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mariana-oconnor · 1 year

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The Boscombe Valley Mystery pt 2

Not part 3... yet. I didn't check my email until after both parts had been sent, so I managed to do these in the right order. Woo!

A lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for us upon the platform. In spite of the light brown dustcoat and leather-leggings which he wore in deference to his rustic surroundings, I had no difficulty in recognising Lestrade, of Scotland Yard.

Another flattering description. Although I must say, 'leather leggings'?? We were robbed. I have never seen a version of Lestrade wearing leather leggings and a duster. He sounds more like he's LARPing than investigating a crime. It's so steampunk of him. Like... this is the kind of thing people wear as a steampunk outfit and other people say it's not Victorian.

If leggings were a different thing back then Do Not Tell Me! I want to live with this image forever.

"It is entirely a question of barometric pressure." Lestrade looked startled. "I do not quite follow," he said. "How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a cloud in the sky. I have a case-full of cigarettes here which need smoking, and the sofa is very much superior to the usual country hotel abomination. I do not think that it is probable that I shall use the carriage to-night." Lestrade laughed indulgently.

Is this Holmes' long-winded way of saying that he doesn't need the carriage because it's not going to rain? But then he's also saying he's not going out because the sofa is so comfortable. (Coming up: S Holmes' monograph on the relative comfort of differing couches and their proxximity to the countryside).

Also, Lestrade is just... 'I tried to be helpful' and is soundly rejected, but just laughs it off.

He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the most lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her violet eyes shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks, all thought of her natural reserve lost in her overpowering excitement and concern.

Well, Watson thinks she's hot. 😂 Little bit of a different description from some of the other characters he's met. This is practically indecent. Lol.

"Mr McCarthy was very anxious that there should be a marriage between us. James and I have always loved each other as brother and sister; but of course he is young and has seen very little of life yet, and—and—well, he naturally did not wish to do anything like that yet."

That is... not the way round I was expecting. So he wanted them to marry and the kids didn't. It's unclear here whether they didn't want to marry because they consider each other as siblings or if he specifically didn't want to be tied down so young. Fair, either way, but a bit of a surprise. I was expecting parental disapproval.

"And your father?" asked Holmes. "Was he in favour of such a union?" "No, he was averse to it also.

Ah, there's the parental disapproval. But only on one side. So it seems a bit like McCarthy is trying to marry his son to his 'friend's' daughter in order to get something from the exchange, but his 'friend' doesn't like that idea.

"Ha! In Victoria! That is important." "Yes, at the mines." "Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr Turner made his money."

Ah, there's a gold mine involved. That seems like it might be a motive.

"I must go home now, for dad is very ill..."

Really jarring to see 'dad' in use here. I never think of that having been used in the 19th century. It made me do a double take. I know that 'dada' is hugely wide in usage by children, going back probably millennia, but to see an adult in a Victorian story refer to their 'dad' is just... huh.

Also, Mr Turner being sick and bedridden feels like it might fit into this jigsaw somewhere? Is it a ruse to give himself an alibi?

"Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very slow, but I shall only be away a couple of hours."

I love the throughline in this that both Mary and Holmes seem convinced that Watson is incapable of entertaining himself. Mary sends him off to stay with Sherlock when she's away and Sherlock here is worried that Watson won't have enough enrichment if he leaves him alone for a couple of hours.

He's a fully grown man, not a puppy. Lmao.

But then again...

I lay upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a yellow-backed novel. The puny plot of the story was so thin, however, when compared to the deep mystery through which we were groping, and I found my attention wander so continually from the action to the fact, that I at last flung it across the room...

Holmes is apparently right. I mean, I completely understand the mood. I just find it amusing that it only takes less than a couple of hours without Holmes for Watson to deteriorate from aimlessly wandering the streets to throwing books across the room.

Might not the nature of the injuries reveal something to my medical instincts? I rang the bell and called for the weekly county paper, which contained a verbatim account of the inquest. In the surgeon's deposition it was stated that the posterior third of the left parietal bone and the left half of the occipital bone had been shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon. I marked the spot upon my own head.

SCIENCE!

This is... kind of adorable. I mean, if it wasnt a description of deadly wounds on a corpse.

"He is not a very quick-witted youth, though comely to look at and, I should think, sound at heart."

(I believe this is James Purefoy playing the part of James MCCarthy in the granada series, but this being the internet, I cannot be sure.)

Seriously, though. Confirmed Himbo Young McCarthy. Pretty and well-meaning but not very smart.

"Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly, insanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he was only a lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been away five years at a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get into the clutches of a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a registry office?"

LOL I shouldn't laugh, but... but yeah. Lolololol. Oh Young Mr McCarthy, this makes so much more sense. And it reads like the plot of an Austen novel. It practically is the plot of Sense and Sensibility. Except at least in that one they're only engaged, not full on married.

It does kind of suck, though. Where is his wife? Did she seduce him? Or were they both just swept away in it all?

Does Mr Turner know about the secret wife and is that why he's against the marriage? But you'd assume if he knew he'd tell Mr McCarthy (the dead one, not the himbo). So I've got to assume that Mr Turner doesn't know.

"Good has come out of evil, however, for the barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in serious trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly and has written to him to say that she has a husband already in the Bermuda Dockyard, so that there is really no tie between them."

...

Bahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

Oh this is hilarious. I just... I can't remember this from the Granada series. This is just a comedy. I mean on the one hand he's accused of murder at a time the death penalty is still in use in the UK. On the other hand, at least he's no longer trapped in a marriage he doesn't want to be in! Always look on the bright side.

I feel like I should be trying to take this seriously. A man is dead. But I just can't.

"One is that the murdered man had an appointment with someone at the pool, and that the someone could not have been his son, for his son was away, and he did not know when he would return. The second is that the murdered man was heard to cry 'Cooee!' before he knew that his son had returned."

And as our research last time informed us 'cooee' originated in Australia and therefore leads to the conclusion that he was meeting someone from Australia. Either Mr Turner or someone else who has come from Australia unbeknownst to us.

"And now let us talk about George Meredith, if you please, and we shall leave all minor matters until to-morrow."

Do we know who George Meredith is? Has he come up before. I do not remember the name.

"He was an old friend of McCarthy's, and, I may add, a great benefactor to him, for I have learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm rent free."

There is a distinct whiff of blackmail upon the air.

SO theory - someone else found the gold that Mr Turner made his fortune on, but he claim jumped them and left them for dead and now years later, that person has turned up for REVENGE.

But then why is the dead person no the person who ended up with the gold mine?

... Be-cause... Oh, because Mr McCarthy was the person who did Mr Turner's dirty work. So he 'murdered' the person who originally found the gold on behalf of Mr Turner, and since then Mr Turner has been keeping him quiet and paying him for his service. But it turned out the original gold finder wasn't really dead - or he had a relative? - and now they are back.

But that would require there to be another character we...

THE OLD WOMAN, I knew I was suspicious of her. Random unnamed old woman just happens to be walking around and witnessing things? Pah. She's the dead man's widow who has hunted Turner and McCarthy across the world on her quest for VENGEANCE!

Yes, I am now only doing this as an excuse to post Percy gifs. I regret nothing.

"Does it not strike you as a little singular that this McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have been under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying his son to Turner's daughter, who is, presumably, heiress to the estate, and that in such a very cocksure manner, as if it were merely a case of a proposal and all else would follow? It is the more strange, since we know that Turner himself was averse to the idea. The daughter told us as much. Do you not deduce something from that?"

Yes, a distinct stench of blackmail does abound. McCarthy definitely had something on Mr Turner.

"We have got to the deductions and the inferences," said Lestrade, winking at me. "I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without flying away after theories and fancies." "You are right," said Holmes demurely; "you do find it very hard to tackle the facts."

Burn. Wow, that was cutting.

However, the whole repartee here. Lestrade winking at Watson and echoing back words that are similar to ones we've heard Holmes say himself. Then the fact that Lestrade replies to that insult at the end there 'with some warmth', it all takes it from being an exchange of insults to old friends teasing each other. I love the flow of all of this.

We called at the door, when the maid, at Holmes's request, showed us the boots which her master wore at the time of his death, and also a pair of the son's, though not the pair which he had then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight different points...

Are we in a time before police officers thought to examine footprints? What a revolutionary idea!

Although surely the police have been tramping all over the crime scene by now, you'd think. I get that Holmes has been very specific about it not raining, but crime scenes get all sorts of people walking over them. If the police really didn't think to examine them, then any murder prints must be buried underneath, or entirely indistinguishable from the prints of everyone else who has walked over it.

Then we get a lengthy description of Holmes. So lengthy in fact I'm not going to copy it here in its entirety. Here are some highlights:

His face flushed and darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter.

His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase...

Very animalistic descriptions there for a character usually described as reserved. And very vivid, too, but we know Watson likes his vivid descriptions.

Lestrade and I walked behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous

This doesn't really vibe with what we've been seeing of Lestrade up to this point. He hasn't been contemptuous, I wouldn't say. More indulgent and amused by the whole situation.

He ran round, like a dog who is picking up a scent, and then turned upon my companion.

And another animal description a bit later on.

"Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all over it."

Yeah, I mean. What did you think it was going to be like, Holmes? Did you think that the policemen hovered like the Gentlemen from Buffy? Gliding along as they search for murder weapons and pick up bodies?

"Then here are the father's feet as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening. And this? Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too, quite unusual boots!"

Very impressive tracking abilities. You know who this made me think of?

"And the murderer?" "Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears thick-soled shooting-boots and a grey cloak, smokes Indian cigars, uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket. There are several other indications, but these may be enough to aid us in our search."

So... not the old woman then? Unless she was secretly a man in disguise?

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am a practical man," he said, "and I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a left-handed gentleman with a game leg. I should become the laughing-stock of Scotland Yard."

I mean, I agree Holmes hasn't given you any evidence to indicate the existence of such a person, just told you that they exist. But you did agree to have him work with you and you have worked with him before. So maybe listen to him? You were doing so well, Lestrade.

And I guess we already have part 3... so that will be coming shortly.

Is the old man with the limp disguised as an old woman who is secretly a gold miner from Australia?

Probably not. But it's a fun theory.

#Letters from Watson #Sherlock Holmes #the boscombe valley mystery #long post #VENGEANCE #Note to self: do not use ctrl+z on tumblr posts; it deletes half of the post

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lightbeyondeden · 4 years

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Beachouse

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

a/n: i like to imagine this one with like,, season 4 spence cause I think that just the right amount of innocent yet horny for this oneshot but it's up to you. Also i used a bunch of dialogue prompts from this list :) see if you can spot them!

Wordcount: 2.2k

Warnings: kinda smut!! spencer being horny, alcohol, cursing, makeout sesh with heavy petting lol

masterlist

She was trying to kill him.

As a man of logic and reasoning, Spencer had concluded the only probable reason his very attractive coworker would insist on parading around the small cabin the team had rented for the weekend in those tiny white cotton shorts was that she wanted to kill him.

Spencer had always found her attractive. He would’ve had to have been blind not to, and even if he was he still would’ve fallen for the sound of her laugh or the way she left the smell of lavender wherever she sat on the jet or how she was always first to fall asleep after long days spent working cases.

So maybe he had fallen in love with her - even if he hadn’t quite admitted it to himself yet. Love, however, was not quite what he felt as he watched Y/n walk lazily into the kitchen on that Saturday morning.

Spencer had been sitting on one of the barstools that lined the kitchen counter and sipping on a very sugary cup of coffee. He was passively listening to both the birds chirping outside the oversized cabin window and JJ’s latest story about Henry. He had felt nothing but peace, until she walked in.

She was wearing a baby blue tank top (with no bra, not that Spencer was looking of course it’s just that as she was walking in and his eyes just happened to graze over her hard nip-, nevermind.) and those white shorts. The outfit was probably perfect for sleeping in the cabin that - even now in the early hours of the morning - remained hot and humid. It was not, however, perfect for just chatting with Spencer, he already felt an uncomfortable stirring in his pants.

“Hey guys.” She smiled, voice still soft with sleep.

“Hi Y/n, you sleep well?” JJ said without missing a beat, “Lemme get you some coffee.”

JJ got out of her seat and set to work making a new cup of coffee from the keurig that sat on the counter behind her.

“Thank you Jayge, you’re my favourite.” Y/n laughed.

Spencer watched with intent as she brushed her hand through her bedhead and took her own seat at the counter across from him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Y/n said as she locked eyes with Spencer.

Crap, he hadn’t meant to stare. Honestly though, he couldn’t help it. So much of her body was on display and though Spencer considered himself to be a respectful man, he had dreamt of that body more times than he cared to admit and seeing it like this was driving him crazy.

“Like what?” He replied, hoping that playing dumb would get him out of this.

She eyed him suspiciously, however Spencer was saved from the incoming interrogation by JJ returning, coffee in hand.

Y/n gratefully took the cup in her hands and sipped in gently. Try as he might, Spencer couldn’t stop himself from stealing glances at her over and over again as conversation between the three resumed.

Slowly the rest of the team began to wake up and wander into the kitchen. Conversation was playful and light, this vacation being exactly the break they needed from their stressful work lives. It may have only been four days, but any amount of time that they didn’t have to spend talking about all the horrible things they saw each day was time they thoroughly enjoyed.

“So I was thinking we could take a trip down to that hidden beach the airBNB people were telling us about. It would be fun to all go swimming together!” Penelope had said, big doe eyes daring someone to try telling her no.

So that's why a team of thirty to fifty somethings were all walking down a wooden boardwalk together, arms filled with floaties and towing a wagon full of snacks (wagon courtesy of JJ). Spencer just happened to look over at Y/n at the exact moment the beach came into view, and he couldn’t have been more grateful for that because getting to see the way her face lit up when she saw the lake made his day.

