, feeling your juices seep through the fibres of your panties. He bit his lower lip as he felt his cock strain against his trousers.

He hooked the sides of your panties and slid it down to your thighs. With his index finger, he drew it between your dripping petals and you let out a low moan. He knelt down to one knee and pushed his finger into your craving mound. You closed your eyes and gasped as he teased your walls. “I would have loved to eat you out…” He murmured, his breath hot against your pussy, making you whine out at his words. “But bad girls don’t get to experience that pleasure.” He slid out his finger and placed it in his mouth, tasting your honey. “Hmm…”

You licked your lips and bit your lower lip as you saw him rise up to his feet. “Please, Dave…”

His eyes snapped to yours and shivers shot through your body. Holding your gaze, he guided his hand to rest on your pussy. You carefully shook your head as you gaped at him with pleading eyes.

“Please don-”

His fingers spanked against your clit, making you cry out and push yourself up from the countertop. With his other hand, he grabbed the back of your neck and pushed you back down onto the counter.

“I said stay down.” He growled as he pressed you down, your cheek aching against the cold surface. “And you know exactly what to call me.” His fingers ghosted over your clit. “What is it?”

“Sir.” You breathed out heavily.

He bent forward and over you, his cock pressing against your asscheek as he placed his lips close to your ear. “Good girl.” His breath tickled your ear before he straightened up. He removed his hand from your mound and gave it a long lick, humming at the taste of you, making your cunt clench at the vibrating sound from his chest.

“Sir, please…” You carefully begged, feeling the grip on your neck loosen as he revelled at the taste of you. “Please fuck me.”

He chuckled deeply at your words. “Fuck you?” He started as he let go of your neck and stepped right behind you. “I will fuck you…” You heard him unbuckle his belt and his zipper going down, the sounds sending a delicious shiver up your spine and sparks flickered in your abdomen. “But since you haven’t behaved…” You felt the tip of his cock slide between your wet folds, teasing you with each stroke. He stopped right by your entrance and pushed just the tip of his cock in. You gasped at the small invasion of him. “You’re not allowed to come.”

You gaped at his words, your lips ready to argue against his words, but the words you were going to disagree with turned to a long moan as he thrusted slowly in, invading your aching cunt. Your fingers pressed onto the countertop as you rose your head, bending it backwards while exhaling deeply.

He pushed all the way in, his cock pressing against your cervix. Your walls clenched around him, making him groan and his hands took a hold of your hips. He pulled out before slamming into you, making you cry out and grab a hold of the edge of the countertop. He set a quick and unforgiving pace, your whole body was already ready to explode around him, but you were scared of what would happen if you came undone.

“Fuck… you’re always… so… tight… for me…” He grunted with his thrusts, his fingers digging into your flesh as he fucked you into ecstasy. Your walls were trembling around him and you could barely keep your legs straight.

You gasped for air as he twirled your hair around his hand and pulled you back. He let go of your hair and interlaced his fingers around your throat as he continued to fuck into you. You could peek the top of his head as your body was bent back, straining on your muscles as you fought against coming.

You heard his heavy breathing and knew he was getting close. Your arms and legs were shaking, tears running down your cheeks as your body begged you to give in to the release. He pulled further back on your throat and you met his dark gaze. He thrusted up as he placed his lips above your hairline; he loved how you bent for him, twisting yourself into everything he wanted.

His thrusts had slowed down as he huffed out with each push, his breath hot on your face as you kept your eyes shut, tears continuing to trail down your temples and down your hair.

He finally grunted out and stilled inside of you, feeling your walls was painted with his warm cum. He kissed the top of your head while murmuring; “Good girl.”

He let go of your throat and your body collapsed forward onto the countertop, muscles trembling and walls quivering, frustration surging in your gut as you haven’t had your release. He pulled out of you, his cum dripping down your inner thighs and onto your panties.

You breathed in slowly, your throat sore from the constraints of his fingers. You could hear him zip himself up and buckle his belt as you laid broken on the cold surface, tears pooling on the countertop.

“Stand up and turn around.” He commanded.

You forced your body up, your body shivering with the strain of standing straight. You turned to look at him with painful eyes. He lifted his hand and wiped away your new warm tears from your face with his thumb.

“That’s my good girl.” He whispered and your stomach fluttered at his low words. “I’m going to help you come, but I’m only going to give you 10 seconds to do so.” He rose his one hand with the watch on and looked at it as his other hand hovered next to your mound. He caught your eyes with a dark smirk. “10 seconds.” He reminded you lowly, but you knew that was more than enough time.

His eyes snapped to his watch again and his other hand delved between your petals. He immediately slid in two fingers, curling them up to massage that perfect spot within you while the heel of his palm rubbed against your clit.

A shock of electricity shot through your body at the contact and your muscles immediately tensed up. You were finally going to have the release you had sought for since he stepped into your apartment. He rubbed his palm in circles as his fingers worked their magic inside of you.

You gasped for air as your fingers curled around the counter edge, feeling the fire surge within your abdomen. Your head snapped back as the fire exploded within you and reached out to your toes, fingertips and head. He continued to rub your clit through your orgasm, your whole body trembling. Your knees collapsed beneath you and he quickly hooked his free arm around your waist, holding you up as you worked through your ecstasy.

He retrieved his hand from your dripping mound and admired the sweet juices glistening on his fingers. He put them in his mouth, licking clean each finger as you watched him through heavy eyelids and blurred gaze. He hummed delightfully as he tasted you once more.

You leaned onto him and he wrapped his other arm around you, holding you tight to him. His fingers trailed through your hair softly and you could feel his warmth envelop you. “My good little girl.” He whispered as he kissed your hair tenderly. “You did good.” He praised you and you droned in response.

“Thank you.” You mumbled into his chest.

He bent down and hooked his arm behind your legs and pulled you up, holding you bridal style, you nuzzled into his warmth as he carried you to your bedroom. He placed you down onto your bed and carefully slid you out of your clothes, leaving you completely naked and he couldn’t help but let his eyes drag along your body, admiring the perfection lying displayed in front of him.

He pulled the duvet over your worn body and knelt one knee next to you. He bent down and placed a tender kiss on your forehead. “My baby girl.” He murmured onto your skin and a soft smile drew across your lips. “I’ll come check on you tomorrow morning.”

He pulled back when you wrapped your hand around his wrist, holding him back. Your eyes met in the dark and you didn’t have to say a word before he tilted down again and carefully claimed your lips; soft, gentle and lustful.

He stood up to his feet and looked down on your already sleeping form. He wanted to stay, lay next to you and make sure you were okay, but his other life was waiting for him and he regretfully left your apartment, already looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.

(Wanna be added to my tag list for Pedro Pascal and his characters? Let me know and I will happily add you)

@cynic-spirit, @lililolli, @notabotiswear, @sara-alonso, @blankmooon, @ah-callie, @mamacitapascal, @thewaythisis, @greeneyedblondie44

[princpiration]

Kingdom of Losers

A Creativitwins Oneshot

Word count: 2,065

Summary: Remus finds something unexpected in his side of the Imagination

Warnings: mention of injury, blood, disturbing imagery, Remus being Remus, alcohol mention, self deprecation, Roman angst, morally grey Remus (he’s not very empathetic and maybe even a little mean? But in a way that siblings tend to be imo), if there’s something you want tagged feel free to ask me 

A/N:This has been in my drafts forever, I wrote it basically as practice and it’s the first fanfic I’ve ever completed. I had fun while writing it but I’m honestly not sure how I feel about it now? I might as well publish it anyway as a rite of passage, critique is welcome? (Set after POF but doesn’t reference it directly (Please don’t tag as r//mr//m))

Remus was in the Imagination, doing cartwheels on a trail of broken glass through a dank forest when he found something he didn’t recall having made.

That in and of itself wasn’t particularly strange, as most of his creations were done spontaneously in a frenzy of inspiration and then quickly forgotten about as he inevitably got distracted by something else.

But the thing-he-didn’t-remember-making stood out enough to catch him off-guard, and he stumbled, falling face first into the broken glass and sliding a few yards, leaving a messy trail of blood and teeth behind him. He lifted his head, blinked the shards out of his eyes, and looked at the thing.

It was a castle, or the ruined remains of one at least, surrounded by thorns and brambles. There was a distinct lack of entrails and body parts skewered on the foliage, and no blood or ichor seeping from the castle walls, so it couldn’t be one of Remus’ creations.

Must be Roman’s, he thought to himself, face splitting into a manic grin. He jumped to his feet, wiped his bloody hands on his pants, and his bloody face with his sleeve as he began to look for a way in.

The two Creativities tended to keep to their own parts of the Imagination, Roman especially preferring to stay as far away as possible from his twin’s domain, so seeing him essentially trespassing like this was exceedingly intriguing.  

As well as a rare opportunity for some brotherly bonding, though the Duke’s idea of it usually included a lot more violence. Or maybe not that much more violence, sibling-relationships were weird like that.

He circled the structure twice but was unable to find an entrance, so he shrugged his shoulders and just dove straight into the thorny vines, using them as a makeshift ladder to climb the castle wall.

Prince Philip ain’t got nothing on me! he snickered to himself as he flung himself on top of the wall, perching like a gargoyle statue upon it and surveying the area.

The roof was completely gone, as were most of the inner walls. The floor was covered in fallen leaves and there was this pristine gloominess that permeated the place, like something from a gothic romance novel.

Remus scrunched his nose and stuck out his tongue at it, thinking Yeah, this place could definitely use a few mutilated corpses.

Something caught his eye then, in the middle of what seemed to have once been a throne room.

Was that … a Chaise Lounge?

It was. In the middle of the ruined throne room, standing on the leaf-covered floor, was a single maroon-colored Chaise Lounge. And lying recumbent upon it was Prince Roman, wine glass in hand and gaze pointed up at the grey skies above him.

Normally Remus would’ve launched himself from the wall by now, screeching like a demon as he descended upon his unsuspecting brother to try and claw his eyes out. You know, as one usually does when finding their sibling trespassing in their domain.

But something about the way that Roman was just lying there, still as a statue, made Remus hesitate.

He blinked once, then slithered down the wall and proceeded to sneak into the throne room, unheeded by his brother who kept his gaze locked at the cloud-covered sky. As he got closer he could see the dark crescents under the Prince’s eyes, and the dull, faraway look in them as well. The Duke contemplated the best way to get his twin’s attention, settling for the most straightforward one.

“INTRUDER!” Remus shrieked, startling Roman and making him nearly drop his wineglass. He shot up and looked around frantically before spotting his brother. He rolled his eyes, slumped back into the sofa and let out a deep sigh.

“Announcing yourself now, Remus?” he muttered, taking a minuscule sip of his beverage. “What are you even doing here?” he asked, giving his twin a tired look. Remus blinked back at him.

“What am I doing here?” he replied, pointing to himself with all fingers. “I’m the one who should be asking you that! In fact, I think I will! What are you doing here Pecorino Romano?” Remus asked, pointing at his twin. Roman stared at his brother perplexedly.

“What do you mean? This is my castle,” he said and looked around, “or what’s left of it anyway…”

“I know that, Roma-nobody-likes-you! I meant what are you and your once-cast-ler doing in my side of the Imagination?” Remus shot back, seeing Roman wince at the nickname. Remus mentally pumped his fist in victory, he had to remember that one for later.

Roman frowned and swirled his glass, watching the red liquid slosh around as he seemed to mull over the question. “I…” he started, clearing his throat, “I hadn’t realized I’d gotten this close to the border, I guess…” he finished, eyes downcast.

Remus perched himself on one of the armrests, leaning his head in one hand, and Roman silently adjusted his position to make room for him, or at least get his legs out of the way of any Duke related mischiefs.

“Border, huh?” Remus thought out loud, picking his nose and relishing in the disgusted look Roman gave him. “I guess the divide was blurrier than we thought,” he cocked his head and stared at his twin, who hummed noncommittally. 

“Guess so,” Roman replied, tracing the rim of his wineglass with his finger, producing a single note he unconsciously began to harmonize with.

Remus’s eyes started to twitch and he closed them, sliding himself down the armrest to properly slouch on the sofa, finger still buried in his nostril. “So technically we’re in neither’s domain, a no-man’s-land of the Imagination! A Kingdom of Losers!” he hollered proudly. “Guess I don’t need to kill you for trespassing then!”

He flicked his booger at his brother, who managed to dodge it despite his reclined position. It landed on the floor and bounced several feet before disappearing amongst the leaves.

Pity, Remus thought, but it was worth it for the absolute scandalized look that graced Roman’s features. The Duke leaned back in his seat, putting both of his hands behind his head as he squinted at the Prince.

“I could still do it though, for fun. Killing you, that is,” he added, looking up at the sky. “You wish,” Roman scoffed back. Remus flipped him off, not taking his eyes from the clouds, and they lapsed into silence halfway between awkward and comfortable, both brothers gazing at the grey above.

What if it started raining blood and teeth?

The Duke grinned as he saw, and felt, the tell-tale signs of blood-rain (or hemo-rain if you will) mixed with human teeth. Unfortunately, his prissy brother kept it from hitting either him or the furniture, which was pretty lame and boring if you asked him (no one ever did).

The pitter-patter of the hemo-rain faded, leaving only the sound of Roman tapping his nails against his glass.

“What’s in that glass of yours anyway?” Remus asked, spreading his arms behind the back of the sofa. “Gatorade? Soup? Blood?”

“It’s a Cabernet Sauvignon, thank you very much,” Roman replied haughtily.

“Sounds fake.”

“It is not! It’s one of the most widely used grapes for red wine!”

Remus tapped a finger against his chin. “So, it sounds super fancy and shit, but it’s actually pretty basic? Fits you perfectly then!” he cackled, casting a sidelong glance at Roman.

Said Side lifted his hand, finger pointing upwards like he was about to come up with a witty retort when he suddenly froze. The fire in his eyes died out, replaced by that same dull faraway look from before. He let his hand fall limp to his side, as he all but collapsed back into the sofa. He let out a long, beleaguered sigh, and his eyelids fell shut.

“Yeah, maybe it does…” he murmured, voice small and quiet.

Remus frowned. Well, that was no fun. He tilted his head and looked at Roman, who still held the wineglass loosely in his grip.

“Didn’t take you for a wine drinker, honestly,” he stated simply, sniffing loudly. Roman let out a breath that had the shape of a laugh but not the joy of one.

“I’m not, really, it’s just been…” he let out another sigh, “…a day,” he finished flatly.

Yeesh, Remus did not like this version of Roman, he was way too boring. He was about to tell him just that but got cut off by his brother blurting out:

“Do you ever wonder what it was like?”

The Duke blinked one eye at a time. “Like what?”

“You know, back then, before the uhm,” Roman waved his hand aimlessly, “before the… split,” he finished, curling his index- and middle-finger halfheartedly on the last word.

“You mean when Thomas had just one Creativity?” Remus questioned, and Roman nodded.

Huh. Hm. Remus scratched his head, dandruff falling from it like snow.

If he was honest, there was a lot about the whole split-thing that was a bit hazy, as it ostensibly happened before any of them had a physical form, let alone awareness of their own existence.

How had four-eyes put it? They had been like an ovum, or zygote or whatever, split in the middle, two not-so-identical halves of an alleged whole.

It was stupid. As far as Remus was concerned, he had always been Remus, and Roman had always been Roman, and that was that. He made a fart noise with his mouth.

“Nope!” he said easily, crossing one leg over the other, dangling his foot. Roman looked up at him, surprise painting his otherwise blank expression.

“Why not?” he asked, sitting up slightly. “You mean you never feel incomplete-” he started, but flinched at his choice of word. Roman looked up at his brother, eyes glassy and unfocused.

“Don’t you want to be… whole again?” he all but whispered and looked away. Remus pretended to think for a second.

“Hell no!” he exclaimed, putting his hands back behind his head. Roman whipped his head around to stare at his twin brother incredulously. Remus gave him his smuggest smile.

“Full offense, but you’re kinda lame Ro,” he said, stretching languidly on the Chaise Lounge, “and it would totally ruin my whole vibe if we became one Creativity again or whatever, so no thanks, I’m good! Or, well, you know what I mean!” He winked at Roman, who just stared back at him with a blank face.  

“There’s no going back to what was before, Bro-man, sucks for you maybe, but I happen to like being myself!” he finished, gesturing one hand over his reclined form.

He expected Roman to roll his eyes at his antics, to frown at his insults or sigh dramatically.

He did not expect the slight curl to the side of Roman’s mouth, his face lighting up in a tiny smile.

“That’s… good,” he said softly, tilting his wineglass to his lips, “that’s good to hear.”

He took a swig of his wine, the small smile still there on his face, looking happier than he’d been for a long time.

Remus gagged. “Ugh. If you’re gonna be this gross about it then I’m out!” he announced, sprang up from the sofa and began strutting out of the room with his hands in the air.

“See you around, Prince of Losers!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the throne room. 

“I sincerely hope not, Duke of Losers!” came Romans reply, sounding a bit more like his usual pompous self. 

Remus gave his brother a backward-double-bird-salute as he rounded the corner.

As soon as he was out of sight he took a running start, hurled himself onto the wall, and scrambled up it like a human-sized gecko. When he was about to leap off the top and back into the dank woods on his part of the Imagination, he hesitated again and turned back to look at his twin.

Roman was still lying in his Chaise Lounge, wineglass in his hand. But he wasn’t looking at the grey sky above him anymore, he was looking at Remus, his twin, his brother, his co-ruler of this Kingdom of Losers.

The Duke pulled a face on the Prince and blew a raspberry before he jumped off the castle walls and scurried on all fours back into the forest.

———

Thank you for reading!

[subtlereferencetomyinterests]

Complexities Unknowable- Chapter Six

Ao3,    1     2     3     4     5    7,  MasterPost

Relationships: Deintruality, background Analogince

This is crazy long. But I like this one. Also, second to last chapter! Also also, i mention spinny hugs three whole times because I miss Hugs. I miss them. 

Warnings: Cursing, food mention, brief angst/arguing, someone digs their nails into their skin but like unintentionally, crying, Remus-typical jokes and comments (he has some pretty violent thoughts directed towards roman), very very brief alcohol mention (wine, cuz Jan’s Like That), uhhh lots and lots of hugging and fluff. And Janus is still called Deceit, for continuity reasons. lmk if I missed something.

Word Count: 3,657

Patton did end up visiting them- albeit several hours later. Deceit wasn’t quite sure how he felt as he watched Morality make himself at home in The Subconscious living room, but he was leaning towards happy. 

Though ‘make himself at home’, was a tad of a stretch, given all his uncomfortable fidgeting. Deceit could taste that there was something he wasn’t saying, but he didn’t have to wait long to see what it was.

“I- um- I brought you guys something-”

Of course he had.

“-as an apology.”

Wait, what?

Remus’ head shot up from where he was sifting through dvds, flashing Deceit a smug grin. Patton didn’t seem to notice as he elaborated.

“You guys have been so nice to me lately, even after I, uh, didn't exactly respect you as much as I should have. I didn’t give you enough credit for what you two contribute, and that was my bad, so here!” He waved his hand and an enormous, neatly folded quilt dropped into his lap. He stood from the couch, struggling to unfurl it.

Deceit’s eyes were saucers. The blanket was a spiral of triangles of lime green, pale yellow, and baby blue fabric. At its edges were small patches of violet, indigo, and red, along with a gray border and a large black circle in the middle of the spiral. Within that circle was the word ‘Family’, embroidered in vibrant rainbow colors.

“It’s okay if you can’t forgive me right away, but I just wanted you to know that you guys are part of my family now, as far as I’m concerned, and I-”

Remus threw himself at Patton with full-force, picking up the much taller side and twirling him around in what looked to be a crushing hug. Deceit remained silent and caught the quilt as it was flung from the two-side tornado. It was soft, smooth, warm. 

“When did you… how did you have the time to make this?”

Morality’s face was flushed and he laughed, bright and airy, as Remus finally let him down. 

“That’s what took me so long to get here! You guys invited me over, and I didn’t want to show up empty-handed. I know I’m not the most artistic, but I think I’m pretty good at sewing.”

He’d spent hours making them a quilt- by hand, when he could just have conjured it- so he could offer them this olive branch. After everything. Deceit was choked up, but he wasn’t sure which emotions in specific were clogging his throat. His voice didn’t sound like his when he spoke.

“I am also sorry!” So it was a little stilted, cut him some slack! It was hard to focus on being well-spoken and not lying at the same time,  “You are- No, you aren’t- solely at fault for our not at all strained relationship.” 

“What?” Patton didn’t seem to comprehend. Remus, who looked disgustingly proud of Deceit, translated for him.

“He’s saying that we’re also sorry for being giant cunts, thanks for the neat blanket, and let’s call it even?” 

The snake nodded in agreement. 

Patton’s eyes grew wide and his smile faded, leaving behind soft surprise. He clearly hadn’t expected any sort of forgiveness, which was both saddening and admirable. He was just a living teddy bear, wasn’t he?

With an exaggerated groan, Deceit placed the quilt to the side and stood, opening his arms. Remus cheered and caught him around the waist with his arm, pulling all three of them together for a tangled group hug. Deceit pretended to hate it, but it was very hard to.

After the two extremely affectionate traits finally got tired of squeezing the life out of him, Deceit extricated himself and determinedly ignored how hot his face had gotten. He curled up on the couch and held the bundled quilt to his chest protectively. Patton and Remus worked together to settle on a movie before joining him. The latter leaned in very close, whispering right against Deceit’s ear. 

“You think we can convince him into a threesome?”

Deceit turned the volume up twenty notches and sat next to Patton for the rest of the movie, out of spite.

It was hardly the last time Patton visited them. Deceit probably should have expected the clinginess from him, popping in daily to tell them about the latest happenings in The Conscious or show them a “““funny””” meme he’d seen on Facebook. Once that door of camaraderie had opened just a crack, the moral trait had enthusiastically torn it off its proverbial hinges. And the oddest thing was how little Deceit minded. 

Patton was, in many ways, like Remus. Energetic, imaginative, affectionate, and containing depths of emotions that you’d never guess he had at first glance. Some days, Morality would run in with bright markers and an even brighter smile to have Remus to teach him new art techniques. Other times, he’d shuffle to Deceit’s door late at night, eyes bloodshot, asking whisper-quiet for a cup of tea and to spend some time together. Those nights in particular stuck with the lying trait, when he would watch Patton’s expression slowly lighten as they chatted together, talking about everything and nothing.

Another bonus of all that had happened Logan, who had now become a friend to the former Dark Sides (Deceit was very thankful to be able to chat with someone else who was Competent). Never had Deceit been so glad that he was wrong about someone!

But, as he’d quietly admitted to both Morality and Logic just a couple nights ago, there was something missing. He hadn’t elaborated, but apparently he hadn’t needed to. Leading them to now.

When Remus and Deceit had been invited for breakfast that morning, they’d of course agreed (you just can’t say no to Patton’s puppy eyes), but they were quickly abandoned with Roman and Virgil by the two bespectacled sides. The blue-hued traits supposedly had a surprise and would be right back, but Deceit could taste the lie. Yet, constrained as he was by the societal expectation to not freak the fuck out when things didn’t go the way he liked, he waited patiently while refusing to make eye-contact with Anxiety.

But then his good-for-nothing despicable traitor of a boyfriend stood up.

“I’ll be right back, I’m going to go stand in the kitchen and wait for things to be less awkward!”

Roman, similarly the worst, jumped to his feet as well.

“And I left the stove on!” 

So now he was just. Staring at his ex-best friend. Which was fine. 

He took a sip of his drink.

“Are you drinking wine at nine in the morning?” Virgil asked suddenly. Deceit looked down at his own drink, then towards the identical wineglass sitting by the other’s plate. 

“Yes? Aren’t you?”

“This is apple juice,” he held the glass up and swirled it, earning a snicker from Deceit. 

“Why are you drinking apple juice from a wine glass?” 

“Why are you drinking wine at nine in the morning?” 

He jerked his thumb in the direction of the kitchen, brow raised in a silent explanation: I’ve got that one, remember? Virgil nodded solemnly, a smile playing at his lips. With that minuscule, vaguely pleasant interaction, they returned to silence.

“Patton sure is taking his sweet time,” Deceit thought it only fair that he be the one to break the quiet this time, just so they were even.

“Something tells me it’s gonna be a lot longer. It’s kinda obvious what he’s doing.”

“Mm. Subtlety is not one of his virtues. It’s a nice gesture, though,” the lack of hostility in the conversation was beginning to irk him. It was almost nice. God, he’d missed it, he hated how he’d missed it.

“Yeah…” Virgil glanced away and shifted in his seat, “Yeah. He’s nice.”

“I agree.”

“Look,” the anxious side set his glass down, “Pat’s my best friend, so I’m doing this for him. I think he’s been kinda lonely lately, and I feel... responsible. Like, he’s not into me or Ro and Lo, and we aren’t either, but it’s- it’s not the same now, the four of us. And it’s pretty obvious that you guys make him happy- he talks about you all the time- so I’m giving you this one chance. Don’t fuck it up, and don’t you dare hurt him.”

Deceit blinked, blindsided. Sincerity got to him, it got under his skin and tore apart his quick wit like it was paper. He had to clear his throat a couple of times before any actual words came to him.

“I won’t repeat my past mistakes. I-” he nearly shuddered, “I promise it.”

Virgil seemed appeased, his expression easing into something more familiar (painfully familiar and new all at once). His lips quirked up in a smug smirk.

“Good. Didn’t wanna have to nudge you down a staircase, anyway.” 

Deceit chuckled. From there, the conversation flowed almost naturally. It wasn’t like old times. Maybe that was a good thing. It wasn’t quite friendly, not yet, but there was an impression. If he played his cards right, if he stayed genuine, then it would be. Soon. And that was enough for now.

Remus scrambled to the top of the fridge and loomed over his brother. He was, for once, not the first to talk. 

“So we wait it out in here until Sherlock and Watson get back from whatever it is that they’re pretending to do-”

“Which is when Snakey and Virgey kiss and make up-”

“Which will be never,” Roman concluded, sitting on the counter. He idly smoothed down his already meticulously styled hair (vain bitch). Remus picked a flea from his own scalp and flicked it at him spitefully, but it went unnoticed. Just like everything he did. 

“I don’t know why they couldn’t have let me in on their little scheme, I shouldn’t have to be between that situation.”

Remus laughed wickedly, a noise with very little mirth and a whole lot of frustration. 