“There's a doc!?” She squealed, “Morgan! I’ll race you to it.”

And just like that - the two of them took off, splashing into the water and yelling playful challenges and insults at each other, Emily and Penelope close behind. Spencer just chuckled as he settled down into the sand with a pile of books beside them.

Truth be told he didn’t get much reading done. He chatted with JJ and Rossi, he binged on candy and chips, and most often, spent the day ogling Y/n. He just couldn’t understand how she managed to look so perfect even after Derek had thrown her off the floating wooden dock for what must’ve been the thirtieth time that day.

When she finally came marching up the beach, soaking wet and out of breath, Spencer wondered if there was ever a situation where she could look bad. Covered in goosebumps - though the sun was sweltering hot - she tightly wrapped a towel around herself and plopped down in the sand between JJ and Rossi.

“Hey SP!” He chuckled at her nickname for him “Can you pass that bag of chips over here please?”

The rest of the day was spent soaking in the sun. It was full of jokes and swimming and Y/n’s head on Spencer's shoulder. He watched her and JJ pass a volleyball back and forth, he saw the team smile more in one afternoon than he had in the last month. They finally decided to pack it in the sun was nothing more than a sliver on the horizon.

They walked home to the dulcet sounds of crickets and Penelope's voice retelling all the best stories of the day. Spencer's mind moved much faster than his feet did, but all thoughts were halted when he felt a cold set of fingers grab onto his hand. That was one of his favourite things about her - the fact that she loved physical touch. Of course, at first he had a strong aversion to her love of hugs, hand holding, and cuddles, but as they grew into a close knit partnership he found himself longing for a hug from her after hard cases or for her hand to hold when he's walking to the bookstore.

When the team got back to their beach house it was quiet for a moment, as everyone was worn down from all their hours in the sun, their skin kissed with its warmth even though it had set more than an hour ago. Emily, ever a shit disturber, broke the serenity the walk home had created the second she broke out the bottles of wine from the fridge.

Y/n’s had slipped out of Spencers as she and the girls got to work pouring and drinking as many glasses as they could get out of each bottle.

“Movie time!” Penelope declared, plopping herself down on the couch between Derek and Rossi.

Everyone else settled in, and Penelope flicked through Netflix - occasionally announcing a title to the group to gauge a reaction and giving her own opinions on each. She finally landed on ‘Clueless’, a film Spencer had never heard of - despite Penelope and JJ insisting it was a classic.

Everyone was tired, you could tell that without being a profiler, but the group was so set on finishing their day together that everyone sat and watched the movie with heavy eyelids. Y/n was hit by sleep like a truck, and Spencer could tell. Her head fell on Spencer's shoulder and he let his own arms rest around her. It was fine, they were best friends. Best friends can cuddle on late nights - it doesn't mean anything to either of them anyway.

Except it did. It meant everything to Spencer. When he grabbed her hand it wasn’t even really a conscious decision, he just reached out and gripped onto her - he barely even noticed that he did it.

Y/n noticed.

Her eyes shot up to meet his own.

“What was that for?” Her tone was joking but there was a realness behind the whispered question.

“I’m holding your hand because the movie is scary, alright? It’s a… Terrifying… Rom-com… ” Spencer defended.

They both looked up at the screen to see a scene of a blonde girl driving a jeep down the middle of the road and burst into laughter, gaining some looks and laughs from the other people in the room.

“I mean, you’re right. Unsafe driving practices sure are terrifying. Why do you think Hotch doesn’t let me drive anymore?”

“Because it's a hazard to everyone in the car and the berau called you ‘a hazard to the safety of yourself and your team’ when you drive?” Spencer quipped back, earning more laughter from the rest of the group.

Y/n just shook her head and laughed before dropping back down onto Spencer’s shoulder. However Spencer went the other direction, releasing his grasp on Y/n’s hand and setting it at his side instead.

“Why’d you let go of me?” She whispered into his ear.

Spencer allowed himself to let out some of what he had been feeling for as long as he had known her. He looked her dead in the eyes and and tried to communicate all of his feelings telepathically - but all he said was;

“I was scared...”

She looked at him and Spencer suddenly changed his mind about the whole telepathy thing, suddenly praying she can’t see the longing in his eyes.

“Come with me.”

So they got up, said a very rushed goodnight to their friends, and took off towards Y/n’s bedroom. When she opens the door Spencer is hit by a wall of the vanilla perfume she uses. If it was anyone else, he would have found it overwhelming, but because it was her it was more like something intoxicating.

She sat him down on the bed and took a spot beside him. Her eyes looked up and met his honey brown ones, and in hindsight Spencer swore he could pick that as the exact moment his heart rate picked up.

“So are you gonna tell me what’s been going on with you? Why you’ve been acting so strange?” She was still whispering even though the group was well out of earshot.

He didn’t respond, his head was fuzzy and he was just trying his best to put together a coherent thought.

“I’m your friend SP!” She laughed, trying again “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

“Sometimes I want to makeout with you, is that a friend thing to do?”

Spencer's words hung in the air and he so badly wished he could take them back. Why would he jeopardize the relationship he had with her? For what? Some inane fantasy he had where they were together? The silence made the air crushingly heavy, and Spencer got up to leave but was stopped by her gripping his arm.

She stood up and cupped her hand on his face, and it felt like they stood there like that for an hour. Spencer so desperately wanted to close the gap between them but the paralyzing fear that he was badly misreading her gesture stopped him.

But then she did. She pushed her lips against his and Spencer immediately melted into her. Soft fingertips on his cheeks turned into hands intertwined in his curls, his own hands finding their rightful spot on her hips.

They tangled together, the room filled with the sound of their desperate breaths. In an uncharacteristic burst of confidence Spencer ran a hand under her top and rested it on the small of her back. That was all the encouragement Y/n needed to clamber into his lap, never even breaking their kiss.

“Wait-” Spencer pulled back, breathless, “What does this mean? What are we doing?”

“I love you. It took me way too long to realize it but I just want to spend all my time with you, that's how I know. I love you.” Y/n whispered into his neck, still perched gently on top of him.

Spencer laughed a little at the absurdity of this moment. Girls like Y/n don’t love guys like Spencer - he almost wouldn’t believe it if it was any other girl. But it wasn’t any other girl, he trusted Y/n with his life - he knew she meant it.

“I love you too. I always have.” He smiled and leaned in to kiss her again.

Click.

Spencer jolted awake to the sound of Penelope’s cell phone camera going off. He moved to rub his eyes but found that his right arm was trapped under a shirtless Y/n.

Now he understood why Penelope was taking pictures.

“I got asked to check on you two - you know, see if you were awake.” Penelope was obviously trying very hard to hold back her excitement. “However it seems like I am interrupting something. So I will leave you lovebirds to it.”

She turned and sauntered out the door, but Spencer heard her laughing to herself in the hallway and he knew that in a few minutes the whole world would know exactly what Penelope thought about the compromising position she had just found them in.

The world could wait though, Spencer decided. Y/n had stayed peacefully asleep somehow, and he could feel the heat of her bare skin all over him.

So he pulled her closer, for that one more minute of bliss. One more minute of happiness.

One more minute of Y/n.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid #Criminal Minds #fanfiction #bau #bau x reader

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starlocked01 · 3 years

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If This is Madness

AO3 Link

Dukexiety Week Day 1- Myths/Supernatural

WC: 7.6k

Summary: One night a lighthouse keeper finds the impossible on the shores of his little island. Fighting both loneliness and temptation, he forges a bond of trust with a selkie as mysterious and unpredictable as the depths of the sea.

Content Warnings: Swearing, Nudity, Kidnapping, Description of Physical Injury, Violence

@dukexietyweek

Unseen flecks of dampness peppered his face with each crash of waves against the rocks, and salt pleasantly stung his eyes and nose as Virgil cautiously picked his way through the slick, sharp stones, headed towards the small lagoon with his canvas, easel, and paints. Moonlight reflected off the low tide waves and he strained to see each next step. Virgil almost missed the obvious until he practically stumbled upon it. He hissed in a startled breath and hid behind the nearest crag. He rubbed his eyes hard and blinked several times, trying to rule out hallucinations or a trick of the moonlight.

A naked man sat with legs spread wide, staring out at the sea, taking large breaths every time the waves broke on its rock. Virgil blushed at the indecency and watched from his hiding place. After a few minutes, he realized the man was wearing a leathery grey spotted animal skin like a cape.

Holy shit...

Virgil had become accustomed to fishing and gotten over his aversion to dead sea life for the most part, but seeing this naked man wearing the skin of what looked like a seal twisted his stomach in an unpleasant knot. Virgil turned away from the sight and spilled his supper between the rocks. He wondered if there was a safe way to run back to the lighthouse and call the coast guard to pick up this tweaker, but when he glanced back the man was staring in his direction, alert and wary.

Shit, look away! Look away! Don't bother with me, freak!

Virgil covered his mouth and pressed further into the shadows, hoping the man would lose sight of him when the man threw back its head and let out an inhuman barking laugh that sent chills down his arms. Virgil watched as it stood suddenly and dashed away across the rocks, careless and surprisingly agile. Virgil breathed a sigh of relief and tried to turn back towards home, but found his feet uncooperative, chasing after the man.

What the fuck? Go back and call this in.

He told himself he was just trying to follow the man back to its ship so he could report how it'd gotten to the island. He stopped dead in his tracks when he reached the lagoon and found instead of a crazed man looking for an escape or undocking a boat, a giant, fat, grey seal flapping at the edge of the waves on the secluded sandy beach.

No fucking way…

Virgil didn't believe in legends. He didn't believe in stories of merfolk and sirens and malicious creatures larger than life with tentacles stretching out of the depths (although he was agnostic about ghosts). He certainly didn't believe in selkies. Except this seal had the same skin as the crazy naked man had been wearing as a cape.

Internally screaming at himself to run the other way, Virgil stepped closer to the seal and yelled the only intelligent thing that came to mind.

"Hey, you!"

Hey you? Brilliant, V.

The seal stopped flapping and rolled over to stare at him with those same piercing alert eyes. Virgil shivered as the animal seemed to recognize it had been figuratively caught. It barked the same strange laugh and Virgil was certain it was the same creature.

Virgil watched in fascinated horror as the man began to wriggle right out of its skin, transforming before his eyes. The man stood, picked up the skin, and slung it over its shoulder before grinning at Virgil and shouting back.

"Hey!"

"You can talk?"

"You yell at seals you don't think are capable of talking back? Freak," the man giggled maniacally and Virgil scoffed.

"What? No.. I- look- ugh who are you?" Virgil felt heat rising in his cheeks in embarrassment.

The selkie grinned and stepped closer, offering Virgil its hand, "Remus."

"Remus?"

"Yeah, that's my name," Remus bobbed its head pointedly at Virgil, "and you are?"

Virgil looked Remus over and noted its appearance, from the bruise-like rings around its prying dark slate-colored eyes to the wildly unkempt, grey-streaked hair and mustache. He tried to avoid looking farther down than the creature’s chest, fascinated by the strange ways its muscles moved beneath the skin, built for swimming as a seal. Taking the offered hand, he replied, "gay. I MEAN- Virgil. I'm Virgil."

Remus snickered, "hi, gay Virgil. What are you doing on my island?"

"I live here- what are you?" Virgil pointed back toward the lighthouse and shook his head, shivering in the stillness as the creature examined him with an invasive stare. Remus didn't answer him right away, instead stepping closer and poking him in the stomach. "Hey!" Virgil jumped back in alarm.

"I believe the surface drifters call us 'selkies'," Remus answered with an amused twitch of a smile, "the hookers and netters call us nuisances, but I think they should call me a catch."

Remus stepped closer once again, reaching for the string of Virgil’s jacket. The overwhelmed lighthouse keeper jerked and smacked at the encroaching hand, "would you quit that? Who knew selkies were so nosey?"

Remus shrugged and tried again, hand darting forward and rolling the string between its fingers before yanking hard and cinching the hood over Virgil’s eyes. Virgil stumbled forward and scrambled to yank his hood back. When he had, he caught a glimpse of Remus, half re-skinned, jumping into the waves and swimming away like a merman. Virgil groaned and ran calf-deep into the waters of the lagoon and shouted, "Oh Yeah? Well… Warn a dude next time before just showing up naked and uninvited! Ya damn seal!"

Virgil stood there as the waves lapped up over his boots and dampened his socks, and tried to sort out whether he wanted the selkie to stay away or come right back. He knew the fables- of insecure men stealing a selkie's ability to swim away and calling it love. How their trapped wives always found a way to escape in the end, whether happily or in tragedy. Thinking of Remus, he could almost understand the temptation. The selkie was exotic and grossly captivating even after their short lived discussion.

Virgil kicked at the water and trudged back on shore. If Remus never came back, it would be for both of their benefit. He sighed and turned to set up his painting supplies, hoping he hadn’t broken anything while running after Remus. He continued his painting of the lagoon, mindlessly adding colors to the water and the beach. After a while he took a step back to compare and was startled to find he’d started to sketch out a seal sitting in the shallows. He peered off into the waves, wondering if Remus had turned back and was watching him, but if it had, Virgil could only see it in his mind’s eye.

Less than a fortnight had passed when Virgil awoke to a surreal howling on the beach. The man stumbled out of his cot and over to the window, terrified of what could be making that noise. In the distance, difficult to make out in the waning sunlight, Virgil spied a gray blob on the sandy side of the island, waving a flipper in the air and bellowing. He blinked a few times, eyes adjusting to the light.

"Remus?" Virgil sighed and grabbed pants and shoes, silently pleading with the selkie to shut up for a minute. Shrugging on a light jacket, Virgil left quickly to scan the beach for the creature.

Virgil didn't have to look for long before confronted once again with the naked human-form of the selkie.

"Hiya Virgie! Did you hear my warning?"

"I appreciate the heads up.. Where’s your skin, dude?" Virgil tried to glance anywhere except where his eyes were drawn as the selkie stared openly.

Remus shrugged, "over on the rocks. It's fine."

"Fine. Right. Um," Virgil stumbled over his words for a moment before clearing his throat, "why don't you… go grab it and join me inside? We can talk for a while- if you want to that is. I was just going to make breakfast."

"Breakfast? It's practically nightfall," Remus tilted its head inquisitively.

Virgil shrugged, "I'm usually up all night since that's when the light is absolutely needed on." He pointed up to the lighthouse behind him and Remus followed his direction.

After a brief moment of consideration, Remus replied, "sure. I'd love a closer look at the spinny fire tower. Be right back!" With that it dashed away and left Virgil alone for a moment.

Virgil stared after Remus, utterly confused. It was obvious Remus was just curious about him and the lighthouse. There was no reason for him to think otherwise. So then, why did he want to read into the selkie's manor and excitement as affection? That didn't make any sense and the thought almost scared him. He had taken the lighthouse keeper gig precisely because he was satisfied with the relative solitude and protection from the complexities of human interactions. Was it something about the selkie making him feel this way?

“Hey, Virgil, is there a reason humans change color so much?” Virgil was snapped from his thoughts by the selkie’s question. He shook his head and watched the creature returning, wearing its skin as a cape again.

“What do you mean ‘change colors’?” Virgil replied, turning back to the lighthouse.

“Well, I’ve watched drifters who’s hair changed from muddy or sandy or night-sky-y to cloudy. And their skin sometimes goes from pale like yours to fiery or driftwood-y.”

Virgil stopped in his tracks, utterly confused, “what color would you call my hair?”

“Driftwood-y.”

“I call it brown. If it were darker?”

“Night sky-”

“Black. Okay. Okay, I see what you’re doing here. I guess.. Over time humans get old and their hair tends to go grey or white- cloudy like you call it. Out in the sun all day, their skin will burn or tan, unless they’re already dark skinned and it’s not as noticeable,” Virgil tried to explain as he led Remus back to his place.

“You go fiery really quickly when you see me,” Remus remarked, causing Virgil to blush and prove its point.

“Well, you look like a naked man. It’s indecent,” Virgil tried to brush him off.

“Do you like naked men?” Remus prodded, following Virgil into the lighthouse and immediately becoming engrossed with all of Virgil’s collections. Shells and dried out driftwood lined the walls and paintings sat on the floor against the stairs, the unfinished lagoon landscape hung on an easel in the corner. Virgil chuckled as Remus wandered the combined kitchen and dining room, electing to ignore the question.

This selkie, Remus, was so unassuming. So unafraid. Did selkies not have myths of dangerous, skin-stealing humans? He shook the idea out of his head and smiled at Remus’ energy, “hey, are you hungry, Remus?”

Remus looked up from a painting it’d been tracing with its fingers, “uh, yeah. What do you have?”

Virgil shuffled over to the fridge and opened it to show the selkie the options, “a bunch of stuff…. Would you like… tuna salad?”

“You make a salad out of tuna? That sounds amazing!” Remus beamed, looking for the fish eagerly.

“Uh, for one thing it’s cooked so it probably tastes different than you’re used to,” Virgil cautioned as he reached in and grabbed a tupperware bowl of leftovers, “also there are extra… human ingredients…”

Remus just nodded and grabbed the bowl as soon as Virgil opened it, sniffing once, recoiling from the smell, then dipping its fingers in and scooping a large bite into its mouth. Virgil watched amused as the selkie’s face screwed up in a mixture of unfamiliarity and disgust and gasped as it kept frantically eating while still making faces at the taste.

“Woah woah woah!”

“It’s disgusting. I love it!” Remus intoned between bites, shoving more in its mouth as Virgil tried to wrench the bowl from its grasp.

“You don’t have to eat it if you think it’s disgusting!”

“But I want to!”

“What is your problem?”

“I dunno, I’m a seal. Is that a problem?”

Virgil paused and stopped trying to grab the bowl, watching as Remus quickly finished the food, “no, it’s not a problem. I guess I just don’t know you.”

“Yet.”

“Yet?”

“Yeah. Yet. You’re gonna make me more of this sour fish slop.”

“I am?”

“You are. And you’re gonna tell me about the weird skins over there. Why are they so colorful? Did you color them?”

“Oh, the paintings? Yeah I like to spend free time painting. I have a lot of free time,” Virgil admitted, mind whirling at the thought of Remus coming back often, “I was trying to do some painting the last time you washed up here.”

“Washed up? This is my island,” Remus hissed, spitting tuna salad at Virgil’s face.

“Yours? Then why haven’t I seen you here before, Mister Selkie?” Virgil sassed back, wiping chunks of tuna off with his sleeve.

“Eh, I usually only really come back once a year. Got a lot of islands around here to search,” Remus smirked, setting the bowl down and leaning back against the counter.

“That doesn’t make it yours. I live here all the time,” Virgil scoffed.

“So if I come back tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here.”

“Hmm…”

“Do you want to come back?” Virgil asked cautiously, “I don’t mind you showing up…”

“Sounds great, thanks for the fish!” Remus laughed and dashed out the door, leaving Virgil stuttering. He rushed after the selkie and watched as Remus wrapped back into its skin and dove back into the surf. Virgil sighed, staring out over the water where the seal had disappeared, watching the sunset dancing like flames in the waves. It was strange, but he found himself looking forward to more visits.

Virgil could never predict when Remus would show up. Sometimes it was early in the morning just when he was preparing to sleep and other times it was the middle of the night as he was tending to the light or painting in the lagoon.

Each time, Remus would announce itself and Virgil got in the habit of bringing it out clothing to wear. They spent the hours talking about the island with the lighthouse, Remus’ world and Virgil’s work. Virgil showed it how he painted landscapes around the island and Remus helped him find more secluded parts of the island. Virgil truly began to look forward to their time together as the visits became more frequent.

It was difficult, but he always resisted touching or even talking about Remus’ skin unless prompted. Remus had on request gleefully told him the horrific stories that its kind told their young about the drifters and hookers and land dwelling monsters that stole pups and young cows to keep them as captive slaves. Virgil was absolutely horrified but understood completely, resolving even harder to never touch the selkie’s skin. It was quite a surprise to him when he realized that Remus would just leave the skin by his coat near the door and never worried about it until it was ready to leave. Remus had never seemed incredibly protective of it, but Virgil marveled at the trust he’d gained in the few months they’d known each other.

The fourth day that week that Remus had shown up, Virgil decided to finally ask. He bit his lip and listened to Remus babble on about dead fish until the tension was too much and he blurted out, “why do you visit me so much?”

Remus paused mid ramble and tilted its head to stare at Virgil, “because I like you. You don’t drive me away for talking about seaweed slime and you show me cool human things.”

“Really, you like hanging out with the loner?” Virgil asked, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

“Mhmm and the others think I’m nuts for walking into a human lair. It’s great!” Remus giggled and slurped up a fish stick.

“Oh. You talk to me for clout. Cool, cool,” Virgil shrugged, trying to hide his disappointment, “kinda weird to hang out with a monster.”

“Wait, you’re a monster? Have I ever told you I’m a monster fucker?” Remus grinned, poking and teasing Virgil, “I mean, yeah, humans are supposed to be so scary, but you’ve really just followed the tide. Why would I be scared? Do you wanna hurt me?”

“I don’t- gah I don’t want to hurt you, Remus. Humans have selkie stories just like selkies have human stories, but ours are always about not fooling yourself into holding a wild animal captive. You’re not human, as much as you look like one of us without that skin. I’d never force you to be human.”

Remus listened intently, “wanna know why I actually stopped by here?”

“Why?” Virgil tilted his head, sipping his glass of water.

Remus looked out the window, “I’m looking for someone. I keep hoping I’ll find him on a beach somewhere.”

Virgil tried to ignore how much more his heart sank at the revelation, “who are you looking for?”

Remus chuckled sadly, “my brother. He left one day and never came back. I assumed a human had captured him and devoured or skinned him for fun or something. Then about nine seasons ago, I found his skin trapped on the rocks of this island. I searched this whole island for three days straight and never found anyone.”

“Oh my word, that’s horrible. Is he dead?”

“I dunno. I hope he’s somewhere out there. But if he’s alive and doesn’t have his skin? That’s bad. You know what your kind usually does to us. I always said I was the only one allowed to scare him. I don’t want him to be scared and alone out there.”

“I’m sorry,” Virgil replied quietly, remembering with shame how much he’d wanted to do the same things to Remus when it had first shown up.

“I wish you’d been the one to find him, Virgie,” Virgil looked up suddenly.

“I would have never touched his skin. I’m so sorry about your brother, Rem. I don’t know how you can trust a human after that.”

"You're easy to trust. Like you said, you'd never lay a hand on me."

"Thanks..."

“Wanna touch it?” Remus asked suddenly.

Virgil flushed immediately, “what??”

“My skin. Wanna touch my seal skin?” Remus grinned, grabbing Virgil by the arm and leading him back toward the door.

“Remus..”

“Come on, I know I can trust you,” Remus nodded and pushed Virgil toward the drooping grey mass.

Virgil struggled, not wanting to cross this line until his fingers brushed the skin. It felt supple and gave way beneath his touch and Virgil found himself burying his hand in folds, spellbound by the texture. Remus watched him in amusement, placing a hand to his back.

“See, I know you won’t hurt me. You would never hurt me or any of my kind. I like you, Virgie. You get it,” Virgil just nodded in agreement, slowly pulling back from the skin and turning to face Remus.

“You- you like me? Like, just as your friend?” Virgil croaked out, his voice failing him.

Remus giggled at that, “well, gay Virgil. I did kinda think you were cute for a monster. That okay or is that weird?” Virgil chuckled and nodded, hyper aware of just how close together they were.

“That’s okay. I like you, Remus.”

Remus spent the whole day for the first time, snuggling close to Virgil as he slept. It was a strange and unspoken change. They were both a bit different now but the change felt secure. Remus felt more like a companion than a myth. Virgil would never force humanity on it, but revelled in its trust and comfort with him.

Virgil thought often about Remus when it wasn’t there and started including it in his paintings on purpose. The selkie took every opportunity to stop by that it could. When it did, Virgil would sometimes study Remus’ skin while the creature watched.

Virgil thought often about Remus, but the one time he wasn’t was the one time he really ought to have been.

The supply ship made its normal monthly delivery and Virgil was kept busy talking with the captain and the small two person crew as they all unloaded his rations and supplies. He thought nothing of Remus’ trumpeting call as he restocked the pantry until he remembered that the ship hadn’t left the dock yet. In a panic, Virgil ran outside, scanning the beach for his companion or the crew of the ship. His heart dropped when Remus called out again, this time a rather human sounding scream for help.

Pulse racing, Virgil ran for the dock, screaming for Remus. When he rounded the path and spotted the ship, he stopped in his tracks. The two deck hands had Remus wrapped in small nets, halfway out of its skin and gnashing ferociously at the leering men.

“We got a mermaid! A real mermaid!”

“Do I look like a fucking girl? Let me out of here and I’ll show you a real mermaid, you kelpie!” Remus barked and struggled violently.

Virgil shook out of his shock and charged down the beach, “let it go! That thing isn’t worth anything to you!” Virgil winced as Remus looked hurt by his words but he persisted yelling, soon catching the captain’s attention to the scuffle.

The captain watched as his crew fought the small lighthouse keeper and shook his head as the single man started to get the best of them. He sauntered down the dock and blew his whistle, shrill and sharp until the fight came to an abrupt halt.

“You idiots. Some jackass wraps himself in a dead skin and you think you found a mermaid? How did I get stuck with superstitious fools? Let the man go before I let Mr. Feny whip both of you for me,” the two quickly dropped their nets but Virgil glared at the captain with suspicion before running to help Remus get untangled. The captain watched with a gleam in his eye as Virgil tended to Remus, but turned to mutter to his crew, “get ready to sail. We’ve got a plan to make. That thing is better than a mermaid.”

Virgil and Remus watched from the beach as the ship set out into the tide, Virgil laying protectively over the selkie until the ship was out of sight.

“What were you thinking?” Virgil turned, meeting Remus’ frightened gaze.

“I needed to see you. I- you didn’t tell me you had other bitches showing up here!” Remus quickly became defiant, scrambling away from Vigil on the sand.

Virgil sighed, “today was a delivery day. They bring my food, paints, kerosene, and other supplies for the month. You’ve never come on delivery days- I assumed you saw the boat and knew better than to show up. Are you okay? Did the ropes hurt you?”

Remus grumbled but slowly showed Virgil the angry red lines on its arms and sides. Virgil hissed and helped Remus to its feet, leading the wounded creature back to the lighthouse.

Early in the morning just before the sun had risen, Virgil lay next to Remus, exhausted from the break in his routine and the excitement during the delivery. The selkie lay curled in Virgil’s arms as had become their habit on days when it stayed as Virgil slept. He gently brushed over the rope burns on its skin and wondered if he’d be able to better convince Remus to leave to go heal away from any human when they each awoke later in the day. Remus shifted with a hurt grunt next to him and Virgil quickly moved to run fingers through its hair to soothe it back to sleep.