“Mhm, yeah- you’re just a saint, getting along with everybody! You haven’t got a single problem to work out!”

“I didn’t say that,” Roman replied indignantly, “I know that Deceit and I don’t have a great history, but we get along fine now.”

Unbelievable. No- it was completely fucking believable! Remus should just hit him, tear his arms off and beat him with them, pull out the ol’ morning star and smash his brother’s skull in. How stupid he’d been to think that this could be fixed. Roman was impossible. No matter how hard Remus tried, he’d never get anywhere, no matter how supportive Patton was.

“Whoah, you okay?”

The Duke blinked, staring down at the angry, crescent-shaped marks that he’d clawed into his arms unknowingly. He tilted his head to stare at the other Creativity. 

“Not really, no!” 

Roman seemed taken aback. He leaned up and rested his arms on top of the fridge beside Remus.

“Don’t let Patton see you do that, he’ll have a fit,” he joked, reaching up to grab Remus’ hands. The Intrusive trait scrambled away to the other edge of the appliance.

“Don’t tell me what to do, and don’t pretend to care about what I do!” 

“What? What are you-” Roman cut himself off, his face clouding with realization, “Oh.”

“What is it now?” 

“I- I’m supposed to talk to you, aren’t I?” 

Remus stared at him for a long, thoughtful moment. He then erupted into cackles, spitting laughs out like it was the only thing stopping him from breaking down (it was). 

“Oh, whatever. Don’t pretend you don’t hate me just for Patty’s sake.”

Roman hopped off the counter, standing in front of the fridge with arms crossed. He looked angry- but not angry at Remus? That was new. New and weird. 

“You think I hate you?”

“I know you hate me, Roro,” he pulled himself to the edge of his platform, swinging his legs out in front of him. 

“Do you hate me?”

Remus wasn’t quite sure how to answer that one. It was fine, because Roman didn’t wait for a response anyway.

“Get down here.”

“Why should I?” 

“So I can- so we can- Ugh, just get down!”

The Duke got down. Curiosity killed the cat, after all (or the cephalopod, as the case may be). 

Once within his reach, Roman threw his arms open and wrapped Remus up in a fierce hug.

Remus swayed, suddenly very dizzy. Was the world always this blurry? No, no, maybe he was crying? Or maybe he’d gone blind? It didn’t matter either way, all that mattered was that someone was hugging him. Willingly. 

“You’re my brother,” Roman hissed,  “You annoy the hell out of me. And we don’t get along much. And we fight, a lot, but it wasn’t ever anything more than that. I didn’t mean for it to be more than that. You’re my brother-”

“You already mentioned that part-”

“Shush!”

He shushed.

“I don’t hate you. How could I?”

Oh. Well. Hm. That changed things.

Remus’ awareness jolted back into him then. He lifted Roman off the ground with ease and spun around in wide circles, smiling with all of his teeth (which said a lot; he had quite the array of teeth). He held on like his brother would disappear if he let go, conjuring more limbs for the express purpose of holding on tighter.

“Rem!” 

“Yeah, bro?” his voice was giddy, and distinctly wobbly, but that was irrelevant. He spun again.

“I- I’m very glad that we’re having this bonding moment, but I think you broke my ribs.”

“Oh, oops,” Remus let go immediately, dropping Roman to the floor. He offered a shrug in apology.

“Oh yeah, I don’t hate you either, by the way.”

“I assumed so,” Roman wheezed, using the counter to pull himself back to his feet. He gave Remus a lopsided smile.

“It’s good we don’t hate each other. Now I don’t have to knock you out whenever I wanna hang out with Patty.”

“Yeah, that is a relief.”

“Wow, we’re good at this whole reconciliation thing! Let’s go rub it in Vee and Dee’s emotionally constipated faces!” In mere minutes Remus already forgot what being sad felt like. Life was good and he had no problems anymore! 

“We probably should make sure they haven’t killed each other,” Roman held a hand out, which Remus grabbed gleefully.

“Ugh! Why are you always sticky?!”

“Do you really want the answer to that?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely not.”

They returned to the dining room, hand-in-hand, only to find their respective boyfriends having a perfectly civil conversation. 

‘Coincidentally’, as soon as Remus and Roman resumed their places at the table, Patton and Logan rose up with an enormous stack of stunningly fluffy pancakes. They shared a secretive smile- as though they genuinely believed that nobody knew what they’d done. Deceit didn’t correct them, but only because he hardly wanted to admit that they’d been successful (maybe it was just him that was bad at making plans; everybody else seemed to have it down). 

Breakfast was short. Deceit could’ve just finished eating a five course meal and he’d still find it hard not to wolf down Patton’s cooking, especially his breakfast food.

And naturally, Deceit offered to help clean up, which had also been a quick task. He’d just dried his hands and flashed Morality a small smirk, turning to leave. He didn’t get far before Remus grabbed his arm and swung them both back into the kitchen. 

“Before we leave, aren’t we forgetting something, DeeDee?” 

Patton set down the last plate and shot them a confused look.

“I haven’t the slightest clue what you mean, dearest,” Deceit claimed, pointedly not looking at either of them. Patton was growing progressively more bemused.

“Did you lose something again, Re?” 

“I haven’t, but Dee seems to have lost his manners.”

The dishonest trait threw his arms up and groaned. If he was only a tad less in love, he’d have decked that look off of Remus’ face.

“Alright! Patton, from the bottom of my heart, thank you!”

“What are we thanking him for?” Remus needled.

“Everything,” he’d intended it to come out biting and sarcastic, and was disgusted to find his voice laced with sincerity, of all things! 

There was most certainly an adoring, proud look on Patton’s face. He was looking away, he did not see it. 

“Oh, you two,” he still heard him though, rambling on, “It was just the least I could do!” 

Remus made a noise. It was loud and completely unintelligible, but with a general air of happiness. And, for what was very much not the first time, Deceit was crushed in an over-enthusiastic threeway hug with no means of escape. He hissed, the noise dying on his lips as soon as he saw the wide and excited grins on both Patton and Remus’ faces that were very, very close. 

Morality really had done something amazing for them- something that Deceit had hoped for for ages. Now the side just looked so happy with himself, with what he’d done, and with them.

Deceit looked between Remus and Patton. 

The human half of his face was burning. 

He looked again, just to be sure. 

Those were definitely the same feelings, huh? Oh fuck. 

“You guys are just too much,” Patton laughed, clearly unaware of Deceit’s impending emotional crisis. His hold around Deceit’s waist had tightened, and with little warning, both him and Remus were no longer on the ground.

The former Dark Sides caught eyes. The red of Remus’ face contrasted dramatically with the green of his apparel. 

Double fuck. 

Patton had clearly mistaken their stunned silence as uncomfortableness, letting them down gently and stepping back.

“Sorry, I got a little carried away.”

“It’s fine!” Was Deceit’s voice always that shrill?

“Yeah, don’t worry about it! But we have to go, right now- important, mysterious things to do! You know us, pure villainy!”

“Yes, that, what he said!”

They sunk out.

It was quiet as they appeared in The Subconscious. Remus looked at his boyfriend. Deceit was staring back, but his mind was very clearly miles elsewhere.

“So. We should maybe talk about that.”

The trait opened his mouth to speak, still looking rather dazed, but Remus interrupted him.

“I swear to God, babe, if you say ‘talk about what?’, or ‘oh, Dear, I have no idea what you mean,’ I am going to rip your esophagus out with my teeth and swallow it.”

Deceit’s mouth snapped shut, then open, then shut. He shuffled over to the couch and proceeded to drop onto it like a ragdoll.

“I think I have feelings for Patton.”

Remus sighed in relief and flopped down next to him, draping his arms across the shell-shocked snake side. 

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

“You’re happy?”

He thought the question over carefully, and an absolutely terrifying possibility occurred to him.

“Yeah- I- we are on the same page, right? Like, he’s super cute and nice and fuckable, but you and I still…?” he let himself trail off. There were very few things that Remus struggled to say, but the thought that two of his favorite people would move on from him- together, no less- was both wildly horrifying and too familiar to verbalize. 

Deceit snapped out of his stupor long enough to glare angrily at Remus- more specifically, glare at the train of thought that he knew Remus was following.

“I’ll always love you, you idiot. Nobody and nothing will change that.”

Remus smiled- not a grin, but a smile- and exhaled slowly. Good, back on track.

“I love you, too. Right, now what do we do?”

“...Do?”

The Duke sat up straight enough to bonk his head against Deceit’s, eliciting a small ‘ow’. 

“Yes, ‘do’; when people have feelings for each other they do something about it- especially when that person is their friend. Unless you were planning on ignoring this, pushing it down, and going back to keeping Patton at arm’s length, which would ruin a perfectly good relationship in an effort to not ruin that relationship. Was that what you wanted to do?” 

“Well when you put it like that... No.”

“Alright, my pretty little liar, what do you want?”

Deceit hid his face in Remus’ neck. His muffled voice said something sounding a lot like ‘I have no fucking clue’.

“I can tell you what I’d like?”

More muffled noises: translation ‘If you say threesome I’m going to end you’.

“No- well, yeah- but I meant that we should woo him!”

Deceit pulled back to squint up at Remus.

“Woo him?”

“This whole conversation, you’re just a broken record- yes, do, yes, woo! We could be a throuple!”

The Duke saw Deceit very nearly say ‘throuple?’, before deciding to actually contribute to the discussion.

“I will admit, that sounds… alright, it sounds lovely. In theory. Do you really think that’s a good idea, though? Why should we risk it- we’ve only just fixed things, why go breaking them again?”

“So if Patton isn’t interested, he’s not going to be friends with us anymore, either? Does that sound like something he’d do?”

“Well- not really- but-”

“Who was right about making friends with him in the first place?”

Deceit glowered, answering begrudgingly.

“You were. But still-”

“Who was right about fixing things with Virgil?”

“... You.”

His gaze remained hesitant, so Remus continued.

“And who’s going to be right about this, when the three of us are all sucking face?”

Deceit dropped his head back against the couch and closed his eyes.

“Why do you keep being helpful? I’m supposed to be the smart one in this relationship.”

“Trust me babe, I hate it too,” Remus sympathized, “D’you want me to go microwave some silverware? You can brag to Logan about single-handedly saving my life from the explosion!”

The dishonest side smirked, leaning forwards once more to peck Remus’ cheek. 

“That’s an awful idea, my love.”

Tags:

@deceits-left-glove​ 

@princemesscharming

@shrimp-crockpot

[johannstutt413]

(requested by anonymous)

Bison felt the mass of Swire’s spinning spike-wheel of death fly over his head as he ducked behind his shield to block the hit coming for him; the yelp from his attacker told him how that went for the poor Reunion bastard he was fighting. “Thanks,” he called behind him.

“Anytime!” She yelled back. “Left side!”

“On it!” He knocked the incoming assailant to the ground and gave them a solid thwack with the bottom of his shield. As he lifted his shield up again, however, a premonition struck him; rather than wait to confirm it, Bison turned and dashed at Swire, tackling her as a blast of Arts fire splashed the ground behind them.

She looked up at him. “Thanks, Bison.”

“Of course.” He hopped up and helped her to her feet in time to see the caster responsible get shot through the head with one of Provence’s bolts. “I think that’s the last of them. We should be able to finish guiding the cargo without any more trouble.”

“I’ll let the team lead know. Ow!”

Bison was still by her side. “What’s wrong?”

“I think I knocked something out of place.” She sighed. “Better than having my head burned off, but try to be a little more gentle next time, okay?”

“I’ll try,” he blushed, something in his brain focusing on the “next time” part of her rebuke.

-

A few days later, back at Rhodes Island, there was a knock on Swire’s door. “It’s open!”

“Good afternoon, Miss Swire.” To her surprise, Bison walked in, a sheepish grin on his face as he set a cup of coffee on her desk. “How have you been?”

“Well enough, considering the state of everything. You know, I’ve been meaning to tell you - the other day, when you knocked me out of the way of that attack, you also knocked one of my ribs back into place from an operation awhile back. I haven’t been this flexible in a while, so thanks for that. And the coffee, too, while I’m at it. What’s the occasion?”

He shrugged, a little color coming to his cheeks. “Nothing particular. I heard through the grapevine you like coffee, and since I was on break, I thought I’d swing by and bring you some.”

“Really?” She smiled at him. “Well, that’s sweet of you. What do I owe you?”

“Huh? Nothing.”

Swire cocked her head. “Nothing?”

“It’s on me,” Bison replied. “Why would you need to pay me back?”

“Well, you have to have some reason for coming in and giving me a free cup of coffee, right?”

His blush fully blossomed. “It means being able to talk with you, so that’s all I need out of it.”

“Oh?...Oh!” She giggled. “Sorry, I’ve been in this office too long already. Go ahead and take a seat. I need to take a break, anyway, or I’ll forget again.”

“Do you forget to take breaks often?”

Swire sighed. “So much work, so little time. Between managing Lungmen’s accounts and training for half of all of Rhodes Island, it’s a lot to keep track of.”

“There is a lot of paperwork when it comes to the economic side of things,” he agreed, absentmindedly glancing over her papers from the other side of her desk. “Actually, um...forgive me, I know you said this was going to be a break, but I think there’s an error in your numbers.”

“Huh? Where?”

Bison pointed to the digit in question. “That should be a 9, not a 5, shouldn’t it? Considering you’re doing the numbers for a whole city, not just the tax income?”

“You’re right, but the math is right...Hang on a minute.” She started shuffling through papers. “If that’s true, then...ah-hah! See? These are our numbers from last month.”

“They’ve got the same problem. My dad and I had to track down an embezzler working for us once; if you want, I’ll help you track them down, if that’s what’s happening?”

Swire smiled at him again. “You will?”

“Of course!” He grinned back. “And I’ll make sure we have plenty of coffee while we work.”

“I like the sound of this a lot. Alright, I’ll worry about my break later; for now, let me grab some more records, and we’ll see how far we can trace this...”

-

Nearly two weeks of side-by-side coffee-fueled investigation later, and they’d found the culprit and reported him to the next person in Swire’s chain-of-command. To celebrate their victory, and the raise she’d gotten out of the ordeal, she invited Bison out to dinner at an inexpensive but well-regarded restaurant. It wasn’t really the food either of them were there for, anyway.

“Congratulations for a job well done,” she grinned at him from across the table, swirling a glass of wine in her hand. “I would never have noticed that on my own, you know.”

“It was a two-person problem at least. Honestly, the amount of work you have on your plate just isn’t fair; you more than deserved the raise even if you hadn’t caught this guy.”

Swire shook her head. “We caught him together, Bison, and I’m just doing what I have to do for Lungmen. You know how our city is.”

“It does need all the help it can get,” he sighed, “but you still shouldn’t have to bear all that alone.”

“I wouldn’t say shouldn’t...but it would be nice to have someone to share the load with.” She looked him in the eye meaningfully.

Bison held out his off hand - the one that wasn’t busy spinning long noodles around a fork. “You keep our city safe, and I’ll make sure our companies keep it healthy...if you’ll let me help with your family’s affairs, that is.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” She took his hand and squeezed it. “They’ll be your family, too, when the time’s right. You’re sure you don’t mind our...um...”

“Age is a number, and even in business numbers aren’t everything. Besides, most of the younger girls I know don’t understand me nearly as well.”

Swire giggled. “Their loss, I suppose.”

“And my gain.” He sighed. “I don’t want to let go, but we really do need to finish our meal.”

“We’ll have some time to ourselves later, anyway,” she winked as she released his hand.

Bison chuckled, raising his wineglass of sparkling cider. “Right, dessert. Here - a toast to Lungmen’s finest, and to the rest of the people she works with.”

“Cheers.” *Clink*

[random-imagines-blog]

Here is the Place {Timothee Chalamet Oneshot}

Wordcount: 2467 Requested by: @h-a-j-i-m-e-ru​ Summary: After a fantastic double-date dinner, Timothee takes you somewhere special.

The table was set with burgundy and white linens, fine porcelain plates, sparkling silverwear, glistening glasses and a golden vase with roses that matched the napkins. The chandelier above the table held little lights that flickered as if they were candles, and gave everything a warm-looking glow. You couldn’t believe the beauty of the place that your date had picked out for this evening - and you also couldn’t believe that it wasn’t packed to the brim with people. It was like a secret hideaway, and gave the two famous men the privacy that they desired. And speaking of those two men, one appeared to be like an angel while the other - well, he looked fine but not nearly as good as the man that you were here for.

“Wow, good evening Timothee,” You leaned in and pressed a kiss against his cheek. In a smooth motion, he did the same, then another to the colder cheek. “This place is beautiful.”

“Much like you tonight,” He said, then extended an arm to pull out your chair for you.

“Oh, how smooth,” You chuckled, tucking yourself in though you wanted to be close to Timothee for longer. Whatever cologne that he was wearing was divine. You had to admit, this man lit a fire inside of you, one that you could feel the warmth of long after your dates were over. He sat across from you, his hair a halo of black curls, contrasting against the white of his dress shirt.

Timothee Chalamet. You knew a lot of people would kill to be where you are right now, sitting across from him, at the same table as James McAvoy. The two men had met through Saorise Ronan, who had worked with both of them, and despite the age difference, had sparked up a friendship. You met Timothee when he reached out to you after seeing some art that you had done of him and posted online, then the two of you set up your friends together. And things since then had been ... well, magical.

Your glass was immediately filled with wine upon sitting down. You didn’t even need to ask - Timothee had clearly set things up before you and your friend had arrived together. “Hello James, are you well?” You asked the more casual-looking man. The Scot looked over at you from a grin, though his eyes betrayed that it was hard to look away from the lovely visage of your friend.

“Very well, and you?” He asked in return.

“The same,” You said, letting the conversation end there so that he could go back to looking at your blushing friend. You were in the same boat as her. Whenever Timothee’s eyes looked over you, you felt a blush go across your cheeks. At the very least, you never had to spend money on blushing makeups when he was around. Menus were put in front of you, and the waiter stood silently not far away, awaiting orders. It didn’t feel like he was lurking, so he was doing a rather good job.

You ordered what looked best to you, and took to mind some of the recommendation’s that Timothee gave. James and your friend immediately engaged in conversation, leaving just you and Timothee to look at one another. “Perhaps I should have gotten two tables,” Timothee said with a laugh. You chuckled along, agreeing, since it seemed you two were invisible to the duo.

“I don’t mind it so much. It’s nice to see them so happy, isn’t it?” You were beaming like a star. “And I’m sure that they feel the same way about us, if they stopped making heart eyes at each other for even a second.”

“It’s alright, I don’t mind having you to myself for a while,” Timothee said, making your heart flutter. Your knees were shaking beneath the table, and you used the excuse of politely setting a cloth napkin on your lap to rub them to try to get them to calm down. This was your third date together, and you were hoping - well - you were hoping for something big to happen tonight. A kiss on the lips was what you were hoping for most, but if he wanted to go ahead and ask you to  be his, you were already more than willing to say yes.

His foot found yours under the table, his ankle brushing past yours. God - as if you didn’t need more reasons to blush today. “So what did you do today?” He asked, picking up his wineglass. He seemed so calm and collected, but in the golden light, you could see that there was a touch of pink on his own pale cheeks.

“Oh, just a bit of work. The gallery show is coming up soon and I’m a bit nervous that I’m not going to finish this piece on time,” You sighed. You picked up your own glass, and swirled the liquid inside rather than take a drink straight away.

“If you need any further incentive, I got myself a ticket to the show,” Timothy said with a grin. You tilted your head at that, and looked at him with confusion. He mimicked that. “Was I not supposed to?”

“Well, you could have saved yourself the price. I was going to ask you if you wanted to be my date, eventually.” You realized that the day was coming up sooner than expected, the time was moving so fast. You had been running out of time to ask him.

“I assumed you were bringing your friend - I’m sorry,” Timothee frowned. “I can return the ticket, or donate it-”

“Oh, no,” You said, returning the glass to the table then reached out to take his hand. It was such a forward gesture that it surprised even you. But you squeezed it anyway. “The thought that you would actually pay to go is just - I’ve never dated anyone this supportive before, I guess is what I’m trying to say. It’s a bit surprising but it’s very much appreciated. Thank you.”

Timothee’s eyes never left yours. It made you have the feeling of butterflies in your stomach. “I’ve been hoping that you would ask me - why don’t I give the ticket to a friend of yours as a gift?”

“I’m sure they’d like that,” You said, turning towards your friend to see if they even heard that, but alas, the conversation that she was having with James was too deep for anything to penetrate.

The rest of the dinner date went off without a hitch. The food was absolutely amazing, the ambiance was great, and of course, the company was incomparable. When your group of four returned to the street outside, James put his arm around your friend and looked at you and Timothee with a grin.

“I think we’re going to go for a walk over that way,” He said, motioning his head behind him. “I’ll see you guys later, yeah?”

“Text me when you get home,” You said to your friend, leaning in to give her a hug.

“Don’t wait up,” She said with a smirk, making you chuckle. You said goodbye one last time, then were left alone with Timothee. As much as you loved dinner, this was the part of the night that you were hoping for the most.

“Would you like to go for a drive?” Timothee asked formally, offering you his arm.

“I would love to,” You said, wrapping your hand around his arm. He lead you towards the dark car that he had parked across the street. It was a sleek and smooth car, not flashy enough for people to take pictures of it while passing by, but definitely luxurious once you were inside of it. He had opened the passenger side door for you, then closed it once you were on the leather seat with your seatbelt on.

Starting up the car was rather silent - the radio didn’t blare, and the engine barely purred. Rather than keeping both hands on the wheel, Timothee took a chance and put his hand on your knee. It was a respectful place, and you felt his respect, but you wanted to be a little daring tonight. You took hold of his hand and brought it up a little higher, halfway up your thigh, then left it there. You were pleased to see that it got a reaction out of him. It was his turn to blush, to feel the butterflies. He kept his eyes on the road as he drove through the tree-lined street, but you could see his smile. Every stop sign and red light, his gaze wandered.

“Are we going anywhere in particular?” You asked, settling back against the seat. Your head was tilted towards him rather than to the window, the scenery not important tonight. You liked the way that he had a rogue curl hanging in front of his forehead. You liked the way that his eyebrows slashed across his pale face, how his dark eyes lit up like a cat’s whenever a passing car’s headlights hit them. You liked the way that the car smelt like him -  almost like a mixture of brandy and pine. And most of all, you loved the way that his muscles looked beneath that shirt, the fabric resting on them perfectly.

“Just a little place that I know,” He told you. You pouted at the vagueness of his answer, though it did keep you on your toes. He turned on the radio, playing classical music ever so softly. Everything just felt so warm and cozy in the car, there was only one thing missing. And Timothee felt that too. His hand tightened ever so slightly on your thigh, sending a tingle through your body.

Eventually, he turned off of the main road and onto a small, rather winding one, which lead to a small parking lot. There was only two other cars there, which made you a little suspicious. “Here is the place,” He said, parking perfectly in one of the spots, and turned off the car. You took off your seatbelt and got out before he could circle around to open your door, which made him pout. You ignored this and looked around, but couldn’t see much. It was too dark out here. There were small lights which illuminated a footpath, and then some more in the distance.

“And what is this place?” You asked, leaving your wallet tucked under the seat of his car. Whatever place this was, it didn’t seem like it would be expensive, or even cost anything. The air was sweet, and fresh out here. It smelt of lavender and rose. A park, you thought, but didn’t guess aloud.

“Somewhere special,” He said, being vague again. You shook your head, wondering if this was a retaliation for not letting him open up your door.

“Well, you better lead me then, because I can barely make out a thing.” You reached for him and he took hold of your hand in his, then put another arm around your waist so you were very close to him, nearly in front of him, in fact. You could feel his hairs on the back of your neck as he leaned in, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Move forward. I’ve got you, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” You tried to insist.

“Then why are you squeezing my hand so tightly? I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“Maybe I just like the feel of your hand,” You retorted, making him chuckle right against your ear. He said nothing more as you lead you forward. The path was made of dirt and large slabs of stone embedded in the ground. He was right to be holding you, since you nearly tripped a couple of times.

Once you were at the end of the path, there were many more lights. They were strewn across the ground in ideal positions to shine out from underneath the flowers that were planted around. It seemed to be a large garden of some sort. Something out of a fairytale.

“And how many people have you brought here, Prince Charming?” You asked, turning around and put your arms around his neck. His arm stayed around your waist, and you felt like you were in some sort of Disney movie. He would make an amazing Prince Eric, now that you thought about it.

“You’re the first - other than my mom, of course. She used to bring me out here when I was a boy. The lilacs and the orchids were her favorites.”

“I can picture it,” You said, closing your eyes slowly. You hadn’t met his mother, but you could imagine little Timothee running around in the grass, getting stains on his trousers, picking the flowers and returning them to his mother. “This place really is special, then.”

“I told you it was,” He let go of you and took a seat on the ground, not caring if his trousers got dirty. You followed suit - who cared about a little gas stain. That’s why dry-cleaners were for. “I wanted to ask you something at dinner but with James and y/f/n there, it didn’t seem quite right.”

“Oh?” You asked breathlessly. Your hopes were up high now. Though knowing Timothee, he could make this into a silly situation. But he seemed to be as serious as you were.

“I know it would be hard and everything, giving the media these days,” He said, pulling little bits of grass out of the ground and making a neat pile of it in front of him. His fingers, so long and so nimble, were his way of distracting himself from getting nervous. “And they would be asking you questions all of the time, and you would be approached by every designer to wear their clothes for my premieres and such...”

“Are you trying to find excuses not to ask me?” You questioned, raising an eyebrow at him.

“No, no, I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into with me.”

“Timothee, one of your fans livestreamed out first lunch together. I figured that out pretty quickly. Now get on with it, because I’ve known my answer for quite some time now.”

“Do you want to be with me?” He finally sputtered out. You’d never seen him so shy before, it touched your heart.

“Only if it means we can come back here.” You answered, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

[a-world-in-grey]

Take My Breath au - Altissia I

-Axis shows up in the morning just as they’re about to leave, dressed in plain clothes and looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

-Sola glares at him anyway, and at a grinning Pelna sitting in the drivers seat of the truck. She turns her glare on Iris and Gladio when they greet their older brother far too cheerfully, and on Ignis because she knows exactly who called her Glaives to tell them their departure, thank you very much.

-Cid simply cackles when Sola tells Axis to get on the Six-cursed boat before they leave him behind. Noctis is very carefully not laughing, but she can feel his amusement anyway. Sola decides Prompto is her new favorite.