He was on the edge of drifting off himself when the door to the lighthouse slammed shut. Instantly, Virgil sat propped up on one arm, hyper aware of every creak and crack around him. Remus shifted again, mumbling for Virgil to shut up and go to sleep.

“Shhh sleep. I’ll be right back,” Virgil promised, leaning down to nuzzle Remus’ hair momentarily. Remus grumbled and rolled over, hogging the blankets from the man as he sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his trusted baseball bat. A loud creak on the stairs startled him and confirmed that they weren’t alone in the lighthouse. Virgil fought back a million unlikely guesses of shadow demons, octopi ninjas, and vengeful seals as he stood and silently cracked open the bedroom door.

Lamp light flickered somewhere down the curved stairwell and Virgil cursed to himself. But who would break into a lighthouse on an otherwise deserted island? Had some ship run aground and the crew were just looking for him to call for assistance? Virgil let himself hold on to that explanation despite the panic screaming in his brain that it was too quiet for survivors of a crash to be looking for him. He crept down the stairs, bat ready in hand to fend off anything less than friendly.

Virgil stared- more than a little confused- when he found the crewmates of the supply ship creeping up his stairs. The meaner looking one gasped when he stepped into their light and the other grinned, taking advantage of his confusion and recognition to grab Virgil and clamp a grimy hand over his mouth.

Rage seethed under Virgil’s skin as he kicked and tried to smack the men with his bat. The man holding the torch chuckled and caught the bat midswing, wrenching it from Virgil’s grip and smacking him hard in the leg. He grinned as though Virgil’s moans of pain caused him great pleasure.

“That’s what you get for stealing our catch, you fuck,” he whispered and spat in Virgil’s face as he expertly tied the lightkeeper’s hands. Virgil hissed and tried to kick and struggle as the two men carried him down to the dining room where the captain stood guarding the door.

“I swear he tried ta bite me,” the man gagging Virgil complained. As soon as he removed his hand, Virgil snarled and yelled for help, earning himself a sharp kick in the side. He layed curled on the floor, panting for the breath stolen by the sailor’s boot as the men tied his legs and the captain chuckled darkly.

“So, Mr. Feny, I suppose your selkie friend is upstairs,” the captain’s teeth gleamed in the steadily growing light of dawn and he fingered Remus’ skin like he were appraising its value, “shame he didn’t swim off right away. You made this far too easy.”

Panic clutched hard at Virgil’s chest as he heard Remus stumbling down the stairs, sleepy heavy in its voice as it called for him, asking what was going on. He tried to warn it to run, but one of the sailors kicked him again and the captain stepped forward, boot placed threateningly over Virgil’s windpipe.

Virgil watched helplessly as Remus tripped and barked out curses in its native language, careening down the last curve of the stairs and right into the waiting nets of the sailors. Remus screeched and bit and fought as the two men wrestled him down to the floor of the dining room, crashing into Virgil’s paintings in the process. The captain kept Virgil at bay, smirking as their quarry fought hard but soon succumbed to the ropes and bruises. Virgil gasped as Remus met his eyes with a helpless and betrayed expression.

Virgil croaked out a pathetic, “I’m sorry- they won’t-” before the captain pressed down his foot, choking off his air. Remus was picked up by the two crewmates and carried out the door despite its struggles and howls for salvation.

“Funny how exotic pets tend to run off when we think they're happy, eh?” the captain of the supply ship laughed and nudged Virgil in his bruised side before exiting the lighthouse without another word.

Virgil sobbed as Remus’ terrified cries echoed back to him and grew slowly further away. He struggled against the ropes, biting at the hastily tied knots until his hands fell free and immediately moved to shove the binds off his legs. He cursed the man he had thought was at least friendly, unable to see anything but Remus’ terrified look of betrayal as he slowly pulled himself up and over to the stairs. He cursed himself for setting the radio up near the light, wincing as he pulled himself up the first stair. If he could just contact another ship…

Fighting pain and the ever growing tide of panic pulling back to form a giant wave of despair and doubt, Virgil pulled himself up the stairs as fast as his broken ribs and swimming head would allow. Once he reached the light, he winced at the brightness as it swung over his face, ducking down to crawl over to his radio set up. Virgil groaned as he pulled himself up into his chair and flicked on the equipment, praying anyone would be within range and willing to break course to help him.

Virgil thought for a moment before beginning to tap out his message on the telegraph, trusting years of translating Morse to guide his fingers. He kept the message short, starting with an S.O.S. and his location, adding that someone had been kidnapped. He repeated three times before pausing to listen for a response.

Virgil waited with baited breath and nearly sobbed again when the reply came.

In vicinity. ETA 5 minutes.

Virgil was so relieved, he nearly forgot that he would have to explain who and why Remus had been taken. His heart hammered in his chest as he spotted the responding ship and rushed down to the beach to meet them, wincing with every step.

The ship that pulled into the dock was somewhat bigger than the supply ship, manned by the captain and a three person crew. Virgil stood at the end of the dock, shivering in the weak sunrise as the captain, an honest-looking man in a red coat, jumped off and rushed over to him.

“Oh my god, you look terrible! What happened, sir?” the captain grabbed Virgil by the shoulders just in time as everything that had happened that day suddenly washed over him and his knees gave out. The captain supported Virgil and ordered his crew to help the man aboard so they could care for him.

Virgil stuttered as they brought him aboard, not sure how to explain the selkie’s existence or his need to rescue the being he’d come to see as a companion. A crewmate the captain referred to as Mr. Hart took care in tending to Virgil’s wounds and murmuring words of comfort. The navigator quickly assessed possible routes the fleeing ship could have taken, pondering over which would be the most logical for avoiding getting caught with a missing person. Another crewmate busied himself around the ship, preparing to set sail again as soon as the captain gave them a bearing.

“Listen to me, sir. We’ll get them back, but we need to know who took them and where they went. I promise. Captain Roman Shoal does not break his word,” Virgil looked up to meet Roman’s dark grey eyes and found great comfort in their fierceness, “Patton, go help Janus. I think our lighthouse keeper is in shock.” Patton nodded and jumped up to help pull the ship out of the dock.

“You’re not going to believe me,” Virgil muttered. Roman laughed gently at his first spoken words since being brought aboard.

“Try me. I’ve seen a lot more unexplainable things than you’d expect,” the captain grinned and offered Virgil his hand. Virgil took it and decided to just blurt out the truth like ripping off a bandaid.

“My supply delivery ship crew jumped me and tied me up so they could kidnap my… companion. I don’t know what they wanted with Remus-”

“Remus?” the captain looked as though the name were a spirit come to haunt him.

“Yes, Remus. I know this sounds crazy, but the people who took Remus knew that- that-” Virgil tried so hard to say it out loud, to acknowledge the impossible, knowing the moment he said that Remus is a selkie he’d be thrown back on the island as another mad lighthouse keeper.

“It’s a selkie. Right? They stole a selkie- shit! Logan! We need to make the best time we can heading northeast from this position!” Roman stood, barking orders at the navigator while Virgil stared agape at the man.

“How did you-”

“I’ve known Remus before. It is an idiot to get itself into this predicament,” Roman barely spared Virgil a glance, but the piercing gaze made something click in his head.

“Oh… are you-?”

“Luckily, if these kidnappers are stupid- and they sound quite stupid- I know exactly where they’ll be headed. We should be able to catch up before they get to the market. How much of a head start do they have on us?” Roman asked insistently.

Virgil sighed, “I think at most an hour? I had to get free and get to the radio,” he gulped, “sir…”

“Please just call me Roman.”

“Roman, um… how exactly do you know Remus?” Virgil hazarded the question as the ship began to speed off after the kidnappers.

“My sibling has always been far too trusting of humans. You called it your companion? So was it with you willingly or am I going to release Remus to the waves and let the pieces of your body follow?” Roman answered with a hard edge to his voice.

Virgil shook his head, “I never touched its skin until it offered and actually forced me to touch it. I never wanted to hurt Remus… I tried to convince it to flee the island after the men attacked the first time earlier yesterday, but it was hurt and didn’t want to leave.”

Roman nodded, satisfied for the moment, “fine. You rest here while I find Remus. If it wants to return with you, that’s no skin off my back.”

Virgil watched, quiet as the crew maintained their pursuit. He wondered at the selkie captain and idly if the others were also mystical sea creatures pretending to be human. Roman spent several minutes explaining their exact heading to Logan and encouraging Patton and Janus in their sailing of the ship before he made his way back to the injured lighthouse keeper.

“So what’s your name and how do you know Remus?” Roman asked in a low voice.

Virgil nodded to acknowledge the fairness of the questions, “Virgil Feny. As you guessed, I tend the lighthouse. I met Remus when it showed up on my beach one night and claimed it owned the island I live on.”

Roman snorted, “yeah, that sounds about right. Remus trusted you?”

“After a while. Like I said, I never tried to touch its skin when it came to visit. I also never asked it to come back at any specific time. I didn’t want a pet and certainly didn’t expect a partner,” Virgil whispered the explanation. Roman nodded in approval.

“How did you lose your skin?”

“That is a long story.”

Virgil started to reply when Patton whistled for Roman’s attention. Both the selkie and the lightkeeper looked up to where the man was acting as lookout.

“Spotted the ship, sir. How should we approach it?” Patton called back in a low tone despite their distance from the other ship. Roman stood and began to pace, contemplating that issue.

“They’ll be too wary to stop when hailed. They might have even been in range when Virgil signaled for help and could be expecting us,” Roman mused aloud.

“We could throw up the Coast Guard colors. Make them think twice about running?” Janus offered.

Logan scoffed from his place at the wheel, “why would kidnappers obey martial law and stop for the authorities? Especially if they heard the distress call.”

“Well if I were on their ship I’d hide the- man and stop for the Coast Guard to throw off suspicion,” Janus rolled his eyes, “running from the authorities when caught red handed is beyond unintelligent.”

“Gentlemen,” Roman tried to interject.

“There has to be a way to save him! I mean look what they did to poor Virgil, the guy they took has got to be in so much pain,” Patton whimpered, empathetically imagining all kinds of tortures. Virgil and Roman both paled at the suggestion but Roman shook his head.

“No. They think they have a.. Selkie. They’re going to try and sell the man at market. We have to stop them before they sell a man to the highest bidder.” Roman spoke measuredly and watched his crew’s reactions. Patton looked confused while Logan seemed incredulous at the very notion.

Virgil noted Janus’ carefully trained neutral expression with suspicion. He wondered again just how Roman had lost his skin. Just then the ship lurched and he was thrown to the deck, groaning at his jarred ribs and swiftly darkening bruises.

Patton quickly jumped to tend to Virgil again, righting him against a barrel and tearing his own shirt to bandage Virgil’s torso.

“Don’t mind the captain. He’s always been a bit eccentric about stories,” Patton whispered to soothe Virgil. Virgil just nodded, knowing the truth. The others continued to bicker over options as they came closer to their quarry.

“You know what I say? Let’s give them a fight. They’ve obviously got their hands full with their prisoner since we were able to catch up so quickly. Let’s make them regret their rash little stunt,” Janus grinned wickedly, hand resting on the saber tied to his waist, “we can steal back what they’ve stolen.”

Roman stared with contempt at the ship they were quickly gaining on, “it’s what they deserve. Let’s go. Raise the colors.”

The other three men jumped into action, Patton moving to run a flag up the mainsail while Logan steered in such a way that they were suddenly gaining very quickly on the smaller vessel. Janus stepped up to a chest along the wall near where Virgil was sitting, winking at the lighthouse keeper as he pulled out several loaded guns to distribute among the others. Virgil was heartened by the rescuers’ enthusiasm, but felt lightheaded as his injuries, lack of sleep, and steadily holding tidal wave of panic met with the rocking of the ship.

He awoke to a loud shout followed by a gunshot. The ship lurched again as it was anchored to the listing supply ship. Virgil ducked, suddenly terrified of being seen by the supply ship crew or getting shot. He cursed himself as he cowered from the angry yells and clanging of metal pieces.

Suddenly a large warm body landed in Virgil’s lap and he faintly heard Roman yelling at the crew to pull away. Slowly, he opened his eyes, surprised to find Janus in his lap, moaning in pain and clutching his leg.

“Wha- what happened? Where’s Rem-”

Janus hissed, “The selkie is fine.” he nodded up towards the helm, "and I totally meant to shoot myself- god damn it!". Virgil’s breath caught as he looked up to see Roman belting orders with Remus clinging to him and sobbing into his shoulder. Roman had wrapped his sibling in his coat, holding tight to his waist as though the selkie would disappear into the waves if he let go.

Virgil turned back to Janus who was also watching the selkie and the captain, “wait you got shot!” he turned with a groan to look for Patton, but finding the man busy helping Logan steer the ship away from the point of engagement, Virgil turned back and began to rip as clean a strip of cloth from his own shirt as he could get. “Show me the wound, you need to be bandaged.”

Janus hissed again, trying to pull away from Virgil but unable to move far, “I’m fine!” he snapped. Virgil pushed up the man’s pant leg and gently felt the bloodied skin around the wound. The bullet was definitely still lodged inside. He frowned and tied the scrap of his shirt firmly around to slow the bleeding.

Janus sighed heavily, unable to look away from Roman and Remus, “thank you. Roman has been looking for that one for a very long time...”

“Remus mentioned finding his skin. At least they’ll be able to be together again,” Janus whipped around to stare at Virgil.

“No. No, he can’t leave- I can’t-”

“You knew about Roman,” Virgil replied with a confirmed understanding, “he’d be happier with a choice.”

“We’re happy now- you don’t even know us,” Janus scoffed as he climbed to his feet, “just watch your mouth, lighthouse keeper.” He turned to limp back to his post, brushing Roman’s shoulder as he passed them.

Virgil moved to stand, only to be tackled back to the deck by a blur of red. He looked up and found Remus’s slate-grey eyes grinning back at him.

“You came for me! And you found Roman! You’re the best monster boyfriend ever!” Virgil cried from relief, pain, exhaustion, and joy. He wrapped his arms tightly around Remus feeling much the same way it had looked like Roman was, terrified Remus would disappear if he let go of it. When he looked up again, Roman was standing above the both of them, a confused mess of emotions playing out across his face.

“I hope you don’t mind a quick diversion before we return you home, Virgil. I would hate for that crew to try again without properly alerting the authorities. And as you saw, my first mate got a bit clumsy and needs medical attention,” Roman spoke quietly, trying to ensure neither Patton or Logan were listening in, “Remus assured me you don’t mean us any harm…”

“You always treat me like I’m stupid. Looks like I picked the better human,” Remus retorted, hugging Virgil tighter and squeezing his bruises.

"I just- I missed you, Rem.. and years later, we find you.. and you're throwing yourself at a human. I just can't believe it," Roman shook his head in disbelief.

Virgil sighed, "yeah. Please report those jerks and get Janus help. I'm so sorry he got hurt-"

"Nonsense. We would have risked a lot more to get this knucklehead back," Roman waved Virgil's apology off before leaving to direct the ship towards dock.

The sun had begun to set and nearly dipped below the horizon, lighting the water in flames before Virgil spotted the beacon of the lighthouse still spinning. He felt immense relief in just recognizing home.

The ship pulled up to his tiny dock and Virgil nearly tripped over himself, running to grab clothing and Remus’ skin. Roman and Remus also disembarked while the crew rested after such a harrowing day. Virgil found Roman and Remus standing on the beach, staring out over the ocean and talking quietly. Virgil stopped several yards away, curious.

“You could come back. We’ve missed you so much, bro.”

“I’ve missed you more than you’d know. But I have a life up here.”

“That bitch trapped you, didn’t he? You deserve so much better for yourself!”

“Look- yes, Janus hid my skin at first-”

“So take it back and leave him!”

“But I threw it overboard. I lost it on purpose. I hope you never understand, because Virgil seems a decent man. In fact, give it to him.”

“I’m sorry, give me what?” Virgil interjected, holding the clothes out for Remus. It happily grabbed them and its skin, dressing right there on the beach and tying its skin around its neck like a cape.

“Oh! Virgil! Um-” Roman stammered a moment, “I was offering to let you have my skin. You could become a selkie with it. I don’t need it.”

“Yeah! I could show you my world! Exploring shipwrecks and fighting squids over fishies- it would be so much fun! We could come back here for you to keep painting and all that stuff too,” Remus grinned broadly, offering Virgil its hand.

“I- I don’t know,” Virgil shook his head, “what about you?”

“My ship will be around. I know where to find my sibling now and that it’s okay and in caring arms,” Roman shrugged, “I wanted to stick around for a week or so, make sure those ruffians get jailed for attempted kidnapping. If that’s alright, of course. We have rations and won’t interfere with you.”

Virgil laughed quietly, “that is much appreciated, sir. Thank you for everything today.”

“It wasn’t a problem. Figured I’d be saving this knucklehead sooner or later,” Roman grinned and took his jacket back from Remus, “have a pleasant evening, Mr. Feny.”

“You too, sir!” Virgil called back before tugging Remus close to his side. The sun slipped below the water line and Virgil rested his head on Remus’s shoulder, taking comfort in the soft skin draped there. Roman had retreated to his ship, leaving the pair effectively alone.

The beacon spun overhead, glinting off the waves and fighting with the set sun for brilliance. Virgil stood silent, barely held steady by Remus who also leaned on him for support. The day had been all too much to process. As though reading his mind, Remus pulled Virgil down to the sand, laying down and offering to hold him. Virgil wrapped himself in his companion, feeling the world shrink to just one patch of the beach, the whisper of water draining through the sand, a spinning lantern warning other beings away, and the warmth in their embrace.

#dukexietyweek2021 #dukexiety #virgil sanders #remus sanders #selkie au #roman sanders #janus sanders #sanders sides #sanders sides fanfic #this one was so long pls don't expect this long every day #i'm literally so excited #my boys!

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despair-edits · 2 years

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Hiya! Uhh, can i get a matchup? Sorry if I get anything wrong I'm new to matchup blogs that have mods.

⚔️ — MATCHUP FOR: DDLC, Helltaker, BNHA (If one of them you can't match for me try genshin impact! ^^ those are basically the only fandoms i reside in)

⚔️ — APPEARANCE && STUFF : My big three is Virgo, my MBTI is ENFJ. I am quite tall about 6'8, though my face doesn't match my body i have a case of chronic babyface, im very pale. I have curly hair with heterochromia (yes heterochromia on the hair exists) my hair is black with lightish brown strands, i wear glasses and cannot see a damn thing without them i have to get uncomfortably close to see someone's face, I have two genetically pointy ears that make look like an elf.

⚔️ — PERSONALITY : My personality is extremely loud and chaotic, my laugh is very loud plus it sounds like a villain who defeated the hero or a complete maniac, everything i say comes off in a loud tone. I am quite literally loud in everything i do EVEN IN WHISPERS SOMETIMES, I am very random and will absolutely try to make you laugh, i literally never shut up. I will most definitely say the most out of pocket things like "exotic cricket" i spend most of my time sleeping and I'm a very heavy sleeper, I have to wake up by myself because no one else can wake me up not even sounds or water people genuinely think i died. I have Aichmomania (obsession with sharp objects) and collect sharp swords, i am touch averse despite what others think, i mostly read romcom and mythology books not 100% a bookworm. i will find a pokemon that matches with you if you are my friend, most of my friends have been introverts that i adopted as friends.

⚔️ — HOBBIES : My hobbies include: drawing, dancing (in my cultural dance only) collecting pokemon cards, acting like a knight at random, collecting swords.

⚔️ — MORE ABOUT : I also have solar urticaria that's why I'm so pale, thus i can only go out at night. People compare me to a bat for this because well, 1. Poor eyesight 2. I go out at night only.

;; aaaaaa I'm sorry if I did anything wrong — 🗡️ Anon

I match you up with:

Denki Kaminari!

I feel like he'd enjoy your randomness and loudness, also making both of you probably the loudest pair possible. You guys would be an adorable couple that makes everyone around light up with joy on sight. He would have to remind himself not to be too pushy about physical affection and to go on dates at night, but I'm sure he'd get used to it quickly. He's just a sweet boy!

Himiko Toga!

An obvious choice, I know, I know. But hear me out. Loud knife duo??? On the rooftop?? Watching the stars and people below as you laugh away into the night?? Hell yeah. She'd love you unconditionally, but again, would have to be reminded about your touch aversion. She would kick ass of anyone that dares to make you uncomfortable. Her friend group (aka the league of villains) is mostly made out of introverts so I have a feeling you're gonna have to adopt a lot of quiet rats while being with her :D

Xiao!

That is admittedly a very far jump from the other matches, but I just feel like it would be a perfect opposites attract kind of scenario. He's quiet and HIGHLY introverted. I do feel like he needs a little light in his life, one that wouldn't cross his boundaries. I headcanon him to be touch repulsed, at least in case of people he doesn't know very well. You'd meet up in the inn, the cool wind of the night surrounding you as you talk his ears off. And, for the first time in a very long time, Xiao would feel at home. If you can break down his walls and survive living with an aries, then you'd have a sweet relationship full of mutual understanding.

Jean!!

Please take her out of her office. Adopt this workaholic introvert I am begging you. Talk her into going out and having some fun, take her to a tavern or on a walk, she needs it. Fall asleep on her so she has no choice but stay in bed and rest. Make her laugh by pretending to be her Knight in shining armour that saves her from an endless pile of paperwork.

I hope those matches are to your liking. Lmk if you'd like me to change it to someone else!

-Mod Nagito

#mod nagito #matchups #matchup #matchmaker

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 5 years

Text

Humans are Space Orcs, “Protective Humans.”

Saw this suggestion in my inbox from a couple months ago lol :)

“I am glad you could agree to come commander, with all of the …. Issues with the LFIL, we have had a really difficult time trying to maintain good relations with the rest of the galaxy.”

“We are glad we could come, of course, anything to help people understand humans a little bit better, plus Dr. Krill has a speaking engagement at the conference, so my coming here was twofold.”

“Ah, yes, your little doctor, when I heard about his particular speech, I have to admit I am very intrigued and excited. Anyway, we are glad that humans could come and help us with our mission. Even with human tourism growing in certain sectors of the galaxy, there are still many places were humans had never been seen, and it is in those areas where we have the most difficulty. They hear the rumors, and they see reports on the news about the worst kind of humans, and they just get scared.”

Commander Vir pulled to a stop standing next to the conference director, A Finnari by trade with a relatively trustworthy face despite being an alien, “Well, then they wouldn't be the only ones. Humans have been practicing paranoia against ourselves for thousands of years.”

Out in the hallway of the conference center, aliens bustled by many of them staring on at the commander and his group of following humans with wide frightened eyes. Some of them pointed in excitement while others shied away to the other side of the hall.

It was still true that less than 7 percent of all aliens in the galaxy had ever seen a human, and for many of these, that fact was no different.

This would be their first time seeing a human.

The commander had to bite back his innate response to smile at them, seeing as most aliens, like most animals, considered the display of teeth to be a threat. So he simply waved a hand garnering a few flinches, and a number of curious head tilts.

Maybe someone should do a seminar on human body language, perhaps then the general public would feel more comfortable around them.

“Anyway, we thank you for coming, but your friend’s lecture is about to begin, and I am very excited to see how it goes.” The commander nodded to the Finnari director, and he, and the other three humans with him, Maverick Ramirez and Dr. Katie stepped into the room where doctor Krill was setting up his presentation.

As was becoming routine at the conference, they received a gasp and an eruption of mutterings as they appeared from the doorway.

Dr Krill looked up from his work, as the humans inched to the side of the door trying not to be too disruptive, “Stop right there you four, and come here.”

In confusion the humans did as directed.

Dr. Krill stood up voice electronically amplified over the sound of the room, “Can everyone hear me, good, that is very good, now today I am going to be talking about a subject that, as the humans say, is very near and dear to my heart. That translates as, it is very important to me.” he motioned the humans to sit down on the stage, and they did as ordered though rather awkwardly, “Now I thought about just speaking to you for today, but have decided that, you aren't going to be able to keep your focus away from the humans anyway, so I might do us all a favor and add them into my lecture as a way to introduce you to them in a controlled environment, and hopefully, after today, you will come to see the humans as I do. Great allies, and an undeniable opportunity for friendship.”

“now , I wanted to do something a little different today, something a little off from my normal structured way of speaking about humans because I find it very displeasing the way the rest of the galaxy sees humans, and I want to change that. I tried determining a fact about humans that is the most forgiving and the most empathetic. Something all of you would enjoy.”

There was a muttering of intrigue about the room.

“Well I am going to start off with a little bit of a lecture. A lot of you may not know that humans give live birth to their offspring, not eggs like the Vrul, Rundi, or the Celzex, but more like the Tesraki or the Drev. however based on the physical structure of the human, and the slow evolution to walking on two feet. Humans are only capable of producing offspring at a reasonable size generally around six to seven pounds, and arguably no greater than twelve to fifteen pounds, though there may be exceptions. Now, as you know six pounds is very very small compared to the end result of a human, and the size of the head has the greatest bearing on this issue. The human head shape requires offspring to be born extremely underdeveloped, so underdeveloped that when they are born they can barely see or hear and have no ability to coordinate their own movements. It takes almost an entire rotation of their planet around their star in order for a human to walk. In essence it takes as much as eighteen revolutions before the average human is no longer taken care of by their parents.”

There was a muttering from the crowd.

“Now based on the surprising helplessness of the human offspring compared to the final product, they tend to be very loud, and very difficult to take care of seeing how underdeveloped they are. Generally if any one of us were saddled with an offspring like that we would probably just give up, but the human brain is so hot wired to love their offspring, that none of those annoying things generally tend to matter. In fact, the power of a human’s bonding abilities is so strong that they can even bond to creatures that are NOT human in nature.”

Another surprised murmuring around the crowd.

“A human will have the same reaction to a nonhuman than they do to their own young, and in that case, this means that a human will protect the offspring of another species with their own lives. Human parents have been known to kill, lift objects five times their size, and fight off even more dangerous predators for the safety of their offspring, and they will do it for yours too..”

This time the murmuring around the room was almost palpable, it was as if they could hardly believe what they were hearing.

That couldn't be right.

“What if I told you that the safest place our offspring could be, is in the arms of a human.”

That caused an absolute uproar of chattering, and Krill had to wait a few minutes before the room calmed down.

The humans were looking between each other with some curiosity hardly believing what they were hearing, not sure where this was going.

“now , I have brought forward a couple of gracious volunteers who trust my judgement enough to help me demonstrate what you are about to witness .”

“Our first volunteer.” He motioned to the side of the stage were a Rundi was waiting, as she walked onto the stage, the crowd noticed at least three tiny shapes running around her feet.

The human turned to look eyes wide, to the crowd they almost looked hungry.

“Dr. Katie, can you tell me what you are thinking.”

The human looked up her wide brown eyes somewhat magnified through her glasses, “I want to hold one so bad.” She turned her head towards the rundi, “Can I hold one…. Am I allowed to do that. I’ll wear gloves.”

The rundi mother seemed surprisingly calm allowing the human to come over and pick up her little ones holding them gently in their hands running a finger over their tiny heads. One of the humans was holding the tiny creature to his chest. Patting its tiny head with one finger.