-A decision that lasts all of five seconds before Prompto demands group photos. Though Sola admits the shot of her holding Axis in a headlock while Gladio loses his shit is a good one.

-Axis updates everyone on the situation, and Sola rolls her eyes when Axis shamelessly admits that yes, the Glaives cheerfully disregarded her orders not to research the scourge from the very beginning. 

-Axis also gives Sola hell for not wearing the Clan braid even after Gilgamesh cut through it. He produces a replacement braid when Sola points out that her hair is too short, and Sola levels another glare in Ignis’ direction. 

-Only, no, turns out it’s Noctis who tattled, not Ignis, and her brother tells Sola that he’s not an idiot. He knows she stopped wearing the braid in order to protect her Clan by making herself an Outsider. If Sola doesn’t want her Clan to be Kinslayers, then she’s not allowed to die. Sola does not get to give up either. 

-Sola glares at the floor to avoid Noctis’ knowing look. Axis touches her shoulder and tells her that the burden of Kinslaying is a choice. Not one lightly made, but it is a choice all the same, made to protect the Clan. He swore himself as Sola’s Shield, swore to protect her and hers, including from herself if necessary. Sola says that Axis has a family. They need him. Axis counters that his wife understands, and his children, when they are older, will also understand. He is not leaving them alone. The Clan will look after them.

-Sola cries. Noctis hugs her on one side, Axis on the other, Prompto squirming in on a third and Gladio wrapping massive arms around all of them. Noctis tells Sola that she’s always protecting him. Let them protect her too. Sola sobs and calls them idiots. Axis chuckles silently and says that they’re her idiots though.

-The rest of the boat ride is long and uneventful, and Sola and Axis break out the various games the Glaives play during deployment to keep Prompto and the others from going stir crazy from boredom. Arriving in Altissia is a relief, because Gladio looks about two seconds from dumping Prompto overboard and Sola’s not far behind him.

-Noctis wants to immediately find Luna and heal Sola, but Sola advises against it. Ignis backs Sola, reasoning that they have no information on the local area, and they should take care not to bring Niflheim to the Oracle's doorstep. Sola tells Noctis that she can wait until after the Revelation from the Hydraean. A few more days won't make a difference. Noctis frowns, not convinced, but doesn't argue. 

-The Chocobros head off to the Maahgo to gather information. Uncle Wesk runs the place and is the local tipster. If anyone can give them a report on the local news, he can. Meanwhile, Axis and Sola split off from them to scout out Altissia, given that they are far more stealthy than the others and two people are far less conspicuous than four or six. They make note of Nif numbers and pick up the gossip on the street. And note some very familiar faces.

-Sola’s fingers twitch with the desire to murder Ravus and Caligo, but a hand on her shoulder from Axis helps quell the urge. And he’s right - they can’t afford to create a scene right now. But now that they know who the Nif commanders present are, well, they can plan.

-Sola and Axis make for the Maahgo, and report to Noctis. Noctis tells Sola of the requested meeting with Camelia Claustra, and informs them that he’ll be taking Gladio and Sola along. Sola advises Noctis to instead take Ignis. He has far more political acumen than Sola does, and taking along his Hand instead of his Sword will provide a far better implication to Camelia. One less militant.

-Ignis tilts his head thoughtfully but Weskham actually speaks up, telling Noctis that Camelia won’t appreciate the slight to her hospitality. Noctis counters that Accordo is a vassal of Niflheim, and it would be stupid to expect her to protect the head of state of an enemy country. Hospitality or no.

-Noctis eyes Sola and asks what she plans to do while he's meeting with the First Secretary. Sola affects an innocent look. Noctis isn't fooled, and he says that he knows her. So spill, because he'd rather not be blindsided by whatever mischief she's getting up to. Sola pouts at her little brother, even as the others snort at her in amusement.

-Regardless, Sola tells Noctis that it's highly likely the High Chancellor is in town, given his tendency to stick his nose into everything related to Noctis. The man has a disturbing obsession with him. Camelia has proven most obstinate towards the Empire. Sola doubts Noctis will be accosted while meeting with her. Which will irritate Ardyn something fierce no doubt.

-Gladiolus says that Sola plans to play bait. Sola waves her hand and says that Ardyn sought her out at both Galdin Quay and in Lestallum. If she finds a discreet spot to linger, Arydn will show up or Sola will eat her glaive. Sola wants Ardyn where she can keep track of him.

-Ignis asks what Sola will do if Ardyn shows up with MTs. Sola meets Ignis' concerned gaze with a half-lidded stare, and says that if Ardyn brings MTs, he'd better bring an army of them. She doesn't think he will - starting a fight in Altissia's streets will not endear the Empire to the locals. Noctis tells Sola to bring Prompto with her and Axis anyway. Sola and Axis eye Prompto speculatively. 

-Sola and Axis spend the rest of the day dragging Prompto around to give him a crash course on stealth. Well, Axis is giving him the crash course, Sola is providing a target for Prompto to practice on as well as distraction for anyone who might be watching. By the time night falls, Prompto is good enough that he won't immediately give away where he and Axis are hiding, and Sola's found a spot to linger in.

-And sure enough, sitting in one of the cafes overlooking a canal, Sola is unsurprised when-

-"Such a beautiful night on the water. It would be a waste to spend it alone."

-"High Chancellor." Sola greets.

-"Your Highness." Ardyn slips into the chair across from her with a charming smile, before raising a brow at the bottle of wine and empty wineglass sitting on the table. "Expecting company?” 

-"Consider it an invitation." Sola cradles her own glass - her second. She's been waiting for some time now. "One of the local vintages I prefer, on rare occasion." 

-There's silence as Ardyn pours himself a glass. It's surprisingly comfortable for two enemies. Sola lets herself enjoy it. She might not get to enjoy all that many more. 

-"Well now, that's a concerning frown," Ardyn says, "What troubles you?"

-Sola eyes him. Really. He has to ask? "I have a list. Would you like it alphabetically or chronologically?"

-Her deadpan tone draws a laugh. "Perhaps the reason behind your invitation then. In the interest of saving time."

-Fair. Sola has enough problems to keep her up all night if she lets them. And well, Sola does have a reason for drawing Ardyn out, beyond what she told the others. "In Lestallum, you knew I was Scourge-infected," Sola says, choosing her words with care, "How?"

-"It's a long-held interest of mine." Ardyn replies. "In Niflheim we call it the Vanishing Sickness."

-"With how its victims turn into daemons, I can see why," Sola says. She swirls her wine and ignores the suddenly sharp look from Ardyn, though she catalogues the reaction for later, "Given your expertise, what do you think I will become?" 

-If she succumbs to the Scourge, that is. But that's not something the High Chancellor needs to know.

-Ardyn hums thoughtfully. "Were you of meager ability and will, I would guess some form of Ronin, or perhaps an Arachne." He chuckles at the face Sola pulls. "I doubt you'll turn into something so simple. No. A woman of your caliber? Nothing short of magnificently unique.”

-And incredibly dangerous, Sola surmises. She takes a deep breath. It won't happen. They'll find a cure - and if they don't, Gladio and Axis will do what is necessary. 

-"I am surprised you haven't sought Lady Lunafreya's help."

-Sola snorts. "Please, High Chancellor, give Secretary Claustra more credit than that. Denying you access to the Oracle and her chosen escort is one thing. Directly aiding Niflheim's enemies?" She slants him a wry look. "There's a difference between bold and stupid." 

-There's a delicate pulse of magic. Axis - the echo of her own sun-fire-fury unfurling like a cloak - using a stealth spell. Her cue to make her way back to the Maahgo, now that Noctis is safely back from the Minister's mansion. Sola takes her leave, already planning how to lose the two Nif agents tailing her.

-She leaves Ardyn with the bill.

[preraphaelitepunk]

Fictober19 Day 19: Of Quiet Contentment and Fainting Couches

Prompt #19: Yes, I admit it, you were right.

Fandom: Good Omens

Characters: Aziraphale, Crowley

Rating: Teen

Warnings: None

On AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/20843936/chapters/50185667

Everyday rituals had always been soothing to Aziraphale. He wasn’t sure whether this had something to do with his angelic origins or derived more from his tendency toward anxiety under stress, but there was just something utterly lovely about small routines interspersed throughout the day: teatime, wine time, the cozy fuss that was settling in with a good book, his unnecessary reading glasses, and some nibbles.

Right now it was time for the breakfast ritual. Bread was toasting, filling the little kitchen with a homely smell. Eggs were boiling, tomatoes sliced, beans heating sedately in their little pot. Butters and jams waiting on the table. Crowley’s coffee was almost finished brewing, and the kettle for Aziraphale’s tea was just coming to the boil.

It was a moment of quiet bliss, and Aziraphale closed his eyes to savor it more fully. The only thing better would be when Crowley finally woke up and joined him.

A few minutes later, Crowley appeared, sleep-draggled and bleary, shambling over to the table and dropping into a chair. Aziraphale handed him a mug of coffee. “Thanks, angel.”

“You’re welcome, my love. Anything to eat this morning?”

Crowley sniffed, apparently parsing out the cooking smells. “Maybe an egg?”

“Certainly.” Aziraphale plated his own breakfast, drizzled a swirl of brown sauce over his beans because he was feeling particularly fancy, and egg-cupped a soft boiled. The egg cup was one Crowley claimed to despise, with little horns and a pointy tail painted on, but Aziraphale knew better than to listen to that nonsense.

“I was thinking,” he said, giving his beans an artistic swirl of brown sauce, “that we might go antiquing today.”

“Haven’t you got enough antiques in the shop? And your flat?”

“They were bought from new, so they don’t count. And anyway, I’m not necessarily in the mood to buy anything. I just want to have a poke around. Besides, we’ve talked about that: it’s not my flat any more. It’s ours.” Aziraphale applied fig-and-cocoa jam to his toast and bit into it decisively.

“Sure, but the deed is still in your name.” Crowley focused on peeling his eggshell away in strips. “Whatever. I get your point, angel. And if you want to go nosing around the antique shops today, I will be delighted to go with you. Doesn’t matter to me what we do, as long as we do it together.”

Crowley’s hands were both busy with his egg, so Aziraphale settled for giving the demon’s knee a gentle squeeze. “I feel the same, darling, but thank you for indulging me.”

“That’s what I do, angel,” Crowleys said, smiling lopsidedly back at him. “One big indulger, me.”

*** ***

“Oh, Crowley!” He squeezed Crowley’s hand excitedly. “Wouldn’t this escritoire be just perfect for the back room in the shop?”

Aziraphale could feel him holding back a sigh. “It’s lovely, angel, but where are you going to put it? There’s no space, just like there’s no space for the other twenty-five million things you’ve wanted.”

“There’s always space for beautiful items, dear. It would just be a matter of a discreet miracle or two. There are plenty of pocket dimensions out there that wouldn’t mind sparing me a few extra metres.”

“‘Course. You realize that, if you keep this up, you’ll have more pocket dimension than actual bookshop? Humans will start to notice if your shop keeps expanding infinitely beyond the size of the building.”

Aziraphale pouted. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m lots of fun. You’re just being impractical.”

“Lessons on practicality, from you, darling?”

Crowley just grinned at him, maddeningly calm. “One of us has got to be sensible. Right now it’s my turn.”

They carried on gently bickering throughout the next several shops. Crowley managed to block every proposed acquisition — until the fainting couch. It was gorgeous, a Victorian beast long enough to accommodate even Crowley’s sprawled form, with intricate carving along the legs and the wood framing the raised part of the back: acanthus leaves, pomegranates, and (this was what really sold it) snakes. It had been reupholstered, of course, but it was done respectfully, in period-appropriate heavy crimson velvet.

“I don’t care what objections you raise, Crowley. I am getting this recamier!” Folding his arms resolutely, Aziraphale frowned up at the demon.

“But there’s no space!”

“I will move the sofa in the back room up to the flat, and put this where it used to be. We can have a sofa in the bedroom, then, and no miracles will be necessary.”

Crowley grumbled under his breath, then said, “And how do you expect to get this monstrosity home? It won’t fit in the Bentley, and even if we miracled it to fit, I’m not risking her getting scratched  by this thing.”

Aziraphale just smiled primly. “Just wait, darling; it will be perfect, I know.”

The shop did not ordinarily offer delivery, but miraculously decided to make an exception in this case: same-day white-glove delivery, including relocation of the existing sofa upstairs. Crowley protested at this, but Aziraphale overruled him: miracling objects to other locations always carried a slight risk of imprecision if the destination was out of sight, and he wasn’t about to chance dinging his beloved sofa, which embodied so many fond memories.

The actual delivery was a bit of an ordeal, he had to admit. A quick miracle or five cleared a broad path through the shop and flat, so the humans could do the necessary heavy lifting without endangering any books or other treasures, but Aziraphale found the disruption to his carefully organized chaos disturbing. It was also oddly unsettling to have strangers in his private sanctums of the back room and the flat: only he and Crowley belonged there, and he found himself unaccountably resenting the humans’ presence even as he appreciated their help. He barely waited for the door to close behind the delivery people before snapping everything back to its proper, reassuring place, and let out a relieved sigh.

“Thank goodness that’s all over. Tea, darling?”

Crowley shrugged; he was projecting cool indifference, but Aziraphale had seen the tension in his body as he hovered over the delivery people, alert for anything that might endanger Aziraphale’s precious books. The poor dear had worn himself out. “Prefer some wine, actually.”

“Wine it is, then.” Aziraphale went to rummage in his wine stash, returning with two glasses of a rather nice Sangiovese. He handed one to Crowley and settled himself on the new fainting couch, careful to keep his shoes off the upholstery. “Ah, this is lovely.”

Crowley eyed him over the rim of the wineglass. “Better than the old sofa? Was it worth all this kerfuffle?”

Aziraphale made a show of considering the question. “Well, it is rather comfy. But something feels like it’s missing.” He snapped, and a soft cream-colored blanket appeared, draped over the sloping back of the fainting couch. Another snap, and one of his current books popped into his hand. “Much better. But . . . there’s still something missing.”

“Music? Peeled grapes? Scantily clad boys fanning you with ostrich plumes?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “It does feel quite sybaritic, but the only fan boy I want is you, dear.”

“Good answer. Shall I change into a loincloth now, or save that for later?”

“Later, I think. Right now, I think I’d like you to come over here and lie with me. Not that way,” he added, seeing Crowley’s eyebrow raised. “Just to cuddle.”

Grumbling something about the indignity of being expecting cuddling from a demon, Crowley set down his glass and ambled over. “There’s not much room. I’ll have to be practically on top of you.”

“That is rather the idea, darling. Here.” Aziraphale arranged them so that Crowley lay with his back against Aziraphale’s chest, and snuggled an arm around his demon’s waist. “Just so. Isn’t that nice?”

“‘M a demon; I don’t do nice.” There was no heat in it, though, and the way Crowley nestled closer, fitting his cheek against Aziraphale’s shoulder, was far from reluctant.

“Of course not, my love. You just rest there for a while. You must be worn out from supervising the movers so carefully.”

Gradually, the muttering died down and Crowley’s slow, even breathing suggested he’d drifted off. Pleased, Aziraphale read and sipped his wine for the next few hours, sometimes resting his cheek against Crowley’s head or stroking his russet hair.

“‘Snice,” Crowley eventually mumbled, nuzzling against Aziraphale’s neck.

“Very nice,” he agreed, then added because he couldn’t resist needling just a bit, “Whoever would have thought the recamier would work out so well?”

Crowley groaned. “Yes, I admit it, you were right. ’S a good addition. Totally worth it.”

“I’m so glad you agree, love.” Planting a gentle kiss on Crowley’s head, he sighed contentedly. “So very glad indeed.”

[luckyspike]

God should have made a universe full of nebulas - a Good Omens fanfiction

i wanted to write about Crowley’s fall so I did. party on.

Link to AO3 if you’d prefer to read it there

-

He hadn’t meant to Fall. He really, honestly, hadn’t. He had said as much to Aziraphale, once, twice, four hundred times over the years, but he was pretty sure the angel never really believed him. After all, it sounded idiotic. Who Falls by accident? It’s definitely something you mean to do, brought about by a willful wrongdoing without a hint of good intention in your heart. ‘Ah, but,’ the casual observer may say, ‘the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.’ And certainly there are good intention rest-stops along the way, but everybody knows the road to Hell is actually paved with frozen door-to-door salespeople. And, thanks to the ever-changing nature of the world, telephone scammers.

They were in the back room of the bookshop some months after the Nahpocalypse. Azirpahale was sitting on the couch, smiling contentedly and sipping his moscato, one of Crowley’s legs in his lap and the other draped over his shoulders. His wings were out, draped lazily over the back of the furniture, primaries spreading out on the worn floorboards like a bridal train. The demon was lounged back against the arm of the couch, glass of red wine in hand and shoulder-length hair in his face, wings out as well, although not nearly as full as the angel’s: the left one, the better one, was splayed across the floor while the right one, twisted and contracted, broken by the Fall, was cocked between the demon’s shoulder and the couch cushions, the few feathers remaining warped by the awkward positioning. He was lightly drunk, and he hadn’t yet devolved to declarations of love for the world and Aziraphale, so he was still in control of his faculties. “Did you know,” he said, in a lull in conversation, after Aziraphale had finished a cathartic rant about internet sales, “that I Fell by accident?”

Aziraphale nodded, and made a point of not shifting awkwardly. Crowley often mentioned his Fall in an off-hand way, usually with some degree of pitch-black humor or sarcasm, the same way humans joked about the deaths of loved ones, or horrible tragedies being personally inconvenient in petty ways. “You have mentioned it before, yes,” he replied, trying to keep his tone light.

Crowley looked into his wineglass pensively. “Guess I have done, yeah.” He swallowed another mouthful. “You wanna hear the story?”

“I -” he paused. His brow furrowed, and he debated sobering up a little. Crowley couldn’t be serious - demons didn’t tell stories about their Falls. At least, not that Aziraphale knew of. Not that he had a lot of experience with demons outside of Crowley and a few vanquished foes from back in the Mesopotamian days. “You’re drunk,” he concluded, reasonably. “Not a good time.”

“Not a much better time, you ask me.” Crowley nudged Aziraphale’s cheek with his knee. “C’monnn, I know you’re curious.”

“My dear, I rather think this is a subject better saved for a more subdued situation,” Aziraphale said quietly, running his hand through the feathers in Crowley’s bad wing. “I wouldn’t want to upset you.”

Crowley groaned, and momentarily went limp. “Aziraphale. You’re killing me.” He looked up to catch the angel’s puzzled expression. “I’m offering, angel! ‘M not that drunk, I assure you I’m fully consenting or whatever to this. I saved the bloody world with you - okay, I was there with you when the world was saved, you can stuff it - for Someone’s sake. We’re going to buy a house together.” He made a face. “Like a couple of pensioners. You were in my body!”

A sigh. “Well, when you put it that way. But if it’s going to upset you …”

“It’s upsetting me how you keep assuming I’m gonna get upset!” Crowley propped himself up on his elbows, ticking points off on his fingers. “Was it traumatic? Yes. Awful? Absolutely. Do I miss God? Sure, I guess, just like everyone else. But!” He held up the other hand. “We have the other points: I met you, got forgiven by you which means way more than some distant authority figure by the way, all great. I get to be me, fantastic. I don’t have to talk to Gabriel ever, the best.” Aziraphale was watching him, and, slowly, Crowley’s expression softened. “I wouldn’t go back to being an angel, angel. ‘Member what I said to you when we were talking about the apocalypse? Back when I’d just dropped off Adam?”

Aziraphale thought it over. “About the dolphins …?”

“No, Aziraphale, honestly, that’s not even pertinent.” He waved a hand. “You said, ‘well I’ll be damned’, an’ I said, ‘it’s not that bad, when you get used to it.’” He raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “I‘ve had a long time to get used to it. An’ … an’ you’re around which, you know. Doesn’t hurt.” There was silence in the bookshop, and the two studied one another, both thoughtful. “If it’s gonna upset you -”

“No.” Aziraphale held up a hand. “I mean, it might. I … I do not like hearing about bad things happening to you my dear but …” He took a breath. “Crowley, if you want to tell me the story, I’d be honored to hear it out.”

“I want to.” He sat up, and then laid back down, face-first, across Aziraphale’s lap. Absently, the angel buried his fingers into the soft scapulars, and Crowley hissed happily. “Jus’ keep doing that, though. An’ top me off, first?”

Aziraphale did. “Right. You can stop any time if you want to, you know.”

“I do.” He took a breath, and another gulp of wine. “Right. Okay, so -”

In the Beginning (or rather, Some Period before) …

The stars stretched out before him, lightyears away and yet practically in his lap, all at once. In his hands, stardust like clay, clinging to his fingers and wrists, slick and gritty. He swirled a palm-full of stars, and watched it move thoughtfully, and considered.

Raphael had said they needed more asteroids, planetoids, comets, all that tosh, and less stars. No more nebulas, he had been told firmly, with a disapproving look, as the Archangel sighed and looked over the lesser angel’s work. It’s a nice nebula though, Raphael said. I’ll find somewhere to put it. Just … stop making them. Try a comet, they’re kind of the same.

He had tried a few comets. They were not the same. They were, well, boring. They didn’t do anything besides slingshot around a galaxy, messy and dribbling. A nebula - a really good nebula - now that is a big interesting star factory, swirling around and bouncing on its own, doing what it likes once you let it go. It makes things, things which nobody in Heaven has anything to do with - totally independent. Some explode in a shower of ions, that’s always disappointing, but sometimes, oh, the ones that succeed are so worth it. Gorgeous and glorious and amazing.

God should have made a universe full of nebulas, the angel thought. He looked back to the stardust, still twisting in his hands, and breathed on it. It ballooned - they always did, if you knew what you were doing - and formed, and lo, a new nebula was born. He smiled at the thing, and hung it in storage. That would be Raphael’s issue, later.

If they didn’t want more nebulas they shouldn’t have made them so bloody delightful, the angel thought. He didn’t say it, though. Not then, anyway.

“What’re you doing?” He jumped and turned to see another angel - a familiar face, although after the Fall he wouldn’t be able to recall her name, only that she is now called Amii - watching him intently. “I thought old Raphael said no more nebulas.” A quizzical look. “I distinctly remember something about comets.”

The angel sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, but, you know, comets … comets are boring. Not much of one for comets, me.” He shrugged. “And what’s an extra nebula or two, when you get down to it? Space’s big.”

“Space is big,” the other angel intoned, thoughtfully. “But Raphael is an Archangel, with orders straight from, you know.” A cocked eyebrow, or at least the impression of one - forms were more a loose concept in Heaven, in that time before time. “You don’t want to go against those, eh?”

The lesser angel hedged. “Well, no, obviously, but you know … Well, it’s not like anyone’s checking up. If it was really supposed to be comets only, don’t you think I would be like, incapable of making anything else? I mean why not just make me forget nebulas? Or just … instill me with an overwhelming love of comets?” He crossed his arms. “Way I see it, until someone tells me to stop -”

“Raphael did.”

“Well …”

The other angel chuckled. “You sound like someone else I know. It could get you in trouble, you know.”

“How?” the lesser angel challenged. “She is a being of true love and forgiveness, isn’t She? What, I’m going to get a stern talking to and maybe a transfer to a different department? Hah, ok, I’ll just keep doing what I’m doing until then.” He stopped, and then wheedled a little. “You know everyone likes a nebula.”

“They do.” The angel-now-demon-known-as-Amii looked to the stardust residue coating the lesser angel’s hands. “Clean your hands off, I think you ought to meet someone.”

“Who?” but even as he asked, he was shaking the stardust loose into the cosmos, forming clouds and smears of light that drifted away.

“You ever met Lucifer?”

He raised his eyebrows. “The Lightbringer? No, not me. I’m not nearly important enough.”

“I think he’d like you.”

“Do you?” he asked, with genuine surprise.

The other angel nodded. “I do. I think you two should talk. Here, follow me - I’ll introduce you.”

And she did. Lucifer was everything you’d expect from someone called ‘Lightbringer’: charming and charismatic and easy to talk to, easy to go around with. They drank of the manna together*, surrounded by a pack of other angels of all sorts of ranks, and talked about the universe, about stars, about God, and a lot of other things in between. “Makes you wonder if Creation really is infinite, you know?” the starmaker said to Lucifer once. “Or is that just, you know, a rumor. I mean, why limit what all we can make, what all we can put it in if it’s infinite?”

“It does make you wonder,” Lucifer said, thoughtfully. “I’d like to get answers if I could, I think. I’d like to ask, anyway.” There was a chorus of general agreement. He turned his attention back to the starmaker, and nudged his shoulder. “You know, I heard She is working on something new. A new planet.”

“What? All by Herself? You’re having me on.” He laughed. “Why would She do that?”

“Another good question,” Lucifer said, a glimmer in his eye. “Gabriel says he’s seen Her working on it. Supposedly -” he lowered his voice, and the assembled angels leaned in, although in this place, where time and space and sound were optional, they didn’t really need to. “Supposedly, She is making new life to live there and only there. A new Creation. A microcosm of our Host. And She has a Great Plan.” Murmurs of confusion, surprise. Questions of ‘why?’ and ‘what’s wrong with us?’. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Lucifer asked. “I reckon, if She’s so omnipotent and infallible, why would She need to replace us? She created us. Theoretically, we should be perfect. But, I guess not.” He stood, spread his hands. “If we need replaced, after all. So is She really infallible?”

“I mean maybe it’s like a reboot?” the starmaker suggested. Lucifer turned his attention to him, and he realized, suddenly, that he wasn’t sure what a reboot really was, which rather hindered his ability to make a simile. “You know, like Angels 2.0, all the good stuff plus some upgrades.”

“Upgrades,” Lucifer said flatly.

“Yeah, you know.” The starmaker wilted a little, suddenly the center of attention, but he plowed ahead anyway. “Maybe more wings or something.”

“And then what of us?” Lucifer asked, voice low. Suddenly, this was not a light conversation. This was not just idle questions in a group of like-minded people. “When there are Angels 2.0? Are we obsolete? Or just playing eternal second fiddle? A piece to be moved around in this … Plan?”

“I …” He stammered. “I don’t know.”

“Wouldn’t you like to ask?”

He paused. “I suppose I would, yeah.” He thought about it, and then, surprised, found his resolve hardened. “Yeah, you know, you have a point. Why would She do it all again?”