“You see the protective nature in which the humans hold young that isn’t their own, I picked the rundi first specifically for this reason, simply because they don’t look remotely human. Arguably the humans shouldn't even connect them with their own young, and yet this is the posture of a creature that isn’t going to let anything happen to their charges.” He turned to the humans. “What would you do if someone tried to hurt these little rundi?”

The darker human looked up from the creature he was holding to his chest, “I don't know probably rip their arms off and beat them with them…. But that's probably a bit graphic so… er, i would be very very upset?”

“Great save.” The commander muttered, stroking his hand delicately down the little Rundi’s back, who seemed to be enjoying it rather happily. Of course all the humans were wearing gloves, considering that the rundi had an aversion to water, and humans had a habit of shedding it wherever they went.

They actually seemed disappointed when they had to let the tiny creatures go.

Not that they were disappointed at the next moment when A dark blue-black tesraki brought out a fuzzy little bundle.

One of the humans made a strange squeaking noise. Again begging to hold it.

The humans seemed to be having even more fun than the rest of the crowd was having watching them.

“You see the younger a creature of a different species is, the more likely humans are to adopt it with their social bonding.”

“Look at its little pig nose eep!”

“Hey let me hold it. You don’t have to be a hog.”

“You can fight me.”

“Sharing is caring.”

“What if I don’t care.” The humans jostled with each other for a turn holding, petting or cooing over the creature, though their aggression seemed to terminate at a predetermined distance from the small one, and if it wasn’t obayed, there were other humans to make sure they kept in line.

“You see, I would wager to say that your children are safer with humans than they are with you. Not to call you a poor parent. But humans will take falling impacts, jump in front of speeding vehicles, and their bodies are known to be quite durable.”

The commander was leaning over Dr. Katie’s shoulder stroking the Tesraki’s huge ears with one finger, “So soft.”

“Though the creature does not have to be fluffy, but for some reason humans really enjoy it, despite their own young being hairless. In fact there are many humans that much prefer to have a creature of a different species than they are interested in having one of their own

“Furbaby.” A human whispered as the tiny Tesraki was appropriated back from them.

“My next demonstration we have to thank by way of lord Celzex.”

The humans lifted their heads, eyes widening, “No!”

“YES!”

What came next was an excessive spectacle of human happiness characterized by a lot of squealing from both male and female humans, and a ton of tiny, angry little balls of colored fluff with massive eyes and huge feet.

Dr. Katie sat in a corner holding a handful of the little colored fluff balls in her arms, “Guys….” She moaned, “I think I’m gonna cry, this is pure happiness. I want all of them.”

Maverick lay on the ground flat on her back as at least ten of the tiny creatures crawled all over her. It was pretty clear they were trying to attack, but to the human it caused nothing more than an eruption of giggling.

The commander and Ramirez sat opposite each other trying to wrangle a small heard of the fluffies who ran about in an angry circle.

Needless to say, the humans were very disappointed when they had to be taken away.

Ramirez held out a hand, “Wait, but, no….”

Maverick was frowning looking down at her empty hands like she was missing a finger.

“And now for my last demonstration.” The doctor began.” Motioning his last volunteer up.

What came next was a nine foot tall male Drev, cradling a tiny shape in his lower arms.

Excitedly, the humans rushed over, and the Drev seemed to have no problem handing over his young to the pack of cooing humans.

Maverick bumped Katie out of the way, and took the tiny creature in her arms running away with it across the room.

The other humans trailed after Craning their necks over her shoulder and trying to see the tiny creature who opened its little beak like a baby bird chirping and blinking at them.

“I swear if anything happens to this child I will kill everyone in this room and then myself.”

“I didn’t know they were so frigging adorable. Shit, I want one.” The commander grumbled playing with one of the tiny hands.

“Yeah, who wants a human baby anyway, these ones are way cuter., and they don’t smell.”

“Maverick, if you don't let me hold it, I promise I will have you on bathroom duty for the rest of your foreseeable career.”

Maverick frowned, “Just five more minutes.”

“Fine, five, but then it's my turn.”

The doctor continued to lecture as the humans sat in a circle passing around the tiny drev, “You see in a time of crisis, a human will wrap themselves around their offspring using the rigged bones, and taught muscles of the shoulders, back and ribcage as a shield diffusing impacts and cushioning falls. It is also quite common for an entire pack of humans to form up around younger humans to protect them.”

The commander had appropriated the tiny Drev from Maverick and was softly stroking a thumb against its tiny cheek. The small creature opened its mouth like a baby bird, chirping slightly before nuzzling its head against the human’s chest growing quite comfortable against the warm, soft human.

“Its official, I am the favorite.” The human announced

“But-”

“No no, you see, sleeping, now you can’t take him away.” The other humans pouted and the commander grinned.

“You see it is all thanks to the annoying and underdeveloped nature of the human offspring, that we can thank for human over protectiveness. Now, this effect lessons somewhat as you grow older, but generally speaking it never goes away entirely. A human will bond with anything, a broken piece of equipment, an item of clothing, and definitely you, for sure. Should you be cautious about which humans you trust? Certainly, but we exercise that caution daily with each other.”

He motioned to the group of huddling humans holding the tiny sleeping Drev.

“Just remember this image here the next time some propaganda string tells you humans are monsters.”

#humans are insane #humans are space orcs #humans are space australians #humans are spaceoddities #earth is a deathworld #Earth is space Ausralia

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palmett-hoes · 4 years

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YES. Oh my God you explained perfectly the logic behind Neil getting tattoos. I get that people think tattoos fix Andrew's "aesthetic" more cause he wears all black and all but tattoos nowadays are popular and not really a thing that only alternative people get. Anyway -> if Neil got tattoos, do u have an hcs for what he might?

yea the more i think about it the more i really like the idea of neil getting tattoos. and who knows, maybe if his boyfriend starts to get covered andrew will take an interest too. i mean you're right, it does fit his aes. maybe he gets some matching tattoos with the love of his life

WHAT neil would get tho? oh there’s so many factors to consider

i see him having a similar ideology about it as i do, that his tattoos are to memorialize significant people and events in his life. most importantly though, they’re just,, to make him feel good about himself, so they’re all of happy memories, even if some might be bittersweet

it’s also not about full-coverage. he’s fine if his scars are still visible under the tattoo and probably isn’t going to try to religiously cover every single one. it’s about having something good on his body that he chose to put there to combat but not necessarily blot out the bad things done to him against his will

he tends to collect smaller individual pieces rather than large scale work and he’s not committed to a specific style, so his collection is a bit random and eclectic. but in terms of the style generally drawn to very kinesthetic art with a lot of movement and fluid lines, but also angular and hard-edged. i don’t think he’s color-averse and definitely not a strict black-and-gray guy, but at the same time i can’t see him doing like super super bright color work. he goes for darker, more saturated colors, like jewel and natural tones. also of course i see him as brown skinned so you need to approach color work differently anyway

in terms of what he actually GETS, i don’t really have a lot of opinions on placement or like,, what tattoos should cover which scar, but have some random ideas i think he might get

he has a large piece (like maybe a sleeve or thigh) that’s dedicated to his time on the run, but the good parts. it’s a mix of a lot of images and very chaotic, drawing from like,, the french cafe where his most first bought him a cup of coffee and cottage safehouses in the alps in summer and where they had room to stretch their legs and run and chase each other and hustling three card monty in dubai with his mom and diners in the pacific northwest that sold the best fruit pies

he of course gets a lot of tattoos for the foxes, definitely at least one straight-up fox. tiny pawprints are his go-to filler pattern

he has everyone’s signatures somewhere on him, maybe with a tattoo of the Championship trophy being hoisted up by a group of hands. he also has small individual pieces that memorialize each of them individually

definitely got several exy sticks and various other pieces of gear scattered in various places. dark stadium chairs leading down to a brightly lit exy court

andrew is probably his biggest inspiration. he has the photograph of them together in the airport turned into a silhouette like a victorian cameo. a ring of keys; this one might go on the back of his neck. a tire track skid mark. a skeleton sitting on a roof against a sunrise. andrew’s hand sparking a lighter. the only reason he doesn’t have a full portrait is bc andrew says he’ll leave him if he does it

a rabbit skull overgrown by moss and vines and flowers.

he gets a rook and knight chess pieces tat because kevin says that’s what he and andrew would be

he gets some small cheeky ones too. things like a line of script that says “you should see the other guy” with a gun running under a nasty scar or a skeletal arm broken in half

once he starts to really establish who he is and flesh himself out as a person he gets some that don’t necessarily have a lot of meaning but that he just likes the look of because he has the luxury of having opinions on art now

i don’t necessarily know if i want him to cover his facial scars, but i think that’s mostly because i don’t like facial tattoos very much, especially ones located where neil’s scars are. that’s just a personal preference though. however, i think the idea of a minimalist, abstract take of just like,, adding color to the scars might be nice. something like well-saturated brushstroke work

(addendum: an au or something where all neil’s scars are just covered in abstract brushwork would be so fucking beautiful. like this but full-body holy shit)

(i just don’t think it really fits him in canon to have a full-body tattoo scheme. also those would require so much long-term maintenance you’d have to get them redone like every 5 to 10 years)

he also doesn’t get them all at once, this is something he builds up over years. he also doesn’t want to rush it because he wants to stay open to memorialize things that will come in the future, because he has a future to wait for now

---

also i assume you probably want some reference photos too bc this can be a little hard to understand just as words, so here's some of my reference images under the cut

they’re more of a stylistic reference than a content reference. also - as in all things - this will of course also tell you a lot about my own personal taste in tattooing even though i try not to make it based ENTIRELY on what i like and try to factor in what i think neil would like

these were the tattoos that most inspired me about the tattoo idea for neil’s happiest memories with his mother. for some reason my gut really drew me towards architectural tattoos for it. i like the way the perspective on the left image is curved and confusing and it takes you a second to make sense of what you’re looking at. it reminds me a lot of an MC Escher drawing and that’s sort of the exact seeling of chaos and confusion that i think the tattoo needs. but then i was also really drawn to the soft colors of the right image (although they’d have to be adjusted somewhat for neil’s darker skin), because they’re so comforting, and i think that’s the sort of balance i’m looking for out of a tattoo for mary. so like,, compositionally like the left image but colored more like the right

literally every person who’s ever considered aftg and tattoos together HAS to offer up a fox tattoo it’s law. anyway these are mine. or well, the types i can see neil with. also, not aside from the foxes, these tattoos are really the best examples i can find of the angular, kinesthetic art style that i feel very strongly matches neil

inspo behind the tattoo of andrew’s hand with the lighter. also just a good simple style for smaller tattoos or filler tattoos

victorian cameos. inspiration behind both the silhouette tattoos of andrew and neil in the airport and the skeleton & the sunrise. both would be more than just the bust and the poses would be more fluid and they don’t need the brooch design outline. it’s really more of a starter reference or a jumping off point

neo-traditional tattoos. phenomenal style. strong lines and highly saturated color, super important both for a long-lasting tattoo and for tattooing on darker skin. they also just tend to have a certain composition i really like

this is the style i see the championship trophy tattoo, the chess pieces tattoo, the rabbit skull tattoo, and the ring of keys tattoo all in

---

okay i’m done now

thoughts?

#txt #pic #neil josten #my posts #im talkin #ask #anon #anonymous #tattoo #tattoos #foxes w tats

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cozycryptidcorner · 3 years

Text

Monster Match #2

Hi! Special thanks to the absolutely phenomenal and positively lovely @floral-and-fine for commissioning this monster match! You gave me nothing but absolutely delightful vibes.

I’m a straight girl, Gemini, infp, and an elementary school teacher but my degree is in Fine Arts. I have blue eyes, brown/blonde wavy hair, plus size and 5’8”. I like to write, draw, play video games and watch movies. Personality wise, I’m sweet, mellow, timid with occasional moments of confidence, excitable, and a homebody but occasionally I like getting dressed up and going out. I love floral prints and wearing dresses. I’m terrible at being organized. I’m also very conflict averse and it takes a lot to make me mad.

Song I just happened to be listening to that I think fits the character very well: City of Ghosts by Melodysheep.

You have been matched with a Chalkydri! The Chalkydri are an ancient race of creatures thought to be angels, dwell near the sun, feasting on its vast energy output the same way a human might consume food. They are a space-faring species, only half physical, half made from energy, in an appearance that can only be described as mesmerizing. While looking like scales, their skin actually consists of crystals that keep their energy form solid, their eyes and hair the only parts they let flow free. Each Chalkydri has a different color of energy that matches their Soul, one that reflects their Name and harmonizes with the surrounding universe they were born in.

Your Chalkydri has an energy that flows from blue to green to purple, shifting and fading based on his mood. His eyes are electric, throbbing, and pulsing with unfathomable power, his hair long and glowing, visible from long distances even during the day. Each Chalkydri has a myriad of wings, about a dozen sets stacked on top of limbs and body parts- some even looping over each other. They are paler colors compared to their true Soul resonance and float against the sky almost the same way as their hair. At first glance, the wings might look feathered, a gently orchestrated pattern twisting around like an evaporating gas. He's tall, even in the form he chooses to show to humankind, but he is unfathomably large when he is in his natural state. The scales that cover his arms, neck, and portion of his face almost look like a mosaic of emerald and lapis, the colors matching so close to his Soul that it must have been intentional.

Many of his kind exist, but they are slowly dwindling as the rest of the universe runs burns the fixed amount of energy. In the beginning- the very beginning, they came to consciousness, as though from failed stars that never managed to collect enough cosmic dust to start. The Souls are another thing, no one is entirely sure where those came from, though your Chalkydri believes that the universe is a single, outstretched creature, and that all Souls of every living thing are an extension of Her. Almost like a god, yes, but with an equal amount of omnipotence or control that a human being has over their own body.

Meeting him was an accident, though falling to earth was his bad. It was after a brief scrabble with another of his kind- an argument too heated, a push more forceful than intended, and he was hurtling through an atmosphere with no means of stopping. The impact was painful and the recovery was long- especially since the sun barely offers the required nutrients he needs so far away. His body bled out upon a barren wasteland, and from that, sprung life almost overnight. The soil suddenly turned fertile, dead seeds sprouting from the cement cracks, a forest overtaking the ruins of a city before he even wakes from his slumber.

And what person finds an odd figure stumbling out of the surprise wooden area?

After trying to get him to eat (he can't) and trying to get him to drink (he can't), he finally gets enough energy from sitting against your home's windowpane that he can at least speak. He needed to get to a higher altitude to speed his recovery, and you had nothing going on that weekend. Helping the strange, blue and green man to the closest mountain range might not have been on your to-do list, but you were able to shift some things around to accommodate him. After all: alien. Space. Alien from space, need you say more?

Everything about him breathes and speaks of power despite the fact he can't necessarily use most of it on earth without vaporizing a chunk of the population. He is a being made of energy, he knows, but his people are not warriors or conquerors: they're primarily scholars. They are curious people who like to study what they do not understand, largely how the universe came to be. But still, even with the academic rigor, you have never met a gentler soul in your life. Despite his massive frame and ability to carve out the moon into a permanent crescent, he much prefers to use his power for small, almost unnoticeable ways to improve life on earth.

His initial fall might have been an accident, but your Chalkydri cannot deny the connections he made during his stay. Especially you, because there was something about you that was just so vibrant and sweet and Alive, despite your shorter lifespan. He had always thought terrestrial beings experienced only short, quick bursts of rotting misery, but you changed that perspective. Even if the relationship is bittersweet for him- keeping you close is the only remedy to the aching pain he experiences whenever he leaves the planet. Love, but not the kind he has experienced before with his parents and siblings. It's a biting thing, one that chews from the inside of his chest out like a feral animal. He knows you are not as permanent as he is, knows that he will outlive you by leagues, but he is drawn to you so closely regardless.

That's the state of the universe, though. Gravity draws primordial dust around it, creating planets and stars and galaxies, as though closeness in itself a fundamental law of nature. Some people are pulled to each other, orbiting and pulling at the other's paths until they are in perfect sync. Some people crash and implode, a fiery display of the raw, horrifying side of that truth. Does life not form only when gravity pulls together the correct elements? Is that not the universe herself begging for a form of companionship? Love, he might argue, be an equal force to the natural state of things as gravity.

But sometimes, when he looks at you, whether that's making breakfast, sleeping, or going through your work, he thinks he wouldn't mind if you were the cause of another explosive downfall.

#monster match

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magebastard · 4 years

Text

nate x detective dana burke (pre-relationship)

day 3 of @wayhavenmonthly prompts: date

Nate has never known Dana to wear anything other than neat, straight, symmetrical lines. A subtle, jeweled pair of stud earrings, if she has to have an accessory—but her sense of style is business-like and no-nonsense, all the way down to the cleanly filed crescents of her short nails.

She’s sharp and neat. She’s beautiful.

Today, however, the detective has decided to steal the wind right out of his sails. In a number of ways. Unannounced and unprompted as Unit Bravo’s morning meeting concluded, she’d curled a hand in the crook of his elbow and whispered so quietly he might have missed it were it not for his heightened senses;

“Plans tonight?”

Nate tries to do right by her in his responses—he always has. He always will. This time having been no different; he’d waited an appropriate beat, regarded her tone, turning it over with care. The question had been served in a pointed way that said more, without saying very much at all. It’s a tone he’s intimately familiar with.

He doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable, but he does have to ask when these questions between them arise. After the carnival, and the Maa-alused debacle, Dana asked that they take things slow. Nate has his own insecurities on the best of days, but he’d stamp down any doubts for the sake of preserving her comfort.

It scares him that he thinks he’d wait forever.

Swallowing past his hesitance, his lips had quirked into a warm—trying for charming—smile as he’d asked;

“Are you asking me on a date?”

It sounded juvenile and he’d wanted to wince as soon as he’d said it. But she smiled back—hitting charming with gusto—and it was fine. Better still when she’d said ‘yes’ with an assuredness that’d not been entirely expected, given their circumstances.

Nate’s own smile only grew (threatening to blind her, in radiance).

“Then I would most assuredly say that I have plans tonight, Detective Burke.”

The day, beyond her then quick—too quick—departure feels like it took place in a haze. He remembers ironing and gently pulling on a pair of fitted slacks and a fine, carefully pressed button up. He remembers showering, exfoliating, intricate skin care and careful, close shaving. He remembers pointed looks from Adam and smirking from Felix. He remembers an uncomfortable pep talk to himself in the mirror. “This is weird. It is weird, isn’t it? Remarkably weird.”

And he remembers air being forced right out of his lungs.

Dana’s wearing a sundress. The end of it floats around her ankles and there’s a high slit up her right thigh. Nate’s never seen so much of her leg before. He wants to capture it in memory. He suddenly wishes he were a painter—someone who could render an image to the page again and again. He’d commit himself to a single effigy; the slip of a single, soft expanse of skin.

Nate tries not to visibly shake himself.

It’s a second date.

Still.

Dana is authoritative and sharp and this is the softest she has ever looked to him.

Her brown eyes are wide and while he wouldn’t assume, Nate suspects she’s drinking him in, similarly.

“You look beautiful,” She says on a breath. He lets out a shocked, punched laugh.

“I was about to say just the same,” He replies softly. They’re stood in the middle of a public park. The sun began to set some time ago, and parents have taken to the usual evening method of exhausting their raucous children in the summertime; catching fireflies. There’s plenty of noise between the shouting and chatting of lower, more exasperated voices.

Still there seems to be a quiet hanging between them that neither feels inclined to break.

Eventually, with a nod, she gestures him to follow her. He does, and they walk.

There’s a less than comfortable quiet where neither of them quite know what to say. It cracks as he asks about her day and she launches into an impassioned recounting of her latest, frustratingly mundane case. Nate’s happy to respond in kind with some theories of his own. They then, of course, descend into outlandish ideas that could rival Felix’s own imagination.

It’s natural. They drift together with gravity. Dana reaches to loop her arm up through his and Nate’s smile brims over with gentle affection. He just barely wrestles his desire to kiss her temple.

She’s planned a lovely evening. A walk in the park—catching a firefly or two of their own, if they feel so moved to—making their way to the docks, where they’ll sit and watch the waves touch the shore. She’d been nervous, what with his aversion to sailing and the sea, but Nate’s just fine letting the salt water lap lazily at his ankles where they sit side by side on a low pier.

Dana pulls a bottle of the cheapest wine Nate’s ever laid eyes on out of a tote bag, along with a book of crosswords and book light. It’s delightful, and he tells her as much. She smiles and twists off the cap.

“I’ll decline, for now,” Nate chuckles. Her smile stretches into a lazy smirk as she tips the whole bottle back, long fingers clutching tight to the neck for a pull. Nate swallows.

They set to work, passing the book back and forth between them until any distance feels foolish and Dana has leaned heavily into his space so they both can see and utilize his markedly neater handwriting.

The evening is a dream. Conversation flows easily between them, banter and flirtation in equal measure. He can hear her heart stutter when he catches her with a bold compliment, and thud each time she shifts and re-registers their proximity. It doesn’t feel simple as Nate finds himself absorbed in a way that he’s terrifyingly unfamiliar with. But she cracks a joke and sips her wine and smiles at him and it feels like the easiest thing in the world.

“This is my favorite spot,” Dana speaks, quietly. She sounds cautious, and Nate tries to not to linger on her hesitance. He understands it. He lives with it, buried deep in his own chest. The fear of saying too much is a constant and clawing worry. The fear of not saying enough is an aching pit trapped behind his ribs.

He says nothing and politely, if not anxiously, waits for her to continue.

“I don’t know. Growing up here, if you were running away from anything,” She gestures vaguely with the arm she isn’t resting on. Her gaze stays fixed ahead of her. “You ran here.”

Nate attempts to wait out the pause that follows. He counts the seconds, making it to twenty-seven before breaking. “The view makes for pleasant company,” He supplies.

“I ran a lot.” Dana looks up at him. He meets her even stare. He holds his breath.

“Sometimes this feels too big not to run from,” She continues, as her eyes rake over his face, lingering for a hairs breadth of a second longer on his lips. Nate doesn’t need to ask what ‘this’ she means. All at once, he wants to trip over himself in agreement and hide his heart and the way it feels heavily rent open by and before her.

Dana sighs. Nate lets out his own sharp breath as she settles her weight fully against him.

“So, I wanted to take you with me,” She says, finitely, in that very matter-of-fact way that’s as precious and comforting to Nate as the rest of her.

He thinks she’s giving him permission to want more.

She’s wine-loose, however, so he chooses to want quietly for now.

Nate maneuvers himself to settle his arm around her, letting her back rest partially against his chest.

“Nine letter word for a steep rock face?”

Dana’s shoulders jump with a short laugh.

“Precipice.”

She tilts her head back to rest on his shoulder. Nate leans his cheek against her temple. He listens for a moment to the rhythm of her breath, pacing his own to match. It’s enough.

#nate sewell #n sewell #the wayhaven chronicles #fic #detective x nate #c: dana burke #im sure ill read this back in the morning and edit it a lot lmao #thank u for these fun prompts!!#when i say this is self indulgent #also im sorry if n’s characterization i s bad lmao #28dateswithunitbravo #nate sewell x detective #myfic

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pettyprocrastination · 4 years

Text

Rip Out Our Seams and Stitch Us Together

Pairing: Maxwell Lord x Valerie Lord x Black!Fem!Reader

Chapter Five

Word Count: 7k

Warnings: Profanity, mirror sex, choking, kind of face-fucking? a touch of voyeurism, oral-male receiving, penetrative sex, Mean Maxwell fuckin’ lmao, office sex, angry sex, how in God’s name did we get here I am horrible at writing smut so i just want to say i’m SORRY.

Chapter Summary: You take the measurements for the richest family in D.C, Valerie is surprised by her how quickly her son has taken a shining to you and Maxwell has a late night at the office.

Tag List: @captainsamwlsn @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @readsalot73 @cinewhore @this-cat-is-dea @holographic-carmen @honestlystop @favoriteff-allcelebs @teaofpeach

Chapters: 1/2/3/4/

“The Lords are coming by tomorrow.” Cassandra looked up from the book open at the register.

“But Mrs.Lord was just in yesterday.” She told you.

“Not just her this time.” You finished off the seam on the ground in front of you as you spoke. “All of them are coming in, her husband and son, the whole gang of rich folk will be here.”

Ever since Valerie stepped into your shop late at night four weeks ago, she made herself a common visitor. Oftentimes she’d waltz in, plop herself down onto a chair and begin to complain about Maxwell’s secretary with the horrid voice or one of her friends who was less of a friend and more of a pain in the ass.

You didn’t know how becoming the friend of a heiress meant her throwing herself into your lap everyday to gossip about other rich people but hey, you weren’t complaining. She was pretty good company when the dust settled.

Three days ago she had called your store, and told you she, Maxwell, and Alastair would be coming in to get measurements taken so you could get the mock-up of their outfits done with their approval to move on to the finished version.

Before she could say anything else you had asked about her son.

“What does he like?”

“What?”

“What’s he like?” You asked, as you spoke your hand picked up the needle once more and began to hem the dress in your lap. “You know, DuckTales, Transformers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I’ve got some stuff I always bring out when kids come into the shop but I don’t know how rich kids work. Do I just hand him money and call him sir?”

“Ha ha.” She droned. “You know if life as a seamstress doesn’t work out, you should pursue a career in comedy, you’d flourish.”

“Aw Val, I couldn’t!” You cooed. “You’d miss me too much.”

You heard her scoff on the other line. From across the store Cass looked at you like you’d sprouted a second head.

“Nonetheless.” She said slowly. “Alastair isn’t into traditional children’s activities. He enjoys chess with his tutors, reading, and playing the cello.”

You fought the urge to ask if these were things he liked to do or things his parents wanted him to do.

Maybe rich kids were just built differently.

“I’m just calling to tell you certain adjustments must be made for my son.” She explained, in a tone so formal you hadn’t heard it since you first met her.

“Uh sure.” You sat up, concerned. “What do you need?”

“Certain textures make him extremely uncomfortable for clothing, so be aware that the lining will have to be a soft, smoother material.”

You sat back, observing the swatches already laid out in the backroom. You could grab a few more of softer materials for him to feel and see which one he liked the most. You already assumed as such, since he’s a kid and you remembered how much you hated wearing your church dress because of how itchy it was. “ Anything else need to be done?”

“He can get overstimulated if places are too loud or crowded at times, but since your store hardly has any customers in it.” You could hear the smirk on her face over the phone and groaned. “I doubt that will be a problem.”

“It’s my pleasure to be of your assistance.” You snipped. A moment of silence passed between the pair of you. “But uh, seriously. Don’t worry about it. I’ve made clothes for kids and people with touch aversions before. No sweat.”

“Thank you.” She breathed out. “Really Stitches, I appreciate it.”

At her praise your lips curled into a soft smile. “It’s no problem Val. One question though.”

“Yes?”

“Who the hell names their kid Alastair?”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that Stitches, I’ll see you tomorrow.” A dial tone met your ears and you called out to Cassandra.