Lucifer nodded. “Be a lot easier if someone could ask. Be a lot easier if we could … talk it over. Maybe She needs a little more input in decision-making.” There were murmurs of agreement. The starmaker, with a sinking feeling, frowned. “Angels, brothers, sisters - I hear your concerns. And, you know, as a member of the first circle, well …” He gave the impression of drawing himself up, and the light flaring off of him burned brighter. “I think She and I need to have a chat. I think we deserve answers.” Lower still, he added, “And I think we need to know if She has them.”

The chat, as evidenced by the heaps of mythology, did not go well. But you know that part, broadly. The angels who had gathered around Lucifer - including the starmaker - were hunted down in Heaven. Some, angry that their questions were to remain unanswered, or furious that they were to be replaced by Her newest creation, fought back. Blood was shed. Angels, flaming swords gripped in their hands, swarmed unto other angels, who parried, or ran, or were unmade.

The starmaker ran. He ran as far as he could, to the furthest reaches of space, but it was no use. The others had seen him. “You never were good at following orders,” Raphael said, flaming sword held aloft. It would have been easier if he looked angry, but he didn’t. He was crying. “I should have known. I should have - I should have known.”

“I didn’t mean it.” The angel held his hands up, placating. “I’ll make all the comets you want, Ralph, really, I promise, no more nebulas.”

“No. No, you had your chance.” He advanced, and his expression hardened. “Don’t make this harder than it is. Please.”

“Raphael, please, you know me, always getting up to something but it’s all, you know, well it’s never anything really it’s always just talk and -”

“Please stop talking.” The sword hefted. “Please. You talk too much. You talk too much, and you’re too good at it, and I can’t do this right now.”

The angel, wings wrapped around himself, hands raised, drifted back in space, bumping into a galaxy, pitching it on its axis. “Raphael -” he stopped. He couldn’t not stop. There was a flare of light - blinding, horrible light - and screaming. A form, and nobody needed telling who it was, was falling from on high. He was burning, too, as he fell, plunging downwards. Up to that point, nobody had realized there was anything below Heaven but he went through the bottom of that, too, and kept falling.

Falling. With a capital ‘F’.

And then there were more. Some jumped. Some were thrown. Some - and nobody was really sure how - just Fell, without any observable force acting on them. A lot of them screamed, but some of them didn’t. Somehow, that was worse. They burned like magnesium, streaking through space and out of Heaven, to somewhere Below.

The starmaker watched, and Raphael did, too. And then he turned back, eyes wide.

“Don’t kill me,” the starmaker whispered, his hands reaching into a cloud of stardust, twisting it, trying to hold it, to find comfort. “I don’t want to die.”

“That might be worse,” Raphael pointed out. He hefted the sword. “The Lord is merciful in all things.”

“So which one is the merciful one, then?” Raphael stopped. The sword stopped. Flames - silent and roaring all at once - licked the blade and burned away stardust. “You don’t know. I don’t know. But … but I know I don’t want to die.” He unfurled his wings, and looked down. With one last glance to the Archangel, he said, “Bye, Ralph.”

And he Fell, too.

It wasn’t great. The starmaker had free-fallen before, while he was flying, and it wasn’t anything like that. Think of it like this: falling down a hill on a rollercoaster is all well and good, because you know you’re safely held in the car, and will go around the curve at the bottom, and in forty-five seconds you will be walking away, laughing about what fun that was with your friends, and talking about hitting the ice cream stand for some soft serve. Falling off Niagra Falls, however, doesn’t have a meticulously-engineered curve at the bottom. There’s rocks. There’s definitely not ice cream.

He spread his wings, but it was of no use. He could tumble and twist, he could barrel-roll and somersault, but he could only go down. There was no deceleration, no brakes. And there was nothing below, besides the lens-flare pinpricks of other angels who had gone before.

So he Fell. It hurt, too, not physically but deeper than that, as if through every lightyear he pulled away from Heaven a little more of his soul ripped away. Which was absurd, he thought distantly, as he twisted, because his soul probably didn’t have feelings. He had Grace, and that’s what he was losing. He knew that, though no one had told him, because that was the only thing he could think of that would feel that way - the loss of Grace, which up to that point had done the job of trying to fill an empty hole in him that had once been brimming with faith. It was going, he was Falling away from it and burning up as he did, and with every millennium he Fell he felt colder, emptier, weaker. He stopped flapping. Stopped trying to stop. Stopped looking back. He went limp, head down, and let himself Fall. Maybe Raphael had been right.

He Fell for so long that he didn’t notice, not at first, that the air … changed. Got hot. Sticky. By the time it broke through to his consciousness - had he gone to sleep? - and prompted him to open his eyes, there was light, too. Sickly, yellow light. He looked to the source, and saw a pit of boiling sulfur.

“Oh, shit,” he said, and tried to hit the brakes.

It sort of worked. He didn’t hit The Pit at terminal velocity, anyway - some did, bursting out of existence with geysers of sulfur and acrid, greasy clouds of smoke. But at a certain speed, hitting liquid might as well be hitting stone, and he knew that. He braked hard, flapping and twisting and rolling and trying to create as much drag as he could and then, when it became clear that the options were to stick the landing or die trying, he dove.

His right wing hit first. It hurt. And then the rest of him caught fire. Or, he thought, it must have done. Nothing else could possibly cause that much pain. He plunged through the sulfur, flailing to slow himself, burning up and screaming silently, but alive, until the sensation of sinking stopped. He floated.

He wondered how long he could float there. It wasn’t so bad, not now that it all had stopped. Oh, sure, there was pain, his wing felt absolutely mangled and he realized he had no arms or legs, not anymore, who knew what happened to those, but it could have been worse. Beat death any day, anyway. So he floated, eyes closed, and debated staying there.

There was a rumble from Below. It had to be Below. It could only be Below. He opened his eyes, and swam up, paddling with the left wing as best he could, and tail - yeah, that seemed about right, what’s a tail anyway? Definitely wasn’t legs - whipping in the sulfur, propelling him to the surface. He broke through, eyes and nose and ears full of sulfur, the taste of ash in his mouth and fire in his lungs - weird sensations, painful but something he realized he was quickly acclimatizing to - and swam. There was an edge, in the distance. Rocky, sharp, smoking, coated in ash, but an edge nonetheless. A ledge to climb on. He swam towards it.

“Not so fast,” someone growled, behind him, and, with a sticky, charred hand on his broken wing, they pulled.

He didn’t think about it. It happened on something like instinct, although he was fairly certain that he didn’t truly have instincts. But either way, they pulled, and he struck, whipping around in an impossible arc and sinking long, needle-thin fangs - fangs? - into the other fallen angel’s bulk, bearing them below sulfur and hissing - hissing, that was new - the entire time. They screamed for a time, until they didn’t. Eventually, they let go, and they sank. He kept swimming.

The ledge was sharp, and he hissed when it scraped him while he dragged himself up it, but it was solid. His left wing gave him leverage enough to haul himself up to the waist, to get his … no. He didn’t have a waist. No, this wasn’t right.

For the first time, he risked a look at his form, limbless and burnt. And he hissed again, surprised and afraid and angry and lost, all at once, with about forty other emotions thrown in for flavor. For a bare minute, he debated letting go, falling back into the sulfur, and sinking down to the rumbling thing below. And then he snarled, and slithered out of the pool.

There were others around the pool. He slithered over the rocks, raw wounds on his belly dragging and scraping, a new agony with every move, and kept his distance, the other one in the pool still fresh in his mind. There were bodies, too. Dead angels - no, not angels, something else, now - scattered around, broken and lifeless and alien-looking. He stopped among a group of them and thought. Others were coming out of the pool, others were still Falling in. There was screaming, and gnashing of teeth, and even as he watched one tore into another, not unlike what he’d done, and began to eat. To eat. He shuddered and sank low to the ground, curling his body into a tight coil, broken wing held as close as he could. He waited. It would stop, eventually. It had to.

He was right, ultimately. The streaks of light from Heaven slowed, and then stopped entirely. He watched carefully, just to be sure, and then, cautiously, slithered forward. There was a gathering, ahead. A group. And nobody appeared to be eating one another, which was a bonus.

A heavy hand - hot, but not burning - landed on his back. He screamed and coiled, winding up to strike. “Relax!” He stopped. It wasn’t the same voice, not quite, but close. He turned around, and blinked in the face of a pillar of infernal flames. “Hail and well met.” The flames condensed, took form, almost like an angel but shifted to the left, who was waving at him. It looked, if it could be possible with milky white eyes and a mouthful of flames, apologetic. And familiar, in a distant sort of way. “What a mess that turned out to be, huh? I saw you fall - you’re the starmaker, right?”

He hissed, and tried to find the name. It evaded him. The other shook her head. “Not anymore. I know what you’re trying. But you felt the Grace leave you, yes?” He had. He hurt, and he ached, and he felt cold and empty and sick inside. “Our names went with it. You may call me Amii, now.”

“Amii,” he parroted, forked tongue and fangs and alien name unfamiliar in his mouth. “You knew me.”

“I did, if you were the starmaker. Can’t quite recognize you in that form, though - you want to try for something like you used to do?” She paused. “Or you can stay like that, since it’s technically your true form now. You’ll get used to it. Part of the deal.”

“The deal?”

“The deal,” Amii agreed. “The demon deal. It’s what we are now: demons. Fallen angels, technically, but Lucifer isn’t so hot on anyone using that term. I’d avoid it, if I were you, when you see him.”

“Demonssssss.” He looked around then, suddenly apprehensive. “Where’ssss Lucifer?”

“I’ll take you to him.”

“No!” He backed up, over the bodies of other fallen angels - demons - eyes wide. “No, no, not again -”

Amii grabbed the broken wing, dragging on the ground, and the former starmaker froze. Amii looked, for a moment, profoundly sad. “No choice now, I’m afraid. We are his. He is the King of Hell, and the King of Demons, and you have to go meet him.” She tried to smile. “At the very least, you need a name.”

“I had a name.”

“Not anymore. Come on.” She tugged, but was met with continued resistance. She sighed. “You don’t want to make him call you. Easier if you go on your own.”

“Let me go.”

Amii did. She watched, then, as the other slithered alongside him, and they started toward the crowd of other demons. “You can still heal yourself, if you want, and I can teach you how to assume the shape you used to have, approximately. It’s manageable. You survived, that’s the big thing.” She looked to the broken wing. “Wings can’t be fixed, though, I’m afraid.” She heard the sharp intake of breath from the other, and explained, “Lucifer told us She said that we will be doomed to crawl and eat dust for the rest of eternity as punishment for the rebellion.” She let her own wings out, such as they still were, both burned away to charred stumps spotted with sparse feathers.

“Rebellion? I didn’t rebel. I just asked questions.”

“Same thing, I guess.” She continued, the serpent beside her, until they reached the gathered crowd. There was a line leading to Lucifer, and Amii indicated the end. “You have to wait. You need a name. If you don’t go willingly, he’ll call you. It’s not very pleasant.”

“I’ll wait.” He slithered to the back of the line, past grotesque beasts that he didn’t have names for and others that had tried to resume their angel forms, but were marred by the Fall with boils and wounds and burns. He wondered, vaguely, what he would look like if he took that form right now. He looked down to his body again, bright black scales on his back and red on the belly, scars and burns scattered all over, and decided against attempting a transformation. He hissed, and drew his left wing in, and coiled up to wait.

Time hadn’t been invented yet, so the serpent didn’t have any idea of how long he waited, but when he finally reached the front of the line, the horror and pain and sadness had faded to a sort of background hum and were replaced at the forefront with boredom, which was a strange emotion to feel grateful for but an improvement nonetheless. He was also sick of the bull with the flaming eyes and nostrils and mouth behind him, lowing and stepping on his tail. He had been looking forward to getting this over with, but at the front of the line he stopped. Lucifer regarded him through coal-black eyes, luminescent flesh burnt off entirely, leaving only ruddy red leather. He had a crown of horns, twisting out of his head, a scaled tail like the lesser demon’s own, and the legs of a beast with cloven hooves. He had been so beautiful, before. Now, he was a monster.

Maybe he should not have been so eager to get this over with. Nevertheless, cautiously, he slithered forward, eyes downcast.

“A serpent.” Lucifer observed. “You need a name.”

“Yes, Lord.”

Lucifer considered it. “Crawly,” he declared, finally. The serpent would have winced if it had the facial musculature to do it. Crawly? It was too on the nose for him. Maybe he could change it … no, he thought quickly, pulling the brake lever on that train of thought with everything he had. No, that’s what got him into this whole mess in the first place. Taking liberties. Asking questions.

On the other hand that he no longer had, however, what more could they do to him? He burnt and felt dead inside, he ached, and he’d lost the ability to fly. His wings were ruined. He could barely speak without hissing. He surprised himself in that moment with a spark of optimism - really, in this place? - and thought, Nowhere to go but up.

Lucifer spoke again. Oh. Had he lingered too long? “Demon Crawly.”

“Lord, at your command.”

“I recognize your voice.” A hiss slipped out of Crawly, nervous and shaking and weak. He shrank back as Lucifer looked him over imperiously. “Show your other form.”

He couldn’t have resisted if he tried. He had never changed shapes before, slipping an angelic shape on like a suit, but it was easy. Most magic is easy, as all angels know: you just have to know one or two tricks about the backstage workings of physics and space-time, but once you’ve got that down there’s nothing to it. He had been a starmaker; twisting space-time had been his pre-breakfast routine. He shifted from serpent to his old form, or something approximating it, and there was no pain to it, which surprised him. Messy red hair fell into his eyes and then past his chin. He reached up to brush it away, and froze. His hand - the hand that had made stars and nebulas and waved stardust into the universe - was charred, burnt black, the ends of his fingers drawn out into claws. The char traced up his arms, ending just below the elbow and fading into scales instead, the same black and red of his serpent form. Cautiously, watching the claws like they might attack him of their own volition, he brushed his hair back, and experimentally brushed his nose. Flesh, not scales. Interesting. Horrific, but interesting.

Lucifer was watching him. “I know you. I spoke with you, not long before the Fall.”

He bowed, because he wasn’t sure what else to do. “You did, Lord.”

The King of Hell regarded him for another moment, appraising him up-and-down, and then gestured to a row of demons standing to his left. “Stand with them, demon Crawly.”

He did. He didn’t ask why. On some level, he was glad for the command, because in this form his legs didn’t seem to want to work properly - he might have been angel-shaped, but he still wanted to slither. He staggered to the line of waiting demons and stood at the end, lifting his broken wing as high as he could without worsening the pain, trying to keep the end of the phalanx from dragging along the sharp rocks. He wobbled on unfamiliar legs and fought back a wave of a very new feeling. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

Below the pain and the grief was hate, oh how that burned inside of him like nothing ever had before. Hate for Lucifer, and for his bloody questions, hate for Amii for introducing them, hate for Raphael and his fucking comets and hate for … for Her. It made him feel sick, when he thought about Her. He was so angry with Her, so furious, but then grief would surge up like a geyser and bank the heat of the hate, until another wave of anger fed it back alive. He had been the one that stepped out of line, it was his fault, not Hers. But then - why cast him out? He just had questions. She was supposed to be infinitely understanding and benevolent, forgiving and loving. Was she really so unable to handle a few simple questions?

I just wanted to make galaxies, he thought, watching Lucifer name demon after demon. Another lank strand of hair fell into his eyes, and he left it. He didn’t want to see his own hand again. He didn’t want to see the ash where stardust had just been. He ached, he felt tired to his very core and nauseous, like he might never eat again, but yet … he was alive. That was better than death. Right?

With trembling hands - claws - he reached out and gathered his broken wing closer to himself, combing the three primaries that were left with long, shaky strokes.

The demon next to him was watching him, black eyes empty and gleaming in the light of the brimstone. A frog, seated on the top of his head, croaked. “Who are you?” The demon asked.

“Crawly, I guess.”

The demon considered it. “I’ve never heard of you. Are you a Duke?”

Crawly blinked - ah, so he did have eyelids in this form. “I don’t think so,” he answered, eventually. “Are you?”

“I am Duke Hastur.” He looked vaguely disgusted that Crawly was not a Duke. “Why has our Dark Lord asked you to join these ranks?” Crawly had no idea. He said so. “Perhaps we will eat you later.”

Oh. He hadn’t considered that. Duke Hastur smiled not-very-nicely. A maggot crawled out from between his broken teeth, and re-entered his nose. Crawly shivered, and resisted the urge to transform back into a snake. At least there were no maggots. Not unless, he thought, he wanted to add them later, maybe. Which he had trouble believing he ever would. Rather than slither away, he stepped half a foot away from Hastur, and held his broken wing closer. The bones ground, and the joints, but he found a position that was nominally less painful than any other, and did his best to maintain it. It was healing up, he realized as the wing cracked and twisted in his hand, and some of the pain faded. Badly, still broken, but it was healing anyway.

It would never heal right. Guess it didn’t matter. At least it was still there - one of Hastur’s had been broken off entirely, oozing blood and ichor, maggots feeding at the stump.

As the Fall had stopped, the Naming stopped eventually, too. Lucifer stalked around the assembled demons, and addressed them. They were Fallen. They were damned to an eternity of suffering and pain, never to be forgiven for their sins. They were supposed to be kind, and benevolent, and faithful and loyal and obedient, and they had all violated that in some way. Must have done, to Fall. Crawly thought of his questions as his stomach rolled. Lucifer, too, grieved, pain apparent in every word, and near the end he cried out, voice breaking with pain and loss, and all of the demons fell to their knees, crying and hissing and screaming and roaring, as his pain washed through them, twisting and burning - burning again, just like when they were Falling, burning burning - and flames leapt up from The Pit.

Crawly would have cried, but he couldn’t. Serpents can’t cry. He clenched his fists over his ears instead, claws digging into his palms and raining ash down around his head, on knees and elbows, and whimpered until it stopped. The pain left him curled on the rocks, trembling and weak. Lucifer was talking again, and Crawly was aware of a rough hand on his shoulder, dragging him to his feet.

“The Dark Lord wishes to speak to us privately,” Duke Hastur snarled. “Stand, serpent.” There was no command to it - Hastur had no power over Crawly - but he stood anyway. Around them, demons were shuffling away, blank-eyed and staring. Crawly watched as they started picking up rocks, or digging them with their bare hands, fingers breaking and bleeding as they chipped the stones away, only to heal and re-break. He swallowed. A command, then. Had to be. But his mind was … clear, relatively. Considering recent events, anyway. So it was not a command for him.

He reached for his wing, for the comfort of his own feathers, and was surprised to find he could bring it around a little without pulling it. The pain had faded, too. Healed, then. Stiff and scarred and most definitely useless for the rest of eternity, but healed. How long had they been here?

Lucifer spoke. “Princes, Dukes, Knights … Crawly.” He stalked down to Crawly and lingered there, amused almost, Crawly thought, if that wasn’t a completely absurd thought (he must be starting to lose it, and who would blame him?), before turning and stalking back up the formed ranks. “The free-thinkers. The ones who thought it through.” He breathed out, and embers and flames flickered from his nose. “We were right. There were no answers. There was nothing beyond expected unconditional obedience, and willingness to comply with a Great Plan. And we were right, too - there is a new creation. She has chosen them, made them in her image. Our image, but imperfect.” He snarled. “But they obey. They do not question. They only love and do as they are told. She has created a world for them, and linear time, and they have been enjoying it for one day.” He spat the word. “They will live forever in a garden She has made for them, and go forth and multiply and be Her favored creation.”

“It should have been us,” one of the Knights murmured.

“Unless …”

Crawly blinked again. “Unlesssssss?” he whispered. Lucifer couldn’t have heard him, it was impossible. But he looked to Crawly anyway.

“Unless they can be tempted to wander astray.” Lucifer began traversing back down the line. “Unless we can interfere with this Great Plan. Unless we can corrupt their souls and bring them to our Pit with us. Unless we can ruin Her most favored creation, as She ruined us.” He paused to regard one of the demons, who mostly looked like a buzzing cloud of flies. “You were the ones who questioned. You will be my Prince, and lead the others to do this, Beelzebub.”

“Yes, Lord.”

“And the rest of you will serve your roles as well. Corrupt, tempt, bring them down to us. But not yet.” Lucifer had returned to Crawly, watching the demon with eyes black like obsidian, like lava cooling in the sea. “Because they don’t know, yet, that they can disobey. They only know right. They have no frame of reference for wrong. They cannot know without that power being bestowed on them, which of course She did not do.”

Probably learned Her lesson, Crawly thought. Won’t make the same mistake twice.

“Which is where you come in, demon Crawly. You’re very good with words, I noticed.”

Crawly looked to Lucifer like a rabbit staring down an oncoming semi. He should respond, he thought, or say something, but all the words were scrambled around in his head like so much flotsam in a flooded river, jamming up at the dam of his mouth and leaving him open-mouthed and staring. “I - ngk - Lord, ssorry, I shall teach … ?”

“No need.” Lucifer waved a claw. “Not at all, Crawly. There will be a tree, on which will grow fruit that contains the knowledge of good and evil. One bite, and they will have knowledge beyond any they’ll be capable of now. They will have the capacity to question, and to learn, and to doubt. They will obtain free will. They will no longer be beholden to Her.”

Crawly nodded. “Ah. Right. Sso find the tree, grab a fruit -”

“No need. The tree is in the garden.”

“What? Why do that?” he asked, before his brain caught up with his mouth and he remembered who he was speaking to.

“To ensure their obedience, I assume.” Lucifer smiled, thin and terrible and full of too many teeth. “All you have to do, Crawly, is talk. Ask a few questions. I cannot go myself - She will know if I appear there, and She has guards posted in the garden and the walls. Talk to them, and they will Fall as we did, in time.”

A lick of hate rolled over the grief for a minute, and Crawly sneered. Yes. Yes, make them fall. Misery loves company. And if She didn’t want questions, well … He could have laughed. Good luck with that. You give something sentience, questions will follow. “Yesss, Lord.” He bowed his head. “It will be done.”

“Good. There.” Crawly’s gaze followed Lucifer’s claw as the King of Hell gestured to a craggy cliff face, high over The Pit. “There is a crack in the cliff, it will lead to the Garden. If you succeed, you will be rewarded with privileges far above your station, demon. If you are caught, and you fail -” Lucifer shrugged “- there are others. I will find another who can spin words as well.”

Crawly considered it, in the privacy of his own head. And then he watched another demon claw a rock apart, weeping and breaking and re-forming just to do it again. He would succeed, then. Success was the only option. He squared his shoulders and focused on his form - look natural, look tempting. Scales and char faded, replaced with plain flesh, the wings disappeared, and the fangs shortened to incisors. His face burned on the right side, and he raised a hand - a normal hand, he could have gasped - to feel the raised scar. He didn’t have to see it to know, as he traced the curls under his fingers, that it was a serpent. “Got it, Lord.”

“Very tempting,” Lucifer growled, not unhappy, tracing his claw along Crawly’s jawline. “But you will be spotted easily by the guards in this form. You’ll have to use the other form.”

“Oh. Oh, right.” Another moment of focus - it was getting easier with every time - and he changed again, back to the serpent, wings still safely tucked away. Lucifer nodded, approving.

“Better. Now, get up there and make some trouble.”

-

Crowley - definitely Crowley now - sighed as Aziraphale ruffled his fingers through Crowley’s coverts. “And then you know the rest,” he concluded. “So that’s it. Turns out I’ve always been an idiot.” When Aziraphale didn’t reply right away, he looked up, rolling onto his side to get a better look. The angel, predictably, was crying. Crowley frowned, opening his mouth to make some flip remark, but Aziraphale took his face in his hands, oily from the feathers but still warm and pleasant.

“You’re not an idiot,” Aziraphale said softly. “You’re … yourself. You’re definitely Crowley, you’ve always had questions, but you’re not an idiot.”

“There are literal millennia of evidence that ‘Crowley’ and ‘idiot’ are synonymous, angel. Oof.” Aziraphale had pulled him into a hug, clutching him tightly to his chest. Crowley flapped, more ineffectively even than usual as his left wing was snagged on the arm of the couch. “Hang on, wait, argh, cramp, let go, angel, let me just.” There was more flapping, some hasty repositioning, and Crowley leaned back into Aziraphale. “Right, you can resume.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Aziraphale murmured again into Crowley’s hair. “Being inquisitive is the opposite of that. You only had questions.”

Crowley swallowed, and forced out a bitter laugh. The Fall … that was a long time ago. There were centuries where he wouldn’t sleep, and if he did he would wake up with screaming nightmares of the burning and the pain, the Leviathan roaring in the deep. That had faded around, oh, call it the third century. “It is a part of you but it does not define you,” Yeshua had told him - her, then - centuries before, while they’d stood at the foot of Chichen Itza and admired the jungle around. “You define yourself.”

“Says the son of God,” Crowley - Crawly, then - had pointed out.

Yeshua shrugged. “It’s a part of myself that I am happy with, for all the good and bad it will bring.” He’d looked sidelong at Crawly. “But you’re not happy with yourself.”

“I can’t undo it.”

“No. But could you learn to live with it? Incorporate it into your past, a piece of the history, and then write new history in the future?”

Crawly had thought about it while the Central American jungle faded away, and the snow-capped peak of Fuji soared above them. “S’Mount Fuji,” she’d said, while she continued to think about Yeshua’s suggestion. “Could move you here if you want to. No Pontius Pilate.”

“It’s very nice,” Yeshua agreed, “but no, thank you.”

There was silence as Crawly stared at the mountain peak, and Yeshua looked around, smiling softly at the people bustling around them, paying them no mind. “I can’t really ever get away from it,” she concluded. “I was given a name. It defines me. Crawly. The Serpent of Eden. Fallen angel. Damned for all eternity.”

“Change your name,” said Yeshua, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You make your own name.” Crawly had blinked, which was a rarity. Yeshua laughed. “Those who accept it will move forward with you, those who do not will stay in your past.”

“Except for my boss.”

Yeshua had sighed. “Well, bosses never are particularly good at remembering anybody’s name, anyway.”

“Crowley?” the demon blinked, and found, instead of Yeshua’s dark brown eyes, lined with smile lines even at such a young age, there were Aziraphale’s blue eyes, bright and curious. “Are you alright?”

Crowley frowned. “Sorry. Was miles away.”

“It happens. I was saying,” he went on, gently, “that I like that you’re inquisitive. I like that you ask questions. Can you imagine? Can you imagine a world where there wasn’t a demon who looked at the antichrist, the impending war between Heaven and Hell, and said, ‘well, why’s this all got to happen, then?’” He brushed a lock of Crowley’s hair aside. “Terrible to think of, dear boy. I like your questions.”

“Glad someone does.” He sighed, then took a few deep breaths against Aziraphale’s chest, while the angel rubbed his back. He was floating, a little - he’d never told the story of his Fall from beginning to end before, and while it was something he had filed away in ‘the Past’, incorporated into the rest of his essence, his being, the experience that is Crowley, to tell it like that made it feel just a little bit fresher. Just a little reminder. He took another breath, and felt fire in his lungs and tasted ash on his tongue, but then he smelled Aziraphale’s cologne. The floating feeling lingered, but it lost its grip on him, and a few more breaths, his face nuzzled into the nape of the angel’s neck, and he was back, back in the old bookshop, back with the angel who loved him even with the questions and the temptations and the stupid choices and the broken wings.

He took another breath and then, with the resolve of someone who will remember this moment for the rest of their life but also wants to move past it now, not linger and let it sour, he sat up, slid backwards on the couch until his back rested against the armrest and his legs were across Aziraphale’s lap. He adjusted his wings, swinging them over the arm of the couch, and then took Aziraphale’s right wing into his lap, picking at the feathers and combing them, out, though they didn’t need it. It gave him something to do with his hands, though, and for that he was grateful. “But yeah. I never meant to Fall. Just had a few questions. I’m still not sure why that warranted Falling, though.”

Aziraphale was watching him. “May I be honest? May I ask an honest question?”

Crowley considered it. He took another swig of wine. “Alright.”

“Did you have faith that the Lord knew the answers?”

“I … didn’t.” Aziraphale gave him a significant look. “You really think that’s all that it took?”

“Not having faith in the Lord? An angel without faith? Yes, Crowley. I think that’s what it took.” He rustled the wing, re-directing Crowley’s hands to another part. The demon obliged without remark. “I have known you for a long time, Crowley. You are an optimist - no, don’t interrupt me - you are an optimist and a believer in self-preservation. You always believe things will work out alright. But by the same token, you also feel that it’s your duty to ensure that. You have no faith that without your own efforts, things will be alright.”

Crowley frowned. “That’s not true.”

“My dear, you fought Armageddon tooth and nail, every step of the way.” He didn’t mention the part where Crowley had given up, when he thought Aziraphale had died, because that would have necessitated a discussion that Crowley not only has faith in himself but also in Aziraphale. It is not a discussion the angel feels like having tonight. “Look at Gabriel - he had nothing but faith that God’s plan would be followed. So did I.”

Crowley looks puzzled. “But you - no, you didn’t, because you tried to change the plan too.”

“Ah, no,” Aziraphale raised a finger. “I have always had faith that God’s plan will be followed. I did not have faith that God’s plan and the Great Plan were the same thing. Gabriel did.” Crowley has raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess - you don’t think God has a plan, yes?”

“Not a good one.”

“Perhaps not by your standards. It’s ineffable.”

Crowley sipped his wine. “In-effing-believable, says me. If it exists.”

“And this is why you Fell,” Aziraphale sighed, patting Crowley on the knees. Crowley frowned. “It’s not a bad thing, Crowley. It is who you are. You are a wonderful, complex, marginally kind - stop, don’t say a word - intelligent, funny, and overall brilliant person. The fact that you are also a demon is not any more defining of the person you are more than your hair color, your height, or the fact that even after 60 centuries you still haven’t learned to walk like a human.”

“Alright, alright.” Crowley took a sip of wine, and then glared at his glass until it refilled itself. “This conversation is making me feel some kind of way.”

Aziraphale looked concerned. “Oh? Good way, or bad way?”

“Not sure. We’re going to have to revisit it again some time.” He was watching Aziraphale over his wineglass, his lap still full of lustrous white feathers. “You think it’s that simple?”

“I have no idea, dear boy. It’s a theory. God alone knows.”

“And She’s not telling,” Crowley agreed. “I want to be drunk now. I can’t stop thinking about philosophy. It’s giving me a headache.”

“That might have been the whiskey shots.”

“No,” Crowley lied. “Come on, angel, let’s drink.” He snapped a finger-gun to Aziraphale’s wineglass, which also refilled. “How about music?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale’s head lolled back against the couch as he savored his sip of wine. It was very good, and he’d been saving it for a special occasion. They had decided that tonight, a night that shouldn’t have existed after the Apocalypse hadn’t come, and they were still together, was as special as any. “No bebop. Let’s play a game.”

“Strip Go Fish, right, I’ll get the cards.”

“No! Crowley.” Aziraphale looked wounded. “Why must you always go right to strip card games? I was thinking a board game.”

The demon groaned. “Oh, come on angel, I hate chess - you know that.”

“What makes you think I was going to say chess?”

“What other board games can you play with only two?” Crowley countered.

“Jenga.” He waved a hand languidly. “Some university students left a set here. Doesn’t require nearly as much thought as the other game they left where you have to make words out of these little tiles.”

“Scrabble?”

“It’s in a bag that looks like a banana.”

Crowley frowned. “I … have no idea. I don’t consider Jenga a board game, by the way.” Still, he stood up, swinging his legs to the floor and swaggering from the back room and into the shop, padding across the old floorboards to the front desk where Aziraphale kept lost items**. There was rustling, the distinct clunk of an elderly bong falling to the floor and Crowley cursing as he stuffed it back into the pile of lost gloves, and then more creaking as he returned, Jenga set in hand. “Right, where do you want this? Floor? Table? Table seems a better choice, only it wobbles, hang on, give me a book.”

“I will not!” He handed Crowley a stack of yellowing copies of the Celestial Times. “Use these.” Crowley accepted them, kneeling to stuff a suitable amount under one table leg, until the table was steady. He watched Crowley stacking the blocks deliberately, slowly, with the special care of someone who is just a little too drunk for the task at hand. He beamed, and the demon caught him looking.

“You really meant all that stuff you said about me, didn’t you?” His sunglasses had slid down his nose, one side cocked upwards with his crooked grin. “Brilliant and all that.”

“I did. If you hadn’t noticed, I do find you remarkably wonderful.”

“I’d noticed.” Crowley rested his hands flat on the table on either side of the assembled tower. He studied the blocks for a minute, and then, “You know the feeling is mutual, yes?”

Aziraphale’s smile warmed his voice, colored it with affection and peace. “I rather do. That said,” he added, standing unsteadily and making his way over to the table, wings pitching to help him maintain balance, “don’t think my tremendous fondness for you will at all diminish my desire to soundly defeat you in a game of Jenga.”

“I’d be insulted if it didn’t.” He grinned, honest and wide and genuine, before he downed the rest of his glass of wine and re-filled it anew. “Flip a coin for first draw?”

-

* It wasn’t that good. It hadn’t been, lately.

** Much like all shop lost and found collections, there were mostly just singular gloves and tatty scarves, but Aziraphale’s bookshop also had in its lost-and-found a lace handkerchief (lost 1884), a hatpin (1908), a fob watch (1936), a bong (1962), several lost bracelets (multiple years), a fanny pack (1987), a pager, (1989), two cell phones (1997 and 2001), an iPad (2012), and several board games (2016-2018). All abandoned Kindles, of which there had been several, had been inhumanely destroyed.

[chimchimeri]

Montrachet

Next part of “Wine”~ Enjoy! 

Jungkook x Reader 

Fluff, implied smut

“ Jeon Jungkook, CEO of one of the most successful firms in South Korea, expects you for a meeting. You think that’s all there is to it, but soon it turns out the young man doesn’t intend to let you off the hook that easily, and from then on it’s you, Jeon Jungkook and your love of wine. “

You were about to decline Jungkook’s offer, but the soft glow in his dark eyes prevented you from it. Instead, you sighed in defeat. “Fine”, you mumbled. “I’ll have dinner with you just this once, Mr. Jeon.” Despite your lack of enthusiasm, his face lit up. “Great”, he smiled. “Friday evening at my place. I’ll have someone pick you up.” And before you could utter any form of resistance, your boss turned around and left your office with a spring in his step that gave away how content he was with himself. You, on the other hand, stood at the same spot for a few more seconds after your office was empty again, brain spinning with things that you could’ve said but didn’t, and only after you admitted defeat to yourself did you sit back behind your desk and grabbed your sandwich. One meal, you reassured yourself in your thoughts. You could handle one meal.

You weren’t so sure of that anymore when you saw a fancy, shiny limousine drive up to your house. Nervously, you tucked around at your short black dress – you didn’t want to wear anything too fancy, so this simple dress and some black high heels had to do - but it was too late now anyway. The sound of your doorbell ringing made you flinch and you took a deep breath before you opened the door and greeted the chauffeur with a weak smile. It was an older man with grey hair and a friendly face, and he returned your smile without hesitance. “Good evening, Miss Y/N. I’m here to drive you to Mr. Jeon’s house. Are you ready?” It was tempting to reply with a “No” and shut the door in front of the man’s face, but you pulled yourself together just in time. With a simple nod, you let the driver guide you down the stairs and open the car door for you. “Just relax, Miss”, he smiled before he shut it close. “It will take a bit of time until we arrive. Feel free to help yourself with the drinks.” He motioned towards a wide range of bottles, obviously containing both alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks judging from the various kinds of glasses standing next to them, and you attempted a smile again. “Thank you, Mister”, you replied, and then he closed the door and proceeded to take his place in the front of the car. At first, you didn’t pay the drinks any attention, but when the turmoil in you stomach didn’t get better but worse with every meter the limousine passed, you gave in to a glass of whiskey. The alcohol burned in your throat and you had to swallow a cough one or two times, but the heat in your stomach got rid of every uncomfortable emotion. When you were finished, you forced yourself not to pour some more and put the glass back where it belonged. After that, it didn’t take long until the limousine slowed down and finally stopped, and suddenly, the alcohol’s effect vanished in a heartbeat. Again, you felt sick with nervousness, and the driver who, again, opened the door for you, seemed to notice. “Don’t be too scared”, he tried to cheer you up while guiding you towards the door of a modern-looking apartment complex. “He isn’t all that bad.” The man bowed in front of you after pressing the bell button and then excused himself with a last friendly smile. “Have a nice evening, Miss.” And then he left you alone in front of the huge doors, and you waited for Jeon Jungkook to let you in for what you hoped would be the last private interaction between the two of you.

“Hello?” His familiar voice sounded through the intercom in a somewhat distorted way and you quickly stepped up to the panel. “It’s Y/N”, you replied with a  voice that held just the slightest tremble, and after a bit of nerve-wracking silence, Jungkook chuckled. “I’ll open up. Come to the 4th floor.” The door clicked after just a few heartbeats and you pushed it open. “Mylady.” Jeon Jungkook was already leaning against the doorframe of his apartment entrance when you stepped out of the elevator, brimming with satisfaction. He was wearing a simple black jeans and a white shirt, two buttons opened at his neck and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, thus exposing his strong forearms. His lips curled into a smile when you didn’t reply instantly. “Good evening, Y/N.” Due to your nervousness, you missed the lacking ‘Miss’ and stiffly bowed your head. “Mr. Jeon”, you replied, and something in his face twitched as he extended his hand to help you into his brightly lit home. “Call me Jungkook, please.”

You followed the young man, who was now humming a melody unbeknownst to you, through the apartment. It was a different house than the one you had met at before you started working for him, and slowly but surely you started to realize just how rich and influential this man was. The flat seemed bright and inviting, not at all like the big mansion you had seen before. It almost made it seem like Jeon Jungkook was a normal man with a normal life if it wasn’t for the fact that every single piece in his household seemed to be design furniture. Jungkook led you to a wide-open dining area which was fused with a big kitchen. It led to a seating area with two sofas and a coffeetable in the back and behind there was an open window façade stretched over the whole width of the room and offering a perfect view over the skyline of Seoul. The furniture showed the same style as the other house and Jungkook’s office, obviously built based on his own ideas and likings – modern yet elegant. You turned to the young man and for the first time since you had entered, you managed a smile. “It’s gorgeous.” Jungkook returned your smile, seeming almost relieved. “Really?”, he replied. “I’m glad you like it. I sometimes wondered if it’s…” His glance wandered around the room. “A bit much, maybe.” You quietly shook your head. In your opinion, the apartment seemed quite clean and minimalistic; a style that you actually liked a lot, even though you kind of felt like an intruder. “I don’t think it’s that. It’s probably just… you, Mr. Jeon.”

Jungkook seemed surprised as he looked at you. “Me?” You had to ban these thoughts from your mind and shook your head, turning back to the window façade and admiring the glistening lights in the darkness of the night. “Nothing.” The young man next to you shrugged. “Fine, but one thing…” A silent warning resounded within his voice, but when you quickly looked up due to the change in tone, he grinned. “I told you to call me Jungkook, remember?” You froze for a second, then attempted a weak smile. “Sure, Mr- no, Jungkook.” The male seemed satisfied with that and returned to the kitchen to check on some pots which already emitted a delicious smell. To be honest, you kind of expected a chef to prepare some exclusive meals for the both of you, so it was a littlebit of a shock that Jungkook apparently cooked for himself. “What are we eating?”, you asked while running your hand along the big kitchen island, cold but smooth granite beneath your fingertips. Jungkook dried his hands on a kitchen towel and threw you a short glance. “Beef Wellington”, he replied. “I figured it would be… a fitting dish for such an evening. I hope you like beef?”, he asked while opening the fridge and searching for something. Having gained some courage, you now snickered quietly. “Yes, I like beef”, you answered over the clinking of some bottles. “If it’s well-cooked, that is.” Jungkook looked up from the fridge, apparently having found what he was looking for. “I will make sure the meat will be to your liking”, he replied almost teasing, then raised a wine bottle. “Red or white?” You didn’t have to think long. “Red”, you said. “White doesn’t pair with beef well.” Jungkook chuckled and closed the fridge just to step to a wine rack to its left. “That’s true”, he quietly said while going through the bottles and finally pulling one out of the middle. He inspected the label shortly before nodding. “Shiraz?”, he simply asked while reaching for a bottle opener, and you hummed as a confirmation.

A few minutes later, Jungkook had filled two big wineglasses with the red fluid and handed you one, raising his glass while looking you directly in the eyes soon after. “Cheers, Y/N”, he quietly said; and no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, the way he looked at and spoke to you made your heart flutter and a shiver run down your back. “Jungkook”, you smiled back while also raising your glass, and a short smile flickered over his face. You took a short whiff of the red wine first, vanilla and red berries and something else lingering in your nose as you took a first sip. Heavy, velvety tartness filled your mouth and you sighed in satisfaction when you had swallowed. “This”, you said while swirling the liquid around in your glass, “is delicious.” Jungkook pulled a rack out of the oven and turned around to you with it. “I’m glad you like it”, he replied, resting the oven rack on the kitchen island and taking a look at the meat thermometer. “Seems to be perfect”, he contently nodded to himself and reached for a knife block. He just looked up shortly before he cut into the beef wellington. “How about you sit down already?”, he suggested with a smile. “I’ll be done here in just a few.” You complied and turned around, but instead of sitting down at the already laid table, you sauntered towards the window façade and quietly admired the glimmering colours of the brightly illuminated city. Seoul was already impressive by day, but by night, the whole scenery seemed to change, and you had always loved the night sky more than the sun.

You were so immersed in the view that you missed Jungkook quietly appearing behind you. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it”, he quietly said and you flinched at his sudden voice behind you. He chuckled lowly. “No need to be so afraid, Y/N”, he whispered, amusement lacing his voice, before he stepped back again. “Dinner’s ready.” You ripped yourself from the sight and turned around, setting your wine glass on the table as you sat down. Jungkook picked up two plates from the kitchen island and set one of them down in front of you – the beef did look perfectly cooked, surrounded by crispy puff pastry and accompanied by green vegetables and potatoes. When he sat down across from you, you raised your glance and smiled at him. “It looks delicious.” The young man returned your smile softly. “I hope it is. Let’s eat.”

When the both of you were finished, Jungkook quickly cleaned the plates off the table while you enjoyed the last few sips of the wine. “It was really good”, you said as he returned to the table and the young man seemed sincerely relieved to hear that. “I’m glad you enjoyed it”, he hummed, glancing towards your now empty wine glass. “Do you want to try another drink?” Having shared a full bottle of heavy red wine with Jungkook, you were a bit tipsy, but still nodded after a few seconds of contemplation. “Okay”, you agreed and handed Jungkook your wine glass. “But nothing too heavy, please.” He chuckled as he returned to the kitchen island, the glasses clinking on the stone as he set them down. “I’m sure I’ll find the right thing for you, Y/N”, he reassured you while he opened the fridge and after a while pulled out a slim bottle of white wine. He filled two white wine glasses with the clear fluid and handed you one as he returned. Instead of sitting at the dinner table, the two of you decided to retreat to the sofa, quietly watching the never-ending bustle of Seoul and sipping on the delicious white wine. The silence between the two of you was comfortable and you finally leaned back into the soft cushions of the couch with a content sigh. Jungkook’s eyes wandered towards you and his lips twitched. “Did you enjoy the evening?”, he asked, and you nodded while you threw him a smile. “Very much so… Jungkook”, you said. “The food was excellent, as well as the wine… And your apartment is gorgeous.” Jungkook’s expression showed his utter satisfaction. “That’s good”, he nodded to himself and you looked into your glass. “I have one question thought”, you finally spoke up again and Jungkook raised his glance with a frown. “A question?”, he repeated, to which you nodded. “A question”, you confirmed and returned his glance firmly. “Why did you actually invite me here? This clearly is no business meeting, but I am still your subordinate.”

Jungkook stayed quiet for a while after you finished, just taking a sip of his whine. He seemed deep in thought, and you started to get confused about what actually took him so long to think about. Finally, he looked up again, and the expression on his face sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes rested on your figure almost hungrily and you saw his grip tighten around his whine glass a tad bit more. Jungkook took a deep breath and leaned back a bit. “Do you remember the first time we met?”, he asked, so quietly that you nearly missed what he was saying. You nodded. “Of course.” A smile threatened to flicker over his face, but his expression didn’t change. “You twisted your ankle that day.” He took a sip of his whine. “I took you to my house and… You know what happened there.” His glance intensified; he put his head back and finished the remaining half a glass of whine in one go. He then set the glass down on the coffee table and stared right at you. “We said we needed to get to know each other.” His eyes darkened and you noticed how his jaw muscles tightened. “I think we know each other well enough now.”

His words positively knocked the air out of your lungs and as if on autopilot you set the rest of your wine down on the table and looked at him directly. Your voice was rough when you replied. “What are you waiting for then?”  

[flatstarcarcosa]

1-6 for rust and 20-29 for slade!

cut for length!

What was your first time with your f/o like?

the first time was A Mess because we were both hyped up on whatever had been circulating at the Crusaders’ party. we ended up in some empty room in this run down fucking house fucking over a table, and got walked in on by ginger and his gaggle of goons. i realized later though that ginger and them never realized it was ME rust was with, because he’d leaned forward and put his arm in front of my face, so all they saw was the blonde hair and just assumed he’d found some chick. it was kind of, idk, sweet?? to realize years later he ended up reflexively protecting me from the start. 

How often do you and your f/o have sex?

it depends. pre ‘95 we were going at it pretty wild until he was able to push me out of the crusaders after i got jumped. ‘95 was a mixed bag until the dora lange case was solved, but after that it was pretty regular, a few times a week until shit imploded in ‘02. 

Is the sex between you and your f/o usually sensual? Passionate? Animalistic?

sensual is probably a good fit for the most part. not to sound cliched but we definitely try to convey things through sex that we’re too emotionally constipated to say with words. sometimes rust buries his face in my neck and tells me i need you, and i know that there’s more to it than the immediate, psychical need. (altho what he NEEDS is a therapist lbr here)

How messy is the sex, or do you and your f/o try to keep it as clean as possible?

oh it can get pretty messy, entirely because of me. he tells me once after the fact, because he’d gotten into something in the evidence locker, that when he was married him and his wife could go at it and you couldn’t even tell, “but we go at it and it’s like the goddamn flood sweepin’ noah’s ark away”. 

Do you and your f/o prefer having sex in the dark or with the lights open?

he likes having the lights on. not like, blindingly bright, but a nice soft glow is good. i prefer them off so we compromise sometimes. 

What was the most embarrassing thing to happen between you and your f/o before, during, and/or after sex?

marty caught us once when he was staying with us in ‘95. rust had actually gotten some sleep the night before, and it was right after the dora case got closed, before marty was allowed to move back in w/ maggie and the kids, and well...we do like tables. nothing kills a boner faster than glancing over to see marty walking into the kitchen giving his balls a morning scratch and proclaiming through a yawn “aw, come on man, i fucking eat at that table” followed by “great, i’m gonna be seeing rust’s ass every time i close my eyes now, thanks for that partner.” 

How good is your f/o at oral? How do they use their lips and tongue to pleasure you?

jesus fucking christ slade’s so good at it. and he KNOWS it and he USES that. he’s also into face sitting, and his extra sturdiness from those army experiments means no worries about his neck. he likes to take little breaks though to come up and kiss me, he thinks it’s very important i know what i taste like. 

How does your f/o taste?

like a goddamn killing machine hm, [swirls cum around a wineglass] DO I DETECT A HINT OF NUT??? i want to say like, iunno, tangy? altho outside of the drink i’ve never been able to figure out precisely what tangy even means, but pleasant enough nonetheless. 10/10 would swallow again.

Is there any dirty talk? If so, how dirty? What about pet names and/or derogatory names?

oh jesus there is. so much. like almost every time, it’s rare there’s not. it kind of took a while for us to find the right balance of it though, and i realized during that time apparently i was unintentionally creating some sort of build-a-dom with him, because he actually admits once he didn’t used to be so ‘like that’. he ended up following my cues which basically led to a “hope this doesn’t awaken anything in me” situation. 

the best mix though is an even distribution of degradation and praise. like, absolutely tell me what a filthy fucking boy i am, but be sure to tell me what a good filthy boy i am. he also likes to claim ownership, which is how his dumb ass accidentally pavlov trained himself into going into nut mode whenever someone calls him death//stroke because “slade” as an answer to “whose pussy is this?” wasn’t getting me what i wanted and it was like ten minutes before i came up with the right answer. after that he kept doing it because you know, ego, hubris, etc, and now he’s fucked himself while trying to fuck me, good job, colonel. (oh, great, colonel will be the next thing.) 

How good is your f/o with their hands/fingers?

sO LIKE, i actually have a non-sexual attraction to hands to begin with but i particularly go nuts for slade’s, and usually always want to be fidgeting with one of them as much as possible, so with that said, 

rifp this fucking pussy honestly. he loooves getting fingers involved with oral, and is also good about thumbing up against the clit while balls deep. i actually don’t let him do the second one that often though because it gets to be too much stimulation, but is also the quickest way to get me cumming. he’s misjudged it before and had me done before he was, which of course i used to say “haha look what you did, mr. big man”. he jerked off onto my chest in response.

How loud is your f/o? Do they moan/whine/whimper? Do they curse? Do they call your name like it’s the only thing they know?

for all the talking that goes on he’s actually fairly quiet. because that’s what it is, talking. and he knows what really gets me off is him growling in my ear, not raising his voice. he’s prone to the usual moaning and a few swears here and there. sometimes when i’m being particularly frisky i can manage to weasel this kind of, not high-high pitched, but high pitched for him yelp out of him when i’ve been sucking dick for too long and he literally has to pull me off him. 

i think there was like one single time where i got him to the point where he actually called the safe word instead of pushing me off. (it’s titan, by the way. which was decided as being the most obvious word neither of us would be saying during sex, but my response was also “i dunno, that seems like a good way to turn on your revenge brain and get my neck reflexively snapped”. he didn’t appreciate the joke.) 

Do you and your f/o hold hands while making love? How tightly do they hold onto you?

yee, sometimes. it depends on what position we end up in, or what we’re hanging onto. surprisingly enough i’ve never had a problem with him like, not paying attention and hurting my hands or anything. you’d think it would be a problem, what with the augmented strength, but no it never is. sometimes i feel like he’s holding on because he still thinks i’m not going to be here when he wakes up. 

What’s your f/o’s stamina like? Do they last long or finish quickly? Can they go for multiple rounds?

god bless the us army for that healing factor and enhanced metabolism and stamina can i get a YEE HAW from the crowd!! i mean, yeah he still needs a few minutes, but it’s absolutely multiple rounds. he can usually last a good bit, too, but every now and then that hubris rears up and he gets himself too psyched up playing with me and will come early, but it’s fine, he always makes up for it. 

Is there anything that can make your f/o cum every single time?

every now and then, i will absolutely ride him, and he will fucking go off like a geyser every time. there are times between that and oral where i get a bit puffed up and take the reigns for a bit, and like a dog with a bone, slade goes nuts for it. 

How wrecked/spent does your f/o look by the time the two of you are done? Do they have a dazed look on their face? Completely disheveled hair? Chest heaving for breath?

sometimes the eyepatch ends up getting lost in the shuffle because i’m like “oh shit, handle!” and i may have broken a few straps. if his hair’s grown out enough it’s absolutely a fucking MESS and i have no idea how he can stand to detangle that shit. on rare occasions slade just absolutely knocks the fuck OUT afterwards and i can always tell that whoof, i did a good job when that happens. he always ends up commenting about how well he slept the next morning, so i strut around like a preening peacock for the rest of the day.��

What’s the aftercare like, if there is any?

oh it’s a must if things got intense. lots of nuzzling and kisses and praise and affirmation. also sometimes the heating pad for me because sex can rev up those kidneys and i need to be able to relax everything. and sometimes when the orgasm(s) gets intense enough the flood of hormones makes me cry. 

i judge a good bout of sex by if he falls almost into a coma after, he judges it by if i start crying. but it’s fine, because he kisses my cheeks and tells me again what a good boy i am, and tries very very hard not to laugh too much about the juxtaposition of me during foreplay vs me sobbing intermediately after an orgasm. 

[bokunovillainacademix]

Sooooo, I was hoping you'd do headcanons of Chisaki and Dabi having a shy s/o? Also, the s/o is quirkless and she attends a normal college.

admin sam : ≧◡≦ : Oh, nice! I did some first date head canons if that’s okay? I’m really happy with these and hope you are too. Thanks for the request!

Chisaki

He had to admit, he had you right where he wanted you. The restaurant was carefully chosen and so clean you could eat off the floor if you wanted, check. The table was lit with candles, check. You both were dressed to the nines in formal wear; Him, a tux, complete with gloves; You, a stunning floor length dress check. The place was buzzing with quiet conversation from the other people setting a very intimate mood, check.

“This is really nice place, Kai.” You said smoothing your napkin in your lap out of nervousness, sitting in the chair. He had pulled it out before joining you. 

“Yes, it is. I picked it out with you in mind.” He said it simply with eyes turned down towards the menu. You immediately followed suit.

Not resuming conversation, till after He had ordered for the both of you. 

“I’m really surprised you asked me here, Kai.” Your blush smearing you’re face as you broke the conversation. Finger slowly circling the top of the wineglass as you stared at it not wanting to meet those eyes of his.

“Why wouldn’t I?” He swirled his glass a few times before taking a careful sip, peeking at your defensive stance over the glass. 

“Well, it’s just, your quirk is so beautiful and I’m…” You trailed off meeting his eyes with insecurity flashing through them before continuing. “…q u i r k l e s s. I mean some would say, nicely, it’s an…odd match. If not a waste.” 

“Well, to them I would say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Besides you’re quirklessness is your most appealing feature to me.”

“Why?” You blurted out. “I mean, that’s definitely not my best quality in most people’s opinions’, Kai” You were unsure where this conversation was heading, this unusual opinion striking you as odd even if it was rather endearing.

“Think about it, you’re rare. A relic to a past once lost…Pure.” His eyes held something unreadable as he set down his glass to emphasis the last point. 

“Pure, huh?” You said not quite believing that you found the first person in your life not to care about your disadvantage. A smile creeping on your face. 

“Pure.” He said it so definitively that you couldn’t help but feel butterflies fluttering as your eyes clashed both holding something unspoken. 

…

Yes, he had you right where he wanted you.

Dabi

How in gods’ name did it come to this? Him and you in a dimly lit corner of a hole in the wall restaurant that was nearly deserted. It smelled oddly of some citrus cleaner obviously trying to mask something forlorning, the rating was a ‘A’ but from the amount of dust in the corner it had to be at best a ‘C’, and no one was here. It was literally deserted even at the poorly stocked bar. Not exactly, a romantic and/or welcoming environment one would associate with first dates. Yet it was you’re choice; who knows? maybe you were into this kind of thing.

You’re smiling at him, peeking over the oversized menu to catch a peek at his scared face scanning it for a reaction. Turning away quickly at being caught, with a giant, patchy, and, red streak forming across the bridge of your (s/c) nose when he catches your eye with a wink. 

“I have to admit, doll. Didn’t think you’d pull out all the stops for this encounter of ours.” 

“I-I know it’s not the nicest but I thought I’d give us the seclusion given your…occupation.” You shyly whispered the last part glancing around like heroes were about to burst through the door of the dump. 

“ Yes, yes. My oc-u-pa-tion.” He sounded out the word carefully assessing you’re face with the red streak expanding at the mention of your choice of words, embarrassed. 

“I was really surprised that you followed through with a bad boy like myself. Wouldn’t have thought someone like you had the guts to show up to date with a guy like me.” His gaze still burning yours managing to light a fire in yours.

“I wouldn’t exactly call it a date, per say…” you said trailing off, noticing his narrowing eyes.

“I would call it a encounter, like you said..I think it’s a lot more romantic.” You shyly put the menu down the only barrier between the two of you as he copied your actions. Hand reaching up and then leaning your cheek on it while trying to maintain your poker face; Blushing anew as a cruel smile tugged at his lips. That damned smile.

“Romantic or not, I got to admire you’re guts, love.” He leaned forward across the table closing the gap; stopping just before your face; eyes burning yours; loving that damned blush gracing your cheeks. 

“Last chance to walk out of here alive…Or do you wanna ride on the wild side?” 

“Yes!” You blurted out breaking the tension with your out of character eagerness. Leaning back away, looking down, as he bursts into laughter. “I mean, yes, I wanna stay.” 

“You sure, quirkless girl?” He said teasingly as he casually stood up from his chair. 

“I’m sure…I mean if that’s okay?” You were cautious as he stood up, not sure, what he intended to do. 

“You talk too much.” He started to walk away to you’re dismay at the blatant rejection. 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” He said pausing at the door, hand on it, looking back noticing you’re confusion. “Come on, let’s leave this dump.” 

“Oh, okay!” You scooted out of you’re gathering up your things, racing towards him before the villainous man changed his mind.

“About time, babe. Let’s go and get on with this encounter” He barreled down the dimly lit street with you stumbling after him towards the unknown, bumping his should with yours’ in the process.

Letting you’re uneasiness slide off you’re shoulders as you joined him in his stride.

links 

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[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke: Losing My Religion

For @dadrunkwriting Friday! In which Fenris and Hawke talk about religion, and Hawke puts her foot in her mouth more than once. Inspired by Fenris and Sebastian’s banter, which can be seen in full here. 

Read on AO3 instead.

***************

“So,” Hawke said. She handed Fenris a glass of wine and plopped down beside him in front of the fireplace. “Sebastian has been leaning on you pretty hard lately, hasn’t he?”

“What do you mean?” Fenris asked.

“He seems to have made it his goal of the year to convert you to Andrastianism,” Hawke said. She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Andrastianism? Is that a word? Andrastianity, maybe? Or is it just ‘the grand and glorious faith of Andraste’?” She smirked at Fenris. “Remind me to ask him next time he comes out with us. His head will probably explode when he realizes that I don’t know.”

Fenris watched as she swirled the brandy in her glass before taking a sip. “He is certainly very… focused,” he said carefully.

Hawke snickered. “That’s one way to put it. ‘Stubbornly determined’ is another. I don’t see why he won’t just leave you alone. Not everyone needs to believe in some fancy all-seeing bogeyman to get themselves out of bed in the morning.”

When Fenris didn’t reply, the smile slowly faded from Hawke’s pretty face. “Oh,” she said blankly. Then her cheeks started turning pink. “Are you actually…? I assumed…”

Fenris idly stroked the stem of his wineglass. “I may have been considering what Sebastian has said,” Fenris muttered.

“Oh, shit,” Hawke said. “I didn’t think… Well, um…” She trailed off, then gulped from her tumbler of brandy before letting out a nervous little laugh. “Maker’s balls, I’m surprised I can still drink around the foot I’ve gotten wedged into my mouth here.”

Fenris offered a tiny smirk at her awkward version of an apology, but he didn’t answer. When Sebastian had first started prodding him about this topic, he’d felt like he was being targeted, exactly as Hawke suggested; it was as though Sebastian was trying to meet some kind of quota by bringing the poor lost elf into the Chantry. But to Fenris’s own surprise, the more Sebastian talked to him, the more it felt like a calm academic debate than a conversion routine.

And the debate had gotten Fenris thinking about the Maker more than he had since he’d been under Danarius’s thumb.

Fenris’s relationship with the Andrastian faith was… complicated. He’d heard two very different versions of the Maker’s love from two very different classes of people. The magisters and their ilk claimed that their magical tyranny was in the Maker’s name, while Fenris’s fellow slaves whispered that the Maker would deliver them from their suffering if they prayed hard enough. Fenris hadn’t seen any evidence that either story was true. But he had always rather envied the peace that the other slaves derived from their daily prayers. After his talks with Sebastian, Fenris was starting to wonder if perhaps the Maker worked in a more quiet manner than the epic rescue that most slaves seemed to hope for.

He was quiet for long enough that Hawke began to fidget awkwardly beside him. Finally he took a gulp of his wine. “I am not… convinced by it,” he said finally. “Sebastian says the Maker has a greater plan. To trust that this grand plan will ensure that justice is done. But how long does a person need to suffer before the Maker takes mercy on them? Their entire life? Where is the justice in that?” He stared broodily into his wine glass for a moment before going on. “Are you meant to simply wait until the Maker comes to help you? To sit passively until He comes and scoops you from your misery? That is not how life works. Not mine, at any rate.”

He broke off, wondering why it felt so much more personal to talk about this with Hawke than with Sebastian. The topic was the same. And if anything, Sebastian was more pushy than Hawke was. So why was he finding it difficult to look at her?

Hawke seemed to find it difficult too, because she was quiet. Abnormally quiet. Fenris glanced at her and found her nibbling her lower lip.

“It is unlike you to be so silent,” he remarked. “Do you not have any opinion about this?”

“No, I do,” she said. Then she continued biting her lip.

Fenris tilted his head chidingly. “Hawke. You’ve never minced your words before. I don’t see why you would start now.”

She was silent for a moment longer, then she lifted her chin in a mock-dignified manner. “They say you shouldn’t discuss politics, religion, or sex in polite conversation,” she said virtuously.

Fenris smirked at her prim expression. “Conversations with you are never polite,” he drawled. “Half of the words that leave your mouth revolve around sex. And you brought up the topic of religion in the first place.”

She laughed, then relaxed and stretched her legs out toward the fireplace. “Correct on all counts. But if I tell you what I think, you have to promise you won’t get mad.”

Fenris raised one eyebrow. “That depends on how you say whatever you’re about to say,” he replied, then smiled. “I suspect I’m about to be entertained, at the very least. Perhaps you should offer me snacks.”

Hawke grinned at him, then ran her hands through her hair. “Okay. Well, I don’t believe in the Maker, for one.”

Fenris nodded slowly. “I gathered as much. Go on.”

She eyed him suspiciously, then shrugged. “All right. Here’s the thing. It’s too convenient,” she said. “Chantry people are always all, ‘oh, it’s the Maker’s will, it’s the Maker’s will’. No matter what happens, they always say it’s the Maker’s will. But how do they know?” She rolled onto her stomach and propped her chin on her hands. “There’s no hard concrete proof that he ever existed. I mean, there’s proof that Andraste was a person. There are artifacts and stuff, and she’s splashed throughout the history books of all the different cultures across Thedas. She probably wasn’t as much of a badass as the books made her sound, but she was certainly real. But the Maker… As far as I know, there’s no proof. It’s more likely that when weird shit happens, it’s random chance, not the work of the Maker.”

Fenris grunted an acknowledgement, and Hawke looked at him warily. “Should I go on?” she asked.

He nodded, and after a moment’s hesitation, Hawke continued. “I just think it’s unfair to make everyone act in the supposed wishes of this possibly-nonexistent all-powerful man just in case he decides to show up someday. People shouldn’t do nice things because the Maker wants them to. They should do nice things because they’re nice things to do. And don’t get me started on the whole abstinence thing!” She barked out an incredulous laugh, then rolled over onto her back and smiled at Fenris. “All these Chantry sisters and brothers putting aside ‘worldly pleasures’ because they think the Maker wants them to? Ridiculous. I’m going to enjoy the life I’ve got, thanks very much. I’ve got a body that feels things and wants things and hungers? Then I’m going to feed it. I’m not going to shun the things that make me happy on the chance that abstaining might maybe make the Maker happy. Again, if he exists. Which I doubt.”

Fenris stared at her stretched-out supine form, compelled by the unusual conviction of her words. Especially what she’d said about a body that feels things and wants things and hungers…

He shifted uncomfortably, then forced himself to focus on her words. “And for those who hope the Maker will save them from the misery of their lives?” he said. “The people who pray that He’ll deliver them to something better than what they’ve suffered so far? What would you say to them?”

Hawke’s smile slowly faded into a look of wary caution. “I wouldn’t say anything to them,” she said slowly. “Everything I’m saying now is purely between you and me. And the dog. But he’s not much of one for gossip.” She jerked her chin at Toby, who was lolling on the carpet at their feet.

“Humour me,” Fenris said. “Do you not think there is value in such prayer? In that kind of hope?”

Suddenly Fenris realized why this conversation felt so much more personal with Hawke than with Sebastian. He wasn’t really asking Hawke about religion. He didn’t really care whether she believed in the Maker or not. What he was really asking her was about hope.

Hope. That poisonous, tempting thing that she’d encouraged him to have. That dangerous, nebulous thing that eluded him now, and the lack of which had driven him to push her away.

Fenris has wanted to believe his life could be better, but he just… couldn’t imagine how. That faith, that trust that he’d eventually have a good and happy life - he couldn’t ever remember having that kind of hope. And Hawke, despite her obvious atheism, was completely awash with it.

And Fenris needed to understand how.

Oblivious to his anguished thoughts, Hawke rolled onto her belly again. “I do think there’s value in prayer,” she said. “Specifically for the hope thing. If believing in the Maker is what people need to keep on going, then they should do exactly that.”

Fenris grumbled another acknowledgement, and they were silent for some time. Surreptitiously he studied her idly waving feet and the contentment in her face as the flames flickered across her features.

“How are you so damned hopeful all the time?” Fenris suddenly blurted. “Your life hasn’t been… well. You’ve… suffered losses.” She turned to look at him with wide eyes, and he cleared his throat awkwardly, feeling slightly ashamed by his graceless outburst.

He tried again. “I simply mean… Some people rely on the Maker. You do not. What… how do you…?”

He trailed off, unsure how to phrase his question, but thankfully Hawke understood. She slowly resumed a sitting position as she replied. “I think I’d find it more disturbing if there was some unknown mystical man planning out my fate. I rather like the idea of everything being random,” she said. “I take comfort in that chaos.”

Despite his growing agitation, Fenris smiled. “Why does that not surprise me?” he deadpanned, and she treated him to a slow, mischievous smile.

But Fenris still wasn’t quite satisfied by her response. “Chaos and randomness, then. That’s it? That’s what gives you hope?” he demanded.

Hawke stretched her feet toward the fire again and leaned back on her elbows. “No,” she said casually. “I just…” She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just a hopeful person, I suppose. Things seem to work out all right for me. I mean, aside from Father dying and Bethany being killed by that ogre and good old Carver joining the Templars just to get away from me…” She took a deep breath, then smiled brightly at him. “But you know, that’s life. People die, and people leave, and shitty things happen to everyone. It could be worse, right?”

Fenris studied her smile with a painfully pounding heart. It made no sense. She made no sense. She had every right to be angry. Her own brother had been resentful and angry. So how wasn’t she?

Tongue-tied, he continued to study her bright and brittle smile until she laughed uncertainly and ran her hand through her long dark hair. “Well, enough about me,” she said. “I much prefer the conversation we were having before about the broody handsome elf and the generically handsome Chantry man. It’s like the set-up for a fantastic joke.”

She snickered, and Fenris scrambled to control his emotions. He was suddenly feeling angry, and he wasn’t sure exactly why or at whom. Hawke was right; terrible things happened to everyone. So how wasn’t she angry about the things that had befallen her? How could she suffer such things and still carry on so cheerfully? It was…

Unfair was the wrong word. That wasn’t what he felt. It wasn’t like Fenris wanted Hawke to be angry. This rage was corrosive; it was horrible and poisonous and all-consuming. It had eaten away the possibility of anything meaningful between himself and the woman lounging beside him. Fenris absolutely didn’t want her to feel this way. Nobody should feel this way.

“Fenris?” Hawke said tentatively.

He jolted, then shakily reached for his wine. He took a large gulp, then blurted the first thing he could think of to say. “I went to the Chantry to pray,” he said.

Her jaw dropped. Then she covered her face with her hands and groaned. “For fuck’s sakes, Fenris, you couldn’t have led with that?” she said plaintively. “Now I’m even more of an asshole than I already sounded.”

Her beautiful face was scrunched up with horror, and she looked so discomfited that Fenris finally laughed, albeit tensely. “It was worth it to see your face right now,” he teased. “You are redder than the wine in my glass.”

She punched him lightly in the arm and smiled sheepishly, then rubbed nervously at her bare throat. “And?” she said cautiously. “Did you… uh… How was it? Were there any… um… epiphanies or anything?”

He smirked. He could tell how hard she was trying to rein in her skepticism, and it was oddly endearing. “No epiphanies,” he said. “But it was… peaceful, I suppose. It’s very quiet there.” He rolled his mostly-empty glass between his palms. “I am not stared at as much as I thought I would be. It’s… a very calm place to be.”

“It sounds nice,” she murmured, and he nodded in agreement.

They were silent for a while. As Fenris watched the flickering of the fire, he allowed his myriad thoughts to swirl idly through his mind. He thought about Hawke’s hardships - her late father and sister, Carver leaving the family to join the Templars instead, her lost home in Lothering. He thought about Danarius, about the fog warriors and his yet-unknown sister. He thought about the quiet in the Chantry: the dancing motes of dust in the air that were set aglow by the afternoon sun slanting through the stained glass windows. And he thought about Hawke’s constant and irrepressible grin.

Without really thinking, Fenris opened his mouth to speak. At the exact same moment, Hawke spoke as well.

“I could come to the Chantry with you if you like-”

“If you wished to come to the Chantry with me, I would not be opposed-”

They both stopped abruptly, and Fenris grinned as she burst into laughter. “Of course I’ll come,” she said happily. “I’ll bring a bag of sunflowers seeds with me.”

Fenris frowned in sudden confusion. “Why?”

She raised her eyebrows as though he was being dense. “To flick the shells at the back of Sebastian’s head, of course,” she said. “How can he really know his faith unless it’s being tested?”

Fenris admired her mischievous grin, then finally shook his head and chuckled. “You’re an idiot,” he said, out of pure habit.

The cherished pet phrase sat in the sudden silence between them, heavy with the memory of how easy and good their past flirtation used to be. How happy he’d thought he was, back before he’d realized too late - far too late - that he was utterly unprepared to be with her.

Fenris dropped his gaze to his hands. He could feel the easy glow of their camaraderie fading away, like a blissful dream being beaten back by the cold light of day.

Then Hawke reached out and tapped the scarlet scarf on his wrist. “Only for you,” she said, with uncharacteristic gravity. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

As I would for you, he thought as he met her clear amber eyes. But he couldn’t say it, because it wasn’t true. The one thing he couldn’t give her was the one thing he knew she really wanted.

He swallowed the lump in his throat with difficulty. “Thank you, Hawke,” he said quietly.

“You’re welcome,” she whispered. Then she turned her gaze back to the fire.

They sat in a silence for a while, their hands close together on the carpet between them, and Fenris was visited by yet another painful reminder of how tantalizing this situation would have been just a few short weeks ago. Before their glorious but ill-fated night together, he would have been entranced by the simple idea of reaching out, of sliding his fingers closer to hers and taking her hand. Of feeling her palm against his bare skin.

Now that he’d tasted the full glory of Hawke’s torrid and unrestrained affections, the idea of merely holding her hand was too much to consider, while at the same time being nowhere near enough.

Abruptly he drained his wine glass. “I will be going now,” he said, then rose to his feet.

She looked up at him in disappointment. “So soon?” she said wistfully. And it was true; he and Hawke were intractable night owls, and Fenris’s evenings with Hawke normally stretched into the wee hours of the morning.

But that was… before.

Now, being around Hawke for too long was painful. Watching her mouth while she talked and remembering the rightness of those lips pressed against his… It was a stinging reminder of a life he couldn’t have, not with the blank wasteland that was both his past and his future making him so vulnerable.

He shrugged listlessly. “I will see you tomorrow,” he said.

Finally Hawke shrugged as well, then stood and trailed him into the main room, with Toby faithfully following at her heels.

“Don’t bother yourseIf. I can let myself out,” he said. The wistful ache behind his sternum was becoming heavier by the second, and he didn’t think he could bear the sight of her closing the door behind him tonight.

Hawke shot him a coquettish look. “I should hope you can operate a door on your own. Big strapping boy like you?”

He huffed in amusement, and Hawke chuckled as she knelt beside Toby and affectionately rubbed the mabari’s neck. “Bye, Fenris.”

“Goodnight,” he said softly, then made his way to the door. Just before he stepped out of her house, he glanced back at her.

She was sitting on the carpet, hugging the big mabari around the neck, her face hidden against his fur. Toby looked at Fenris and tilted his head, and it was probably just Fenris’s imagination, but the mabari’s expression seemed oddly reproachful.

The now-familiar throb of remorse ached in his chest, and he wearily pushed it aside. Hawke was the most blithely hopeful person he knew. If her sunny sense of optimism hadn’t been crushed by the loss of half her family and her home, then losing their fledgling relationship wouldn’t crush her either. Fenris had to believe that.

He wondered if Sebastian would let him into the Chantry this late at night.

[monotonemanday]

Star Crossed Entertainers – Mystic Messenger FanFic Part 1 JuminXOC

Hey guys! So I haven’t written in a while but I love this fandom and I love how creative everyone is. So much heart goes into the fanfics, headcannons, writings, art, drawings, blah blah blah all of the great things this community posts! I am a fan of so many of your guys blogs and I really got inspired to start writing again. This is Part 1 of a series I am thinking of starting. It heavily involves Jumin and Zen and relationships they find with two OCs. The first part of the story takes place at a party for Jumin, basically in Jumins point of view where he meets my OC. Then part 2 is seen from her point of view. Let me know what you think and if you enjoy it feel free to give it a heart, reblog, whatever you want! And let me know if you like it and if I should post part two or if you think I should continue the story. Thank you so much!!

He closed the chatroom and looked forward. He had spent most of the ride in silence. Another party. Another event he thought was both extravagant and incredibly wasteful. He didn't mind most of these soiree's because all he had to do was make an appearance, talk with a few elites, maybe make a few deals, and then he could get back to his penthouse where the love of his life, Elizabeth the 3rd was waiting.

But tonight, was different. It was one of the events he couldn't stand. An event in HIS honor. Thrown by his FATHER. He would be the center of most the event. He couldn't leave. He would have to seem pleasant, joyful, irritated, and excited even.

Driver Kim opened the door and ushered the corporate heir out.

An immediate uproar of people trying to get his attention. The instant flicker of a ridiculous amount of camera flashes. Vultures. He straightened his tie, tugged on his suit jacket, and put on a smile. Not a dazzling movie star smile. Not a smile that made women weak at the knees. The smile of a handsome business man that new exactly how to work a crowd without looking like an arrogant prick. Taking his first steps forward he accepted the fact that he was here, and he was doing this. Jumin Han. The man of the hour had arrived despite the fact he hoped he wouldn't have.

Dread. That's all the corporate heir felt when he entered the double doors to the dance hall. A beautiful fountain was the center piece of the dance hall floor. The sounds of a loud, roaring waterfall and yet it was oddly calming to him. Perhaps because it was taking his focus away from the rest of the hall. Jumin's eyes darted around the large room.

The room was somewhat dim. Extravagant tapestries, gold, red and black hung from the ceilings. Some solid colored and some with swirling patterns and design. Some hanging just for decor and others forming curtains around private booth areas.

Damn it. That held an unholy precedent to Jumin.

Ignore it. Greet your father. Shake some hands. Find your friends.

Jumin Han was trying to throw out every preconceived notion he had about this party. The notion that his father invited very elite business men that also dealt in very shady business. The notion that no women were at this party because most of these men were married, with families, and wouldn't want any kind of scandals appearing in the media. The notion that the press was withheld from being inside because this party and what was to unfold was secret confidential. The notion that his father had hired entertainers, yes. But that they were also most likely, whores ladies of the night.

"MISTAH TRUST FUND KID!" It was a miracle. That obnoxious screaming released some of the tension in his body. Following the noise, he spots three very familiar faces. His extremely composed mint haired childhood friend, Jihyun/V. The energetic and socially fearless red headed menace, Luciel/Saeyoung. The awkward but bright eyed blonde innocent, Yoosung. The trio made up his closest friends. Minus one Zen. Handsome arrogant musical actor who could not attend this shindig due to a rehearsal. Also Minus one Jaehee Kang because well, no girls allowed.

The guest of honor waved toward the three men, and then lifted his index finger up at them in a "one moment" motion. He walked over to where he spotted his father. He greeted his father very briefly, gave thanks, and made his getaway. He didn't want to linger because the less he knew about what his father had planned, the better.

United with his friends in their VIP booth. It was the biggest booth in the joint and was placed at the head of the room. It was leveled up above the rest of the room and a small stage was placed in front of it. A staircase lined with lights leading up to the base of its platform. Tacky.

The party started with a lull. Stuffy old business men chatting, discussing business, and intermingling. But that wasn't any concern to Jumin. He was sat in his private booth with his friends laughing and discussing what has been going on in each other's lives. He was the guest of honor but that didn't mean he had to entertain the other guests. Then the tapping on a microphone rang throughout the room. Chairman Han was at the mic, beaming with pride.

Jumin's father spoke of his son like he was the proudest father in the world. He sang praise of his son's intelligence, talent, eye for business and of course his good looks. Genetics. Then he announced why we were celebrating. Chairman Han's son, THE Jumin Han, had just closed the biggest business deal in C&R history. Nothing had ever benefited the company as much as the business Jumin had drummed up. It was the smartest move in company history, maybe even all of history, and this young hot shot was the center of it.

The dance hall erupted with applause and Jumin stood up to take a humble bow and wave out to the crowd. He wasn't in the mood to make a speech and he could tell his father was itching to move on to something else.

The lights in the hall dimmed rapidly and a hush fell over the sea of rich older men. Most found the way to their private booths or off to the sides of the dance hall, leaving plenty of open room.

Then a scuffling noise.

A tapping.

Heels. High heels.

Chandeliers illuminated with bright light revealing about 20 of the fakest most beautiful women money could buy. Drums started a jazzy number and then an explosion of brass filled the hall. The women decked out in sequence leotards with long trails of feathers and boas attached at their lower backs. Some had extravagant head pieces, and others had their hair done in the most intricate styles. All their lips were a dark ruby red and their eyelashes were so long they could dust off the tables. Sheer tights made their legs look smooth and they were covered in small jewels. Their heels seemed too tall for dancing and seemed like a very irresponsible choice.

But certainly Jumin was the only one thinking these thoughts.

As the women danced and made their way to the different perverts patrons in the room, the lights again started to dim and something got the boys attention in their booth.

The back curtain had opened to their booth and someone was making their way through the pillows and blankets set up in the back, towards the table where the four RFA members were seated.

Yoosung and Luciel hadn't noticed. They were too busy making inappropriate jokes and blushing when any of the ladies even glanced their way.

Jumin was actively avoiding making eye contact with any of the performers by staring into his wineglass. These women were hired by his father to be groped and fawned over and they were possibly going to end up doing a lot more under these dirty geezers and Jumin wanted no part of it.

Jihyun alerted the others of the stranger in their booth with a clearing of his throat. When they looked over our two flustered school boys let out a couple of loud gulps, which in turn made V chuckle.

Standing at the end of their table was a woman. A woman that was dressed differently than the others. Her Leotard was solid gold and unlike the others, it had sleeves. Long sleeves that started at the bottom of her shoulders and clung tightly down to her wrists. Lace. Her stockings were fishnet and her lipstick was a bright apple red. Her legs were incredibly long and you could tell just by looking at her that she was much taller than the others. On her feet were short tan colored dance heels. Very sensible.

"Excuse me, gentlemen." She beamed this radiant innocence but was so confident in the way she spoke to them. "Do you mind if I take over your spot for a moment?" The woman questioned them and then held out a hand. She was met with a silent glare from Jumin. He was caught up in analyzing the woman before him. Her skin. She wasn't wearing a caked on mess of foundation. She was pale and he could make out the freckles beneath her eyes. Speaking of her eyes, holy shit they were enchanting. Big, bright and the deepest pools of blue he had ever seen. Her hair, well, it wasn't her hair. Jumin was an expert at spotting fake. But this wasn't the kind of superficial fake he normally looked for. She was wearing a wig. A black bob with straight bangs that rested just below her jaw. The corporate heir couldn't make out much more because the woman turned her face away. Not because she was embarrassed, she was avoiding him. Did she not want to be looked at so closely?

No one had responded to her and the air had gotten awkward. The music and dancing were still going on outside of their booth and her request seemed a little time sensitive so V took her hand. Instead of taking a seat at their table like they had all assumed she used V's hand to help boost herself onto the table.

A spotlight. The chandeliers dimming. The other dancers filing in to sit on the steps of the stage in front of the RFA booth. The woman started singing. Her voice. It was perfect for Jazz. It was smooth and had this beautiful deep tone to it. It was like you could hear her soul through her voice. The boys wanted to watch her perform but all four couldn't determine an appropriate place to fix their eyes while she was standing directly above them.

Her song started slow. The words. She was singing about something a woman after men with money would certainly sing. Jumin wasn't totally focused on her words but he heard something to the effects of "diamonds" and "a girls best friend."

Just as he was losing interest another explosion of brass. The woman had jumped from the table and three other women had caught her. Now the song was lively and she was making her way throughout the hall grabbing everyone's attention. V was enjoying how catchy the song was and how she was commanding the number. Yoosung was excited by all the confetti and color that was bursting through the hall and still a bit flustered by all the ladies popping out of their tops. Luciel had joined in on the dancing. He was no longer sitting and was trying to find a way to actively participate in the number with the girls. Let's be honest, he probably had a matching outfit.

Jumin however had his sights fixed on the mystery woman that had emerged from the back of their booth moments ago. He watched her not as some pervy beast looking at his next prey, but as a business man watching a business woman. Everything she did was very calculated. All the other girls were running up to men, flirting with them, touching them, BEING touched by them, but not her. She would get close but she would never make contact. She demanded attention and she got it. She was like the prize to be won, and everyone was losing. He noticed that she knew exactly who to play to. She was courting all the top execs and most importantly she was sending her winks and her air kisses to the top dog, Chairman Han. Jumin felt his stomach turn. How vile. She was just like every other gold digging woman, and maybe even worse, he thought. Then he noticed something. There was a look in her eyes each time she turned away from the men. He couldn't place it but it almost looked like...disgust. He couldn't be sure but he even swore one time she rolled her eyes. Jumin watched on and his initial opinion of the woman continued to gradually change.

This woman was smart. She knew who to give attention to but she also knew who she was there for. Jumin Han was the man of the hour and she was the main entertainment. She had made her way back up the steps of the small stage where the corporate heirs booth was. There was a break in lyrics so this part of the performance was just dance heavy and she took the opportunity.

The woman again extended her hand out to Jihyun who took this turn to kiss the back of her hand. He was playing into the performance. She carefully walked her way past him and sat herself between the blonde and the redhead. Jumin couldn't focus on what they were saying. All he could hear was the loud jazz music and muffled voices. He was surprised however at what he was witnessing.

They weren't being touchy feely, she wasn't seducing them, and she wasn't getting too close for comfort. They were laughing. Cackling even. She wasn't treating them like clients, she was treating them like friends.

That's when he felt it. Jumin tensed up. He felt the icy stare of his father. He looked over to see the chairman with his arms crossed and his eyes shooting piercing daggers at his son. Disappointment. Jumin knew what his dad wanted him to do. He probably spent a fortune on this entertainment and he picked a woman specifically for him. This woman. And he didn't pick her to perform a comedy routine for his sons friends. But there sat his son. Not only was he not seducing her, but he was actively avoiding her. Jumin started to feel nervous. He knew his father wasn't happy and this had happened before. There would be consequences for him or worse, his father might take the woman instead.

Jumin began to panic internally and decided he had to act but before he had time to think up a plan he felt a hand sliding up his thigh. The woman had left her place between his friends and had sent them out to the floor to dance and joke around with the three woman that had caught her after she jumped down from the table. He looked up at her and she lifted a finger to his lips, then she pointed to her cheek. There he saw a mic, and realized that she had turned it back on to continue performing. Leaning in closer he saw her lips moving but heard her voice through the sound system.

"Talk to me Jumin Han and tell me all about it."

She turned and addressed the crowd while untying the front curtains to the private booth.

"Sorry, Boys! It's time for my break and its ladies choice, but absolutely feel free to indulge in my many lovely friends!"

She closed the curtains tight and turn towards the table.

Oh boy. Jumin was ready. But not for what she was expecting. He was ready to tell this woman that her services were not necessary and that if she was expecting to gain some kind of commission from him he would gladly compensate her just in order to get her to leave him be. But he didn't get the chance.

"Hello, Mr. Elite Business Man. Don't worry. I'm not here to jump your bones." The woman let out a soft chuckle. Melodic. "I just figured you couldn't bare that mans demonic peepers piercing through your soul any longer." Her chuckle grew to a laugh and Jumin was utterly confused.

"I'm talking about your father. He sure does want to see you in all your glory that is manhood in the presence of a lady now doesn't he? I don't think I've ever seen someone that hungry to get somebody else lucky in the bedroom."

"I suppose he's worried about the rumors that arise about my sexual orientation. Or perhaps he's worried I'll end up alone. Won't be able to provide an heir to the family or the company. But you're right, I wasn't thrilled by his glare." Jumin poured more wine into his glass.

"Hmmm. Well, I'll tell you what. How about we sit here for a while, I'll tousle your hair a bit, loosen your tie, and we can both move on from this night. Back to our normal day to day."

The woman had walked to the back of the booth and lifted on of the large cushions. She pulled out what looked like a piece of gold cloth but she stepped into it and pulled it up to underneath her armpits, turning her leotard into a tasteful cocktail dress that hugged her body perfectly.

Jumin was shook. Here he was alone with a woman that had been hired for the soul purpose to seduce him and she was intentionally not doing that exact act. "You mean, you're not going to do the job you were hired to do?"

Again the woman chuckled. A smirk creeped onto her lips. "Would you prefer that I did?" She watched the raven haired man go wide-eyed. "Oh settle down. I'll have you know that I actually wasn't hired for the job that you're implying. Well I guess technically I was but, I have an agreement with my employer."

Was she going to talk business? Because Jumin was into it could get into it.

"I know what you think of myself and what you think of those girls out there. And in some cases your opinions are valid. But in others they are way off caliber. Only a handful of those girls go home with those pompous greasy men. And they do so by choice. Our employer doesn't force any action like that."

"And are you apart of that handful that goes home with arrogant and showy business men?"

"If I was, I'd be pretty stupid to not currently be bedding one Jumin Han, now wouldn't I?"

Jumin almost dropped his wine glass, a blush creeping across his cheeks. He recomposed himself. "Actually I was wondering about that. You seem to have had no problem flirting with the men here, and even making physical contact with my friends, but you actively avoided me until you realized my father was watching the both of us. Why is that?"

The woman lightly traced a pattern on the table with her index finger, unsure of how to respond. Jumin assumed she was shy. Maybe she had a crush on him. Maybe it caused her to be shy and that was the cause of her avoidance. He expected her to be meek and timid but when she spoke up to respond you wouldn't have thought someone could be so confident.

"Because I'm not an idiot. I know that I am put out there like the grand prize. I know that when I perform at these parties I am supposed to dote, swoon and fawn over the men that are doing the same to me. I'm supposed to jump into every rich mans arms and beg them to take me but first I'm supposed to act like they need to work hard for it. But it's an act. I can't stand it. It makes me sick. But it's how I make a living. And the money? Well it's almost comparable to the sum you make mister trust fund kid."

Damn it, Luciel.

"I'm paying my bills. By putting on an act. And that's exactly what it is. An act. I don't need any man, let alone a man who thinks he's deserving of whatever he wants just because he's financially well off, telling me how to live my life. So if you have a lecture for me, you can save it. And to finish answering your question as to why I avoided you. Again. I'm not an idiot. I can tell when someone is uncomfortable. I've never seen someone work so hard to avoid staring at a woman's chest. Especially when it's a group of ladies dressed like these."

A chuckle made it's way to Jumin's throat. Barely.

"I see. You're a very interesting woman."

"I'd better be. Money and looks can only go so far. That goes for both men and women."

She winks at Jumin and they both share a smile.

"Listen, I do have a favor to ask of you." The woman starts to reach into the breast of her leotard, and again she sees the man's eyes shoot wide open. "Okay, okay, easy. I'm just grabbing this." She pulls out a folded piece of paper and lays it in front of him.

"As you can tell, I am sort of the top dog amongst the ladies and my employer is very aware of that fact. Now I told you my employer never forces us to do things we don't want to do. And they don't. However with me, that causes a problem. I bring in a lot of business. And it's all on the circumstances that I am considered forbidden fruit."

Jumin crossed his arms on the table and his right eyebrow arched. Intrigue.

"I don't sleep with clients. I don't even give clients more than a kiss on the cheek. But they all think I do way more. That's how I've been marketed."

Marketed. From a business stand point Jumin was understanding, from a human being stand point, he was disgusted.

"I don't know when it happened, but clients started requesting me often. My employer would turn them away. However, it was becoming a problem for business. They were angry. Why wasn't I available and how dare we deny them service. My boss couldn't just flat out say I don't service clients that way, and that I am just strictly a performer. The stage is where I work my 9-5, not the bedroom. So we came up with an idea. Or really, I did. It would become a game. We'll let them think that I sleep with clients, but only clients that pay their dues. It's almost like a point system."

The woman began to explain to Jumin and he felt conflicted at the emotions that so quickly changed throughout her speaking. She was beaming and so bright, her eyes sparkled with pride when she was explaining how her plan had worked and profits expanded tenfold. How she made it so that other girls could work less hours and focus on other jobs they had or school work. How they didn't have to do as many demeaning things due to her strategy she had put into place. But at the same time she looked disgusted at the fact she was even accommodating these elitist pigs. Both Men and Women, Jumin learned.

"So basically we tell them that I only take on clients that frequent however often, or pay so much, or this or that. And then when they reach all the requirements they can have me. But that day never comes."

Jumin sat silently, only for a second before he was already dissecting the flaws in her business plan. "Hmmm. I see. But don't the men get suspicious when no one ever gets taken by you. Or the fact that you are always on stage and never in a back room or wherever it is you take clients at these places."

Oh Jumin. Innocent to the shady business of your father and the business world around you. Protect him someone, please.

"It seems like you would only be able to keep up this charade for a short period of time."

"Ah, Mr. Han. I shouldn't have suspected anything less from the greatest business man this area has ever seen."

She smiled at him, and it wasn't flirtatious. It showed admiration for the man who was listening to her. The woman who was normally seen as nothing but an upper-class whore for stuffy old men that used literal money to wipe their own asses. He was listening to her and dissecting her line of work in what appeared to be an attempt to help improv it.

"That's why we have decoy's. A select few men AND women who have signed confidentiality agreements. They act as the patrons who have met the requirements to be seen as my clients. They even give other clients "tips and hints" on how they met the standards. I spend time with them off stage. However, we're really just working on our own things, practicing new numbers, or playing poker behind closed doors."

"And it's been working?" The man seemed skeptical.

"It has been for a period of 7 months so far." Outside of the curtains of the private booth they heard the music winding down and the woman knew that there wasn't much time left before her and the chair were expected to resurface.

She grabbed the piece of paper she had previously slipped on the table.

"Listen, that's where this comes into play. Obviously everyone out there including your father can guess what should be happening in here right now. So my reputation for business as well as expectations from your father are on the line. You're Jumin Han so there's no using a decoy here. I've made a deal with my employer. If I get you to sign a confidentiality agreement I'm free and in the clear. If not, well that's something that isn't your problem and it's not something I will concern you with."

Tik-tok. Time wasn't slowing down and she knew that her employer would soon be there to collect and the rest of the guests and the ladies were probably getting antsy for her to close out the night.

Jumin opened the piece of folded paper and read it over. He began to sign and he let out a hardy chuckle. He must be crazy signing something like this.

"You seem like a woman well versed in business. Why would you hand me such a contract and think that it would be enough to cover all your bases in this matter?"

"Well I had another draft but I thought it was too lengthy for this matter. Plus, Jumin Han, after watching you avoid women like the plague out of principal and purity of heart...I trust you."

Jumin finished signing the document and the woman stood up.

"Well it's time for me to address those barbarians. And I'm sure your friends are anxious to get back to you."

Just like she promised, she walked toward the corporate heir, tousled his hair, loosened his tie, and took his hand. She stood the man up and pulled open the curtain to the booth. They emerged hand and hand to address the crowd. Jumin looking disheveled and very pleased.

"Gentlemen! It is time for us to lay this party to rest. Beauty sleep is extremely important to us, ya know." She winked at the crowd. "We're off but our door is always open. Come and visit us anytime and if you happened to make a love connection with one of the ladies tonight all I ask is you hold the doors open for her, treat her like a princess and make sure she gets home safe. We are the Star Crossed Entertainers and tonight we sparkle just for you! Thank you!"

Another burst of confetti fills the room and the men erupt with whistling and applause. The woman lets go of Jumin's hand and begins to make her exit when He reaches out and grabs her wrist.

"Wait, what's your name?"

"Ana."

"How old are you?"

"23."

"Aren't you forgetting the fine print of your own contract?" Jumin drops her wrist and puts his hand out toward her. His hand balled into a fist with his pinky extended. He looks at her face. Her big blue eyes and red lips. The short hair he knew wasn't hers but was very suiting for the occasion and matched well with her outfit. He hadn't noticed while they were sitting but she was eye level to him. He assumed she was tall but they were equal in height. She was something else. She smiled at him and a slender pinky wrapped around his.

"I almost did. Thank you" She let the man's pinky go and leaned in close, softly kissing his cheek. "Hey Mr. Elite Business Man, thanks for not trying to put it in me." She winked and poked her tongue out at the now crimson cheeked handsome C&R director and then she was off. Lost in a see of women and confetti.

Shit. She was a firecracker and Jumin dug it.

Shortly after two burly looking men approached Jumin with a very large curvy woman in tow. Her face was painted for the back row and underneath it all you could tell she wasn't aging gracefully.

"Mr. Han, please forgive the intrusion but I believe you have a signed document for me?"

"Ah yes, one moment.”

Jumin handed the stocky woman the paper he had just signed and watched her read it over.

The woman rolled her eyes and laughed. She folded the paper up and handed it back to Jumin.

"That girl will be the death of me. You know she turned my hair this fabulous silver color don't you?"

"I don't understand, don't you need this document as proof of well..."

"That silly thing won't do me any good. But I trust that you will keep the events of tonight confidential Mr. Han. I am very close with your father. I'll definitely be having a word with Miss "Look at how cute and clever I think I a" when she comes into work tomorrow, but we have no further business here."

"Oh actually ma'am, do you happen to have the contact information for Ana?"

The woman looked puzzled. "Ana? I'm afraid I don't have any girls named Ana."

She turned and left with her brute force in tow, leaving Jumin alone in disbelief.

He looked down at the piece of paper he had signed just a few moments earlier. Under his signature was the fine print that read "This contract isn't valid until both parties engage in a pinky swear." And above was the whole of what he was agreeing to when he signed. "I Mistah Trust Fund Kid am sworn to absolute secrecy." In beautiful script writing.

Jumin folded that paper and put it in his pocket. He will begin looking for her tomorrow. It wouldn't be easy since she was obviously someone who purposely tries to hide her identity. Maybe Zen would know. He opened his phone ready to send a text as his three friends that attended the party began to rush over to the steps in front of the booth where he stood. He put his phone back.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow he will search for the woman, no, the first and only human to impress him by completing a job by NOT doing the job that they were hired to do.

[theangelicstoryteller]

Hey, I saw the commission from paragonraptors, what's going on there, why is Cousland about to deck Hawke?

For anyone that’s wondering, this is the commission in question that I gotfrom @paragonraptors

The short answer is that they don’t get along. Hawke is verygood at getting people to want to punch them, Cousland isn’t nearly as poisedas she would think, and Hawke is really good at provoking people. Beyond that, Hawke has a thing against most Wardens andeveryone’s always mad at Hawke.

Here’s the long answer:

A small note – all my Thedosian heroes are named Faylyn,because of idiotic reasons.

---

Faylyn Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, currently going by justLady Hawke at this fancy Orlesian shindig, clicked her tongue in annoyance asshe watched yet another Faylyn from across the crowd. This one had the fanciesttitle of the three she knew, herself included, being a queen and all. Thoughthe herald, which Faylyn glanced at over as she swirled hertasty-but-weak-as-piss whiskey in her glass, had a fancy title too. She didn’tknow what it was about Faylyns saving the world, but they seemed to be prettygood at it.

Faylyn lazily watched Queen Cousland as she took a long pulloff her whiskey. When the Inquisitor had invited her to this fancy party, shewas hoping, since it was in Orlais, that the pretty queen would stay inFerelden. No such luck, of course. Though Varric had told Faylyn that the crown had very good relations with theInquisition and had no real reason to turn it down, she had still hoped.

Now she had to socialize.

Though the problem, Faylyn knew, as she watched the queenpretending to drink her wine, wasn’t that she was a queen. People were peopleand having fancy headgear didn’t change that. Maker, her best friend wasVicount of her city and she still got blackout drunk with him. No, the factthat this Faylyn had a crown wasn’t the problem. The real problem was that shewas Gray Warden.

Though Faylyn knew the order made its redemption fightingwith the Inquisition, helping take down Corypheus and blah blah blah, but whatthey did at Adamant still hurt. Andraste’s flaming ass, but what they did at Kirkwall all those years ago still hurt.The only Wardens she ever met and that she actually liked was Stroud and herbrother. And Stroud nobly sacrificed himself for his order and the jury was outhalf the time with Carver. She specifically excluded Anders in that count.

Also with what happened at Weisshaupt. Faylyn didn’t like tothink about it much, but it just helped fuel her dislike, maybe even hatred, ofthe Wardens. Though Carver swore by them and they did look as if they were tryingto make amends with the world, the past couldn’t be forgotten. If anyone knewthat, it was her. And now two Wardens were playing royals on in her old home.

And then there was her, carrying the noble name of Faylyn,sharing it with two people who shook the world and were still doing so. TheHerald seemed fine when Faylyn met her at Skyhold (poor taste in men though.Cullen? Really?), she still reshaped the Chantry, helped chose a new Divine, anda whole lot of stuff. And the queen over there stopped a Blight before it leftone country, in under a year, while said country was in a civil war, and livedto tell the story of slaying an Archdemon. Thentook the thrown with a man she loved. And this Faylyn, the bird one, justwanted to get drunk and listen to one of Varric’s many bullshit stories. Tomost people, sharing a name and a similar role to these world shakers wouldintimidate or embarrass them. To this Faylyn, it annoyed her.

She glanced over as Lady Trevelyan (or was it LadyRutherford? Had those two tied the knot yet? Would she even take Cullen’sname?) made her way to her, the herald’s usual smile in place. Her mechanicalarm moved just like her real arm, swinging by her side as the Inquisitor easilymade her way through the masked nobles. Faylyn sighed slightly as she downedthe rest of her whiskey, yet again wishing it was stronger. Time to do thatsocializing.

Queen Faylyn Cousland of Ferelden hated Orlesians, but atleast she was good at politics. Alistair, Maker bless him, did not have a headfor diplomacy, though he hadn’t started any wars while she was away. He haddone an admirable job of opening negotiations with Orlais while she was gone,but she was glad he hadn’t agreed to anything. These second talks they were atwould give Faylyn a chance to test the waters on what Leliana had taught her ofThe Game and see if Empress Celine was serious about mending bridges withFerelden.

“I can’t believe that, after what happened the last time Celinethrew a party, that she still wantedto throw one to talk to us,” Alistair complained next to her. They both were ata small table, neither drinking their wines, though the bottle, and theinsufferable servant who had given it to them, swore it was of a very fine andexpensive vintage. “Though an assassination attempt would make the party more interesting,” he finished with a smirk.

Faylyn shook her head. “They’re Orlesians, dear,” shereminded him with a smile. “They never learn.”

He turned to smile at her. “You can say that again.” Hesighed dramatically, looking over at the gathered nobles with a frown. “Iswear, it’s like they’re testing me. I nearly walked out of the last onebecause of how long everything took and they’re doing it again. Wait, they’reOrlesians. They probably are testing me.”

Faylyn chuckled, placing her hand over his. “If they’re nottesting you, then me.”

He glanced at her with a smirk, moving his hand up to grabhers. “Well, they have no idea who they’re dealing with.”

“Of course, not, sweetheart,” she said with a smirk, hervoice turning to silk, like Leliana had taught her. “I’m the great Hero ofFerelden.”

With a smile, he gave her hand a squeeze. Though back home,they could be far more open with their affection, this was as much as theydared in the Orlesian court. Catching movement out of the corner of her eye,she looked to another Faylyn in the room, Alistair following her gaze. Thisone, the Inquisitor, was having a short meeting, by the looks of it, with herdiplomatic advisor. The Antivan woman, Josephine Montilyet, Faylyn thoughtthat’s what Alistair called her, was talking quickly to the Inquisitor, who wasmotioning with her hands. One of which a striking piece of machinery, perfectlymimicking her lost hand. And though she saw Alistair move to glance at theChampion, Faylyn instead pretended to sip her wine. Alistair quickly looked toher as he saw her take the wineglass, raising an eyebrow.

“She’s been watching me since I got here,” Faylyn saideasily, putting down her undrunk wine. “I’m not about to let her know I know.”

Alistair shook his head, also grabbing his wine andpretending to drink it. “How Orlesian of you, my dear.”

Faylyn chuckled again as she saw Inquisitor Trevelyan makeher way to the Champion. She smiled at Alistair one more time before abandoninghim and her wine to walk to the balcony Trevelyan had asked her to meet themin. She did not wear a crown this day. That was for the play of it, thedramatics that The Game and Orlais demanded. Today was for business, somethingshe was more accustom to. But she didn’t need a crown to command the crowd asshe walked with the poise only a queen could carry. And the crowded noblesparted for her. Though none would bow to a backwater queen, the power thatseemed to radiate off of Queen Faylyn Cousland, Hero of Ferelden, was enough.

Back straight, head high, Faylyn stepped out into thesunshine of the outer balcony. Once there, her back to the crowd, she let out asmall sigh. It was too warm in Orlais. Her thin summer dress was still toothick for the winters of Halamshiral, especially in the warm palace. It wascolder out here, thank the Maker. She didn’t enjoy the chill, however, turningslightly to watch Lady Hawke and Lady Trevelyan out of the corner of her eye.

The Champion moved with a controlled grace that belied herlarge form. She was built like a warrior – tall with a wide frame, The Championwould never be called slender by any stretch of the imagination, other thanperhaps a qunari’s – but moved with a finesse that reminded Faylyn of her own.And the way that Lady Trevelyan walked. Rogues, all three of them, she thought,looking back to the gardens. How interesting. It seems Zevran wouldn’t beneeded to liven things up after all.

Faylyn Trevelyan, Herald, Inquisitor, and all that, easilymade her way through the crowd. Hawke made it easy, since she stood nearly halfa head at least above all the other nobles around her. She didn’t know whatthey fed her in Kirkwall, but the last people she met that were this stout werethe Avaar. And that bulk she was pretty sure was supplemented in furs.

What were the odds that three of the most influential peoplein southern Thedas would all share a name? Faylyn guessed that the Maker justwanted to be easily able to pick out who He wanted to do great things. Even now,Faylyn was hoping that someone in Tevinter would have the name so she could geta good guess on who would help her in the coming fight against Solas.

But those were thoughts for another time. Right now, Faylynwas excited to introduce Queen Cousland and Champion Hawke to one another. Ifnegotiations went well between Orlais and Ferelden, Kirkwall would be animportant port stop between Denerim and Val Royeaux. Faylyn was eager to seethe intermingling of the three cultures, starting with the Ferelden’s muchloved queen and Kirkwall’s most notorious champion.

Said champion looked bored as Faylyn walked through thebalcony doors. Already there, looking over at the winter palace gardens, wasQueen Cousland. She turned when she heard them cross the threshold, smilingaloofly. Behind Faylyn, very quietly, Hawke gave a short huff. She soundedannoyed, which immediately set her on diplomatic edge. Josephine had said thatthese two had never met, except once at the feast celebrating when Hawke becameChampion. Leliana confirmed it and said that the two only had a shortconversation. Nothing indicated that Hawke would dislike Queen Cousland.

Using her best Wicked Grace face, she smiled at theChampion, stepping aside to introduce them. Hawke did look annoyed as she gavea level gaze to the queen. “Lady Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall,” she saidcheerfully, holding a hand out to the monarch, “allow me to introduce you QueenCousland of Ferelden. Your Majesty,” she turned back to Queen Cousland, whoonly had a polite smile on her face, giving away nothing. She gave the properFerelden bow, which was a half salute, crossing her arms across her chest whilebowing her head.

Queen Cousland smiled a little deeper, seeming to gestureFaylyn away. “Oh, none of that, Your Worship. There’s no need to be so formal.”She looked up at the larger woman. “A pleasure, Champion,” she said with a dipof her had. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Hasn’t everyone?” the Champion asked flippantly. She foldedher hands behind her back, but she still managed to give off an uncaringposture. Her eyes wandered over to the gardens behind Queen Cousland. “I’m sureall of Thedas has read Varric’s book about me by now,” she said in a way thatwasn’t exactly mean, but it was far from friendly.

Faylyn wanted to smack her. She was being rude to a queen.  Queen Cousland was much less formal than Empress Celine, but the Champion wasbordering on disrespectful. Faylyn raised her eyebrows at the Champion, but kepther smile up, hoping her silent reprimand wasn’t lost on Hawke, but unnoticedto the queen. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending, neither of them werelooking at her. Faylyn tried to read the queen as she leaned into Hawke’s lineof sight.

“True, I did read Varric’s infamous book,” she said with asmile. But there was something sharp about it, threatening, in the veryundercurrent of her tone and behind her smile. Almost like she had pulled out aknife rather than a smile. “But I’m far more interested in the truth. I doubtyou’re as much as a myth as Lord Varric would have the world believe.”

Hawke’s gaze lazily looked back to the queen. But there wasa shift in her posture. She wasn’t looking atthe queen so much as using her massive height and build to look down at the queen. Faylyn’s smiledropped as she read the hostility that was suddenly blooming between the women.

Faylyn Hawke’s eyes were more focused than her expressionled on as she moved her hands to her hips. A tiny smirk played at the edge of herlips as she read the smile on the queen’s face. It was downright dagger like.Reminded her of the smiles the bards gave. Funny, that a Ferelden noble wouldknow an Orlesian trick. What else did she know? “Oh, I don’t know; your ownstory seems pretty unbelievable. Do you really think I’m the mythical one, oh great warden that slew an archdemon? Thenleft to go rule a kingdom?”

Her smirk was now half pronounced as she watched one of Cousland’seyebrows raise. Nothing, huh? Well, she was just getting started. She sort ofnoticed a look the Inquisitor gave her, but she ignored her. She was bored andprobably actually a little tipsy, despite the weakness of the whiskey. Well,she did drink an entire bottle and a half.

“True, I suppose,” the queen said with grace, gently foldingher hands in front of her. She seemed undaunted. “I suppose, in light of mystory, yours seems far more probable. Though you did start the Mage-TemplarRebellion.”

No she didn’t. Anders was the idiot who blew up the Chantry.Fiona, even later in the middle of nowhere Orlais, was the one that cast thevote. Anders, another damn crazy Warden. Thinking of him made her frown. Sheshrugged, looking away, up at the building around her, folding her hands behindher back again. “I just happened to be in Kirkwall, really. Not like you,” shesaid lazily again, moving her gaze back to the short queen, her expressionneutral again. “I’d say you had the opposite problem at Ostagar.”

Another Warden failure, as far as Hawke was concerned.Though in Cousland’s defense, Logain did quit the field and took with him mostof the army. But it did the trick that Faylyn was looking for. A humanreaction. She got it out of both the Inquisitor and the queen, as both theirsmiles dropped, something close to anger furrowing Cousland’s brow and makingTrevelyan look at her sharply. But it proved something to Faylyn she alwayswanted to be assured of whenever dealing with Wardens. That they rememberedthat they were mortal.

She was there, at Ostagar. That was the only concussion thatQueen Faylyn could come to. The Champion wasthere, and it sounded dangerously close to an accusation on what happened thatday so, so many years ago. Faylyn felt her posture go stiff, her hands clenchas she looked into Hawke’s eyes. Her face seemed disinterested, but there wassomething there behind her eyes. Faylyn’s anger cooled to icy rage as sheleveled her own gaze at Hawke. Ostagar was always a painful subject, even ifthe mess was both King Cailan and Logain’s fault, at least one person every fewmonths pointed the blame at the Wardens.

Faylyn didn’t suffer it then and she wouldn’t suffer it now.

“At least I was trying to help and not letting a city burnaround me, only helping when it was convenient to me,” she said coolly,watching Hawke carefully. “I’m sure you were just going to the market when thequnari attacked.”

Hawke’s smirk returned, which deepened Faylyn’s rage. Thiswoman was toying with her. Her. TheQueen and Hero of Ferelden. A champion who’s best known accomplishment was failing and running from the city she once protected as its Circle fell. Her coldand sharp smile returned. She felt a shift inside her from queen to Warden; andshe was still a Warden. She didn’t deserve this treatment.

This was bad. Inquisitor Faylyn felt her heart rate spike asshe watched the two exchanging verbal blows. This was really bad. The two justset each other off, in the worst way possible. Of course, Faylyn had heard thatthe Champion was sarcastic and tactless, but she was being somewhat aggressiveto the queen. It wasn’t until Hawke mentioned Ostagar that it hit her. Ofcourse, Queen Cousland was a Warden before she was queen. And Hawke never likedthe Wardens. It had been so long since the queen had done anything for thewardens, Faylyn had hoped that Hawke wouldn’t have cared she was once part ofthe order. Or at least gave them credit for the work they had done for Thedasover the recent years. Apparently, it was too much to hope for.

“Come now, here’s no need for that,” Faylyn said sweetly,gently trying to put herself between the two. Both of their expressions weredangerous; a sharp smirk on the champion, a sharp glare on the queen. Sharplike knives being pulled in a fight. The fact that both were ten years hersenior didn’t mean anything to Faylyn. She was sure that they were both verycapable.

This was the last thing that Faylyn wanted.

Champion Faylyn could see it, written in the cute queen’seyes. She got her. Right there. Crawled right under her skin. Faylyn was goodat that. She practiced with Isabela and Varric all the time. She completelyignored Trevelyan, her smirk deepening as she leaned closer to the queen. Herinsult was weak, overdone, blunt, and wrung out. It was time to show her what apro could do.

“At least I helped when the city started to fall,” she saidsweetly. “Not like you. Not like when your golden boy Stroud came through andcalled qunari murdering people in the streets a political matter.”

She really had liked Stroud, but she had also never gottenover what he said to her all those years ago. The wardens do not interfere with political matters, he had said.Or something close enough. Because people being senselessly slaughtered wasconsidered a political matter. But the blow didn’t do much against the queen.Good thing she wasn’t finished yet.

“Biggest lie I think you’ve ever told, which is sayingsomething, huh? Your Majesty?” Shewas proud of herself for making the honorific sound like an insult. She saw hotanger flash through the queens’ eyes, panic in Trevelyan’s posture. She stillwasn’t done. “But your order has enough secrets to put the whole Orlesian courtto shame, eh? Like saying you’re morally above the world when you kill own tofuel blood soaked demon summoning and killed the griffins in your own twistedrituals. But that’s the right kind ofkilling, right?”

More anger, followed with pain and confusion, shifted in thequeen’s eyes. Oh, so the great Hero of Ferelden didn’t know about the griffins?Well this was the perfect way to tell her. Hawke felt just a little bit ofsatisfaction in that.

“Please, enough,” the Inquisitor said, stepping between themboth, putting her hands out to her sides. She was so short, shorter than eventhe little queen. Not by much, but everyone was short to a Hawke. Her voice wasboth pleading and authoritative. But it fell on two sets of deaf ears.

“And what of you, Champion?”Cousland demanded back. Her voice was cold, not loud, but her posture spokevolumes. She threw the title at her with even more venom that Faylyn had thrownthe honorific. “I’m surprised that you even decided to return to that stain ofcity that crowned you. Seeing as you helped a madman tear it apart and bloodmages escape the city.”

A face, several, ones she didn’t like to think about.

You tore Kirkwallapart and started the rebellion! Stroud, trapped in the Fade, one of thelast things he said to her.

Meredith wants bloodmagic, then I will give it to her! Orsino, desperate to escape, knew of theone who killed her mother.

There is no going back…Anders, lost to Vengeance, the abomination Fenris warned her about. She wantedto believe him…

But it seemed that she had underestimated her foe. The Queenwasn’t done either.

“Then, after destroying it, you left it, abandoning yourpeople to the demons and Templars still left in it.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’msure your mage siblings fared well against their wrath. Or did you abandon themto save your own skin like you did Fenris?”

How dare she?! Shewanted to bring Fenris into this? Fine. Then it was a no-pulled-punches kind offight. Her anger rose in her, blooming like a bloody flower covered in barbs.“You wanna talk about leaving to save your own skin? Where were you when thesky had a hole in it? You left your country, your husband, and your baby children to save yourself, leaving them to the demonsthe sky spit out.”

She saw it. Something snapped inside of the queen. Somethingwas close to snapping in her. Something was bending in Trevelyan. “Please,enough!” She cried out, putting her mechanical hand out to Cousland. Wrongchoice. Hawke could snap both of these little twigs, but the metal of Trevelyan’sarm might have been a challenge.

Cousland came at her, her arm going in for the punch. Faylyncrouched low, hands outstretched, getting ready. “Come on then!” A barroombrawl was exactly what she needed. But the good Inquisitor was getting in theway, her mechanical arm grabbing Cousland.

“Please, stop!” She cried, one hand raised to Faylyn, hermetal grip tightening on Cousland’s arm.

Neither of them paid her any attention.

[pocketseizure]

The Legend of the Princess, Chapter Fifteen

Dancing on the Eve of War

In which Zelda has an intimate conversation with Ganondorf on the night before a wedding that was once her own.

(Chapter Fifteen on AO3) (Story Tag on Tumblr) (Cover Illustration)  

* * * * *

Zelda excused herself from court early by claiming that she was tired, but nothing could be further from the truth. She had slept long and late the night before, and throughout the day she was filled with an electric charge of energy. As she made her way to her rooms, she gradually shed all of the courtiers who accompanied her progress, and when she finally closed the door behind her she dismissed her attendants, telling them that she wished to prepare for bed on her own. Extracting herself from her gown and jewelry was no small feat, but she worked quickly and efficiently before dressing herself in a long tunic and a set of the loose pleated riding pants that had recently come into fashion in Castle Town.

She lit the flame of a small storm lantern and used the secret passage connecting her drawing room with the lower floor to go to the library. She worried that, on this night of all nights, it would be occupied by one or two of the more cultured of the recent arrivals to the castle or by a zealous couple seeking privacy, but the large room was empty and illuminated only by the moonlight that drifted through the windows. The library had always been drafty, and the stone walls held a slight chill, but Zelda was comfortable; she had always liked the cold.

She placed her lantern on an ornamental table as she settled into one of the overstuffed chairs arranged on the floor below the shelves. After sitting silently for a few moments with her eyes closed, she withdrew her mother's ocarina from her pocket and turned it over in her hands while she worked through the day's troubles in her mind.

Ruto had once again delayed her visit to the castle, and this time she hadn't bothered to provide an excuse. Zelda understood that the Zora princess was not being rude but rather demonstrating her trust in Zelda's friendship and goodwill, but she was still concerned. The leader of the Goron tribe, an enormous bearded man named Darunia, had also failed to attend court this evening. This was disconcerting, for Darunia was her father's equal in joviality, and it was not in his character to pass up an opportunity for drinking and dancing. Meanwhile, Zelda had been informed that a sizable party of Moblins had set up a large tent outside the city earlier that morning. This wasn't technically illegal, as they occupied common land that was open to anyone who wished to use it, but there had been vociferous complaints that Zelda suspected were not commensurate to any actual disturbance the group of Moblins may have actually caused.

As usual, Ganondorf hadn't shown his face at court. When she asked after him, her inquiries were met with mean-spirited gossip. A certain amount of rumor-mongering was to be expected, but Zelda was surprised by the venom lacing the general opinion of Ganondorf, which bled into the words of people whom she could usually count on to be fair and even-tempered. It was said that Ganondorf did not eat properly, and that he often touched his hands to his food like a savage, as if he were no better than a Moblin. People complained that he smelled strangely, and that his clothing was too dark and too loose, and that the gold and gems he wore in his hair and on his fingers were too flashy, and that he did not smile, and that his oddly colored eyes were too intense.

People whispered that they had seen Ganondorf in Castle Town in the company of Gerudo women, whom everyone knew only ventured into the kingdom to tempt and steal Hylian men. Some people claimed that he spent too much time in the stables, and that he would only speak with Darknuts, and that the attention he paid to Barghest's Hylian apprentice was inappropriate. Of course, people tittered, the stable boy was beautiful. A young woman from the distant Hebra mountains hinted that there was a covert trade in amateur sketches of Link in various salacious poses, which caused Zelda to wonder just how much of the antipathy toward Ganondorf was actually a result of envy that he moved and spoke as he wished.

At a certain point in the evening Zelda managed to find a moment alone with her father. Thinking of Telma's advice from the previous night, she asked him why there were only a small handful of Gerudo at court. He glanced around them before quietly answering that the Gerudo had shunned both the castle and his company ever since the passing of the last queen. No one knew the truth of it, he said, but it was her mother whom they had blamed for the accident that resulted in her death. He apologized, adding that they would need to speak more of this later. He then turned to one of the Rito ambassadors, who was clutching two fresh glasses of wine in her feathers as she approached. Zelda's conversation with her father lasted little more than a minute, and then her attention was immediately directed elsewhere as she accepted one of the wineglasses and began chatting with the ambassador.

Zelda wasn't as gregarious as Daphnes, but she enjoyed the exchange of conversation. Nevertheless, she had reached her limit of dealing with people and politics for the evening. She was simultaneously tired yet filled with restless energy. People would talk if she went out riding so late at night, so she decided to read instead.

When she was younger, her favorite book had been about a teenage witch named Maple who went to live in a Rito aerie. At first it seemed that Maple was clumsy and had not been gifted with any particular talent, but through hard work and perseverance she eventually learned to fly. Zelda was struck with a pang of nostalgia as she remembered the story. She sat up in her chair, thinking that she would take the lantern between the shelves to locate the book. The strange metal of the ocarina had finally grown warm in her hands, however, and before she put it down she wanted to take a shot at playing the song Nabooru had performed for her.

She had been absentmindedly humming snatches of it all day, but when she held the mouthpiece of the ocarina to her lips she had trouble finding the right notes. The meter of the song was fast and lively, and her fingers were stiff from lack of practice. She tried to piece together the exact sequence of notes while she searched for the right key, and she wondered what Ganondorf's voice would sound like if he sang it. Suddenly she caught the melody, and her spirit rose as the song began to carry her.

Zelda closed her eyes, and she could feel the world around her flowing like water, or like time, or like music itself, and then she could hear other sounds – the crackle of fire and the clapping of hands and the strings of a guitar accompanying her. She knew that she had once again been transported through time, but instead of being frightened she continued to play. She was enjoying herself, and to her delight she now knew exactly how the song should go.

Zelda opened her eyes, and the first thing she saw was a man sitting on a large rock with a guitar in his lap. He watched her and smiled as he as he played. His hair framed his face in long braids, and the delicate embroidery on the collar of his tunic shone in the light of the fire like golden scales. The lines and curves of his nose and jaw were unfamiliar to her, but from the second she saw him there was no doubt in Zelda's mind that this must be Ganondorf.

When the final chord closed and the last notes faded, the music was replaced by the cheers and laughter of a circle of women in old-fashioned Gerudo dress. One of them reached out to draw her into their circle, and as she was propelled forward she managed to shove the ocarina into a pocket of her pants, which had blossoming hems that were tucked into riding boots with flat soles whose leather flaps buttoned along her calves. To her delight she found that this clothing fit her perfectly and was more comfortable than anything she had ever worn.

Zelda was twirled into a dance with the other women, their muscular arms twining around hers. Beautiful floral designs drawn in sepia ink covered the exposed areas of their skin, and loose ribbons fluttered along after their unbound hair. She was surrounded by a swirl of smiles and bright eyes, and when it was over small cups of fragrant tea spiced with alcohol were passed between hands as toasts were made. Zelda realized that the women around her were speaking a version of the Gerudo language that was so archaic that she could recognize it only by its pattern of consonants and vowels, but she had no trouble understanding what was said to her. Words sprang into her mind and formed easily on her tongue, and when she thanked the women for the tea they began to talk with her, guiding her to one of the canvas pavilions set up around a large bonfire. She allowed herself to be swept along, overwhelmed by the sound of the crowd and the smell of roasting meat and peppers in the air and the dazzling colors of the silk banners adorning the canvas tents.

Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder, and she turned to find Ganondorf looking down at her.

"I know you're eager to speak with the princess," he said to her companions, "but surely you won't deny me the privilege of dancing with my fiancée on the night before our wedding."

Before she could object Ganondorf slid his hand down her waist, and then she was in his arms and they were dancing. It was nothing like the dance they'd shared in her own time. He held her tightly, and the pressure of his hands was forceful as he guided her. He used the gaps between the beats to touch her arms and her face and her hair, and no matter how they moved he kept his eyes fixed on her.

Zelda was astounded by his audacity. She knew that she could break away from his grasp if she made an effort, but he was so close and his hands were so strong and he smelled so good. She leaned into him and matched her movements to his, justifying to herself that it would be awkward if she pushed him away before the dance was over.

The song seemed to take no time at all, and when it was finished everyone around them cheered. Ganondorf lifted her by the waist and spun her around before setting her back on her feet and kissing her hand. The gesture felt so oddly intimate that she was finally shocked into wondering where they were and what they were doing.

Blushing fiercely, Zelda glanced over Ganondorf's shoulder. She could see the white stone of the castle walls in the distance, and she deduced that the Gerudo must have set up their camp in the field that used to lie between the castle and the city. A second later she noticed that the dim outline of the structure against the moonlit sky was nothing she had ever seen before. Its towers were not the practical rectangles she had known all her life, but pointed spires rising elegantly into the sky. She had come across architectural drawings of cathedrals with the same features, but the only examples of these buildings that still remained in her own time were far away from the center of Hyrule. Zelda estimated that she must have traveled more than four hundred years into the past.

A chain of associations clicked together in her mind, and Zelda drew in a sharp intake of breath. Four hundred years ago there had been a civil war that resulted in most of the castle being destroyed. It was amazing to see the historical edifice with her own eyes, even at a distance, but she was struck by the fear that this vision would show her the opening salvo of the war. She seemed to have found herself in the midst of a celebration of some kind, but was she safe? And had she understood Ganondorf correctly when he referred to her as his finacée?

Ganondorf seemed to sense that she was upset. He motioned to one of the women attending them, who stepped forward to offer him a small bottle of water. Its surface was frosty with condensation. He touched the smooth glass to her forehead in what Zelda assumed was a ritual gesture before leading her away from the circle, all the while chatting lightly about how fortunate it was that the women organizing his travel party had the foresight to bring ice along with them. They wove their way around several tents before finally coming to a stop at the base of a tree with white bark and short silver leaves.

"It seems you've been taking good care of the olive tree I sent you," he observed as he helped her sit down at its base. Zelda leaned back against the trunk and drank deeply, finding that she was unbearably thirsty.

"I was afraid that it wouldn't do well in this climate. You must have given it a lot of attention," he continued. "In return, I'd like you to have this."

He knelt beside her and presented her with a delicate golden ring adorned with a stylized representation of the Gerudo crest. His words and movements were so sudden that Zelda could only stare at him, unsure of how he expected her to respond. "I wanted you to have it before the ceremony tomorrow," he said, holding his left hand out for hers. Zelda hesitated. Ganondorf seemed to be serious, but what did it matter, in the end? It was just a vision, and she could not change the past.

The goddess grant me wisdom, Zelda prayed.

She placed her hand into his, and he turned it so that her palm was facing upward. Instead of slipping the ring onto her finger, he pressed it into the center of her palm and gently squeezed her fingers around it. He withdrew his hand, and she held the ring up to admire the metalwork.

"Do you know what the crest represents?" he asked.

Zelda smiled. "Some people say that it represents the false eyes on the back of the king cobra," she answered, remembering the words of the Ganondorf in her own time. "But some people say they're the eyes of the sand goddess, while some say they are the eyes of the Gerudo dragonfly. Together the two eyes create perspective, just as a deep bond between two people will balance and strengthen them both."

When she looked up from the ring, Ganondorf was smiling at her. He touched the tips of his fingers to her cheek, and then he leaned forward and kissed her.

Zelda immediately tensed and pulled back. She looked down, unable to meet Ganondorf's eyes. She watched as he covered her hand with his, and when she raised her eyes he was gazing at her with concern.

"We don't have to do this, if that's not what you want," he said softly.

Zelda was unsure whether he was referring to kissing her, or to something else. "Do what?" she asked bluntly, still too shocked to find polite words.

"You've tried to hide it from me, but I know your brother and his council oppose our marriage. We know that many of the Hylian noble families have decided not to attend the ceremony, and we know why we weren't invited to stay in the castle. I know what I'm asking of you – if you leave, you won't be able to come back to Hyrule. No one would blame you if you called this off. I..." He paused and squeezed her hand. "I wouldn't blame you. We haven't spent this much time together in years, and I would understand if you've changed your mind."

Zelda stared at Ganondorf as what he said to her began to sink in. They were going to be married? That couldn't be possible. If there had been a union between a Hylian princess and one of the Gerudo leaders, she would have read about it.

"Please, tell me, Zelda," Ganondorf continued as he knelt in front of her. "Do you really want this?"

Zelda still didn't understand what he was asking. If their marriage had been arranged, and if matters had gotten to the point that there was a large group of Gerudo camping out in the field surrounding the castle so that they could attend the ceremony, then everything had already been decided. Was he really giving her a choice? Did what she want really matter that much to him?

"I don't know," she answered him honestly.

Ganondorf grimaced. He looked like he was about to say something, but instead he shifted his weight and sat down on the grass beside her.

"I've loved you since I first saw you, you know," he said after a moment had passed, not looking at her as he spoke. "Even as a boy visiting Hyrule for the first time, I knew I wanted to marry you. My mothers and aunts used to tease me, telling me what a silly fantasy this was, but I could never give it up. Every single letter you sent me I read over and over until the paper started to tear along its creases. Sometimes I even traced the words just to feel how your hand moved."

Zelda inhaled sharply, realizing that she had done the same with the scrap of paper Ganondorf left behind in the library. She told herself that she was just trying to figure out what was written there, but there was something more, and it was exactly how this man described it – a part of her had wanted to feel how his hand moved as he wrote.

"Forgive me for being presumptuous, but I read your words so carefully that I may have read too much into them, and it hurt me how much it pains you to be confined to this castle. You never said as much, but I could tell."

"Ganondorf..." Zelda murmured, trying to anchor herself as the reality of this vision threatened to overtake her sense of self. The woman whose body she occupied was a stranger to her, but still Ganondorf's description of this princess echoed her own frustrations. She did hate being confined to the castle, and she hated that the progression of her days and nights was dictated by a schedule that kept her busy at all times and trapped her within her duties.

Ganondorf slid his hands over hers and looked at her once again. "Let me take you away from here," he said, his voice quiet but compelling. "In our city you can come and go as you please, and you can ride and travel wherever your will guides you. It's expected that Gerudo rulers leave the desert and journey to the lands outside of Hyrule. My family and advisors will welcome you and the expertise you bring, and no one will expect you to perform for the court like a trained bird in a cage of silk."

Zelda was mesmerized by Ganondorf's eyes as he spoke. She knew it was dangerous to be swept up in a reality that was not her own, but the fantasy he promised seemed, in that moment, to be everything she had ever wanted.

"When you wrote to me," he continued, "you told me about the books you read, all the stories of brave heroes and evil wizards and faraway lands. I loved your words, but I want you to be able to write about what you see with your own eyes."

As he spoke, he stroked and caressed her hands, pressing his fingertips against hers and massaging her palms with his thumbs. There was an intimacy to his touch that she had not felt when they danced, and heat rose to her face when she realized that she did not want him to stop. And was that wrong? If this was just a vision, what did it matter what she did or said? No one was watching her, and no one would judge her.

"I'm afraid that I'm not ready to leave Hyrule," she said, gaining confidence in the ease with which she was able to speak in a voice and language that were not her own. "I may not be ready now, and I don't know if I'll ever be ready. Everything I've ever known is here, and what little ability I have is limited to my familiarity with routine and protocol. All I know is being a princess in this castle, and if I leave I won't even have that."

"You don't give yourself enough credit," Ganondorf replied, tracing the valleys between her knuckles with his thumb. "And to tell you the truth, I'm nervous myself. I wasn't sure I was ready to return to Hyrule again, not after what happened last time. You saw it with your own eyes, and I don't have to tell you how we're hated and feared in your kingdom. My own mothers weren't happy about me insisting on marrying a Hylian, but I've never been happier. No one has ever done anything like this – but Zelda, we can make our own way."

Ganondorf tilted his face toward her, and the light of the distant fire caught his strange golden eyes, making them shine. It's just a vision, Zelda thought, and then she leaned forward and kissed him. His lips were softer than she imagined, and the scent of his skin was delicious. He moved his hands up her arms and around her shoulders as he pulled her to him and opened her lips with his tongue. As the kiss deepened he was not gentle, and it thrilled Zelda to allow herself to yield to the ferocity of his ardor. No one had ever touched her or wanted her like this, and she was almost jealous of this princess for having generated such a fierce desire. She grew bolder, caressing the thick muscle of Ganondorf's shoulders and neck as she drew his body closer to hers.

"Lord Ganondorf!" a woman's voice interrupted them. Zelda broke the kiss and pulled away as the messenger approached. "A young man has been sent to retrieve the princess."

"Then go back and tell him that he can wait," Ganondorf snapped at her, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. She nodded her head in acknowledgment, but even in the dim light Zelda could see the shadow of anxiety that passed over her face.

"This is your brother's doing, I'm sure of it," Ganondorf muttered. He clenched one of his hands in a fist and cracked his knuckles, and Zelda watched in horror as his face twisted into a scowl of rage. "Stay here," he said to her, not even bothering to look in her direction as he spoke. "I will send someone to guard you. I will protect you from your family if it's the last thing I do."

Zelda felt her face solidify into a mask as she was pierced by a keen sense of annoyance. How dare this man pledge his love to her and promise her freedom only to order her to remain behind in a conflict? She started to get to her feet, planning to tell Ganondorf that she was perfectly capable of protecting herself, when suddenly the air was split by a multitude of screams. Zelda froze, and then she was knocked back against the trunk of the tree by the force of an explosion that boomed into the sky.

She threw her arms in front of her face, expecting to be struck by a blast of fire or a hail of debris, but when she opened her eyes Ganondorf was crouching over her to shield her from harm. The anger was gone from his face, and what had replaced it was pure fear. In that moment she understood exactly why she had never read about the union between a Hylian princess and a Gerudo leader, and she felt the frost of a cold fury settle over her features. She touched her fingertips lightly to the smooth skin of Ganondorf's jaw as she met his eyes, sharpening his will with her own. His face slowly hardened under the ice of her gaze.

"Go," she commanded.

He nodded in understanding, and then he stood and strode off into the hellish night. Zelda knew what must happen next, but she had no wish to see it with her own eyes. As the discordant chorus of terrified voices and cries of pain surrounding her grew louder, she withdrew her ocarina and began to play.

( Chapter Sixteen )