“Do we have a chess board in the back?”

---

Valerie walked into her son’s room, clearing her throat so both him and his tutor looked up at her.

“Alastair honey, can I talk to you for a moment?” The boy, only eight, nodded and closed his workbook before standing. The tutor however, shot a hand out to grab her son’s shoulder.

“Mrs. Lord.” The tutor, a man graying at the temples who wore ties so bland she’d rather wear a nose, shot her a condescending smile. “I thought we agreed on not interrupting Alastair’s lessons. It’s bad for his focus.”

“Mr. Lanston.” She shot back in the same sickly sweet tone as she tapped a manicured nail against the wall. “Who’s house is this?”

The man swallowed. “Mr.Lor-”

She clicked her tongue, shaking her head side to side as if scolding a dog. “For a tutor you seem to be quite fond of giving out the wrong answers. So I will ask you again, whose house is this?”

The tutor shrunk back. “Yours.”

“Correct. And who is it that you work for?”

“You, Mrs.Lord.” He said meekly.

“Correct again! Now since this is my house and it is my son you are teaching, I will speak to him if I please. And if you try and insult my son’s intellect by saying a simple chat with his mother will throw him off course, I will throw you out onto the street. Do you understand me?”

The man’s mouth opened and shut like a fish out of water.

“I asked you a question Mr.Lanston.” Her hand tapped against the Cartier watch on her wrist expectantly. “I expect an answer back.”

“Of course Mrs.Lord.” He stammered out, before turning to her son who just barely came to his hip. “I’m so sorry Mr.Lord.”

“That’s okay.” He answered simply, before taking his mother's hand in his and walking out of the room.

Alastair Lord was eight years old, had his mother’s bright blue eyes and his father’s dark brown hair (Maxwell visited a hairstylist regularly but would never admit it). He had already skipped a grade but his parents insisted on keeping track of his studies, even during the summer. Maxwell did it in an attempt to feel less guilty about being stuck at work all day instead of being with his son, Valerie did it so nobody would ever get the chance to use her son’s intellect as a weapon against his own standing.

The Lords didn’t agree on much. But one thing they did agree on was that they loved their son more than anything in the world.

“Do you still want to go to the gala with us in September?” She asked him. Her son’s eyes flicked out to the large glass window that proudly displayed their immaculate lawn, a bird flew along the clear pane before flying up and out of sight. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I’ll go.” He said simply. He squeezed his mother’s hand in his with a small smile. “I like going to those fancy parties, you always wear pretty dresses.” He frowned, looking down at the floor for a moment. “I don’t like it when those old ladies try to touch my hair and kiss my cheek though.”

Alastair hated physical affection from those he didn’t know. The last business party of Maxwell’s he went to, a man’s wife tried to give him what she thought was a friendly kiss on the cheek because he was “such a darling little boy!”. Alastair ripped himself away from her in a panic, to which she then got offended and insisted to speak with his mother about his “awful manners.”

When Maxwell came to find his son clinging to his mother’s leg with tears in his eyes, he promptly had the couple thrown out and cut off business ties with the woman’s husband on account of her awful manners.

From then on Alastair’s parents made sure he knew that if he was uncomfortable with a situation, he was to tell them and they would put an end to it immediately.

“Your father and I are going to go see a seamstress to get measurements done for the gala. Would you come with us so we can get a suit made for you as well?”

Alastair looked up at his mother, blue eyes shining and ultimately passive at her question.

“Sure.”

------

It was late at night when he came into his son’s room. Alastair was already in bed, nuzzled under his sheets and head resting against his pillow. Maxwell gently rapped his knuckles against the door before entering, his son’s eyes blinked open. It was always a shock how much they looked like Valerie's.

“How’s the tutoring going?” Maxwell already knew the answer, Alastair excelled in every subject, but he simply wanted to hear his son speak to him.

“Good.” His son replied. “Mr.Lanston said if I keep studying hard I might be able to skip another grade.”

Maxwell sat on the edge of his bed. “Would you like to skip another grade?”

Alastair was already a grade ahead, his teachers would message his parents about how well behaved and smart he was. But Alastair hardly ever spoke about his own experiences at school, about his friends or anything other than his classes.

“I don’t know.” the boy shifted for a moment, furrowing his brows in frustration and it was moments like this that he truly did look like his mother. “Mr.Lanston says it’s good for me to stay ahead of other but-” He looked off into the window of his room, a small sliver of moonlight peeking through the blue curtains. “Fifth grade sounds kind of fun, I heard the history teacher is really interesting and takes us on fun field trips.”

Part of Maxwell, the part still drilled into his head by his mother, nagged that he was sending the boy to that school to learn not go on ridiculous field trips. The other part of him, the part that shone when Alastair called him dad, felt guilt when he saw how apprehensive his son was in telling him how he felt.

Maxwell smiled, reached out to ruffle his son’s hair that was damn near a carbon copy of his own (before he got it dyed of course). “Then you’ll stay right where you are champ.”

“Thanks dad.”

The older lord frowned, before sternly pointing a finger at his son. “That’s Mr.Dad to you, young man.”

His son promptly groaned and threw his blanket over his face. “That joke still isn’t funny!” Even at his disgust, Maxwell could hear his son’s muffled giggles through the blanket and smiled.

“Humor is subjective, son.” Maxwell stood up from the bed, knees popping loudly as he did. Jesus, he was getting old. “Goodnight Alastair.”

Maxwell was already out of his son’s room and halfway down the hall when a tiny voice peeped out.

“Goodnight dad.”

-----

“So what exactly does his son like?” Cassandra stood at the register, head laying in the palm of her hand as she leaned against the counter. The back room had been set full with different fabrics for them to see and either confirm or reject. Which in the classic Lord fashion meant they will either toss it at you with a stiff “this will do” or tell you it’s the ugliest thing in the world.

You sighed. “Apparently he likes to read, play chess and the cello.” You looked toward the old checkers board set out and shrugged. “That was the closest thing I had so lets hope he isn’t as stuck up as his father or dramatic as his mother.”

“Speaaaaking of which.” Cassandra looked up with an excited grin. “You and Mrs.Lord are like, best friends now right?”

You thought about all the times she paraded into your store before throwing herself into the nearest chair (or your lap) before complaining about her day like a soap opera star.

“Well I wouldn’t say best friends, but we’ve certainly gotten closer.”

“What’s she like? Has she taken you shopping? Have you seen her house? Is she as mean as everybody says she is?”

You pulled back for a moment, thinking. “She’s nice for a rich lady, no we haven’t gone shopping and I don’t think we ever will, I haven’t seen her house which once again I don’t think will ever happen, and honestly she insults me a lot but I think it’s her way of showing affection at this point.”

Cassandra giggled. “Like a cat?”

You thought about a cat- a fickle creature that will hiss and scratch in one second, and then demand all of your attention right after.

“You know what? That’s actually a pretty spot on comparison.”

The jingle of a bell met your ears before a stern voice sounded out.

“My god do you people not know what a broom is?”

You turned around, watching Maxwell enter your store with a crinkled nose.

“I know what a broom is well enough rich boy, why don’t I go get one so I can shove it up your-”

Cassandra cleared her throat loudly before motioning to the tiny child at Maxwell’s side.

“Oh, uh-” You realized the boy must've just seen you threaten his father. “Hey little dude. How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you.” The boy responded. Alastair’s voice was just as tiny as he was. He had his mother’s eyes and father’s nose, but his hair was so dark it made you wonder which one of his parents bleached their hair.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, mam.”

Prim posture, perfect manners, not a single hair out of place. He struck you less as a kid and more as a robot but you bit your tongue before smiling back.

“No need for fancy titles with me, little lord. You can call me Stitches.”

Alastair wrinkled his nose, a gesture that made him look so much like his father you wanted to laugh. “That’s a weird name.”

Valerie tutted at her son, blue eyes cast down in disappointment. “Alastair! Don’t be rude.”

“He isn’t wrong.” Maxwell waved off his wife’s scolding of their son. “Besides, I believe we came here to get actual work done on whatever horrid outfits you're making for the gala?”

“Of course.” You turned on your heel, leading them to the backroom where multiple mirrors lined the wall. “I’d hate to take up too much of your time. You’re a busy man after all, I’m sure you’d rather be off making your secretary cry or something equally as important.”

Maxwell rolled his eyes and shucked off his jacket, ignoring the twinge of annoyance he felt at even the mention of his secretary, someone you didn’t even know grated him so horribly.

“Well we can’t all run rotten, hole-in-the-wall shops like this that just beg to be robbed.” He turned a sly eye to you with his nose tilted up. “Some of us have standards after all.”

You smiled. “I suppose you're right about that one Mr.Lord, I doubt my skills will live up to your expectations.” You wrapped the measuring tape around his bicep, using it to tug him so close his powerful facade melted into one of shock.

“And yet-” Your voice curled in his ear like a tempting call, your eyes so focused on taking note of the measurement of his arm Maxwell hoped you didn’t hear his breath catch.

“-here you are.”

Valerie looked up from the fabric swatches in her hand to notice the way Maxwell stared at you while you were blissfully unaware. It was hungry, surprised and oh so desperate. The same way she looked at you.

All while you busied yourself with his measurements, unaware of the inner workings between the billionaire and his wife.

Valerie was pulled from her head when her son handed her a swatch of fabric, a royal blue in color and soft knit against her skin.

“This one is nice.”

She smiled at her son. Out of the corner of her eye she saw you wrap the tape measure around her husband’s chest. She reached down to playfully tug on the collar of his shirt, also a deep royal blue.

“You’ll look lovely in it sweetheart.”

The conversation between you and his father was not nearly as loving.

“Do you have to play such obnoxious music?”

You didn’t bother to look up at Maxwell when he snipped back, you simply focused on the tape in your hands and the measurement of his chest which only made him even angrier.

Obnoxious, what a perfect word to describe you.

The shirts, the tattoos, everything about you was just so...loud.

His eyes flicked forward when he felt your fingers ghost over his chest. Mirrors lined each wall, most likely so your customers could see what the clothes looked like on them from each angle. But as you leaned down to measure his inseam, his thoughts went other places.

Places they definitely shouldn’t have with his wife and son in the same room.

“Do you have to wear such disgusting cologne?”

Maybe it was your attitude, such defiance nobody openly showed him in fear of losing their job, or the fact that you were so different than the tucked in, prim-and-proper future trophy wives he fucked, or maybe it was simply the fact that your ass looked phenomenal in those jeans, but Maxwell couldn’t help but imagine fucking you in front of those mirrors.

He wondered if you’d be loud, head thrown back and calling out his name as he fucked into you without mercy, without care. Maybe you’d be shy, you were so stubborn after all. Perhaps you’d bite your lip, trying to keep your noises stifled so you didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how good he made you feel. Maxwell wouldn’t allow that of course, he’d never admit it but he liked having his ego stroked almost as much as his cock. He wouldn’t hesitate to grab your jaw, forcing you to look forward at yourself in the mirrors.

‘We’re the only ones here.’ His breath fanning out over your neck would make you shudder as you stared at your reflection just as he did. Seeing the way your tits bounced with each thrust and the ways your legs trembled and shook like those of a newborn. His pride swelled at the notion that if his arm wasn’t wrapped tight around your waist and gripping you close, you would’ve fallen to the floor by now.

‘Let me hear you.’ He grunted into your neck as your whimpers got louder until you were all but shouting his name. ‘Good girl.’

“It’s revolting really.”

The sinful painting in his mind was torn to shreds when your haughty voice cut through it like a hot blade.

He blinked owlishly, you stood in front of him, tape measure no longer against him but thrown over your shoulder while you crossed your arms.

“What?”

“Your cologne.” You explained with a smirk. “It’s like trying to take measurements in a chemical factory. A little goes a long way Maxwell.” You gave him a sarcastic pat on the shoulder, one he was too distracted to push off because the way his name rolled off your lips.

You had never said his name before.

As quick as the interaction was, you turned to Valerie and Alastair, both sitting at the table behind you. You smiled and held a welcoming hand out.

“You ready little man?”

Alastair looked at his mother, who nodded her head and he slid off his chair to hop onto the pedestal his father previously stood on top of. His father took a seat next to his wife who said nothing.

They both watched their son raise his arms as you held up the tape measure to him with a smile, you were saying something to him, most likely about school or his summer break. Valerie appreciated when you asked her about his interests to make a connection, but knew that was less than likely. Alastair wasn’t one to make connections, something she wondered if he got from his father by instinct or something that was drilled into him by his grandmother.

Before she had been banned from coming to their house.

“I’ll be working late tonight.” Maxwell told his wife. He knew she didn’t really care, their marriage was ten years of working late nights. Telling her at this point was just a courtesy.

“Will your secretary be working as well?”

Maxwell noted the sly dig toward Delilah, but didn’t care enough about the woman to defend her.

“If she wasn’t I wouldn't have hired her.”

Valerie ignored her husband in favor of the scene in front of her. She watched as you held the tape to her son’s leg, nodding your head as he spoke at length while you took his measurements. To say his mother was surprised would be an understatement, he hardly talked to his parents. Let alone people he’s only just met.

Maybe something about you just brought out that side of the Lords.

“Alrighty, you're all good Alastair.” The youngest Lord hopped off the little step and you looked toward his mother with a jut of your chin. “You're up, Val.”

Maxwell looked toward his wife with a raised brow, mouthing her nickname in confusion. She was too busy taking your hand as you stepped onto the pedestal to notice.

“So-” You wrapped the tape measure around her waist, mindful not to let your hands linger. “-how the hell did you two make such a sweet kid like Alastair?”

Valerie smiled at your reflection and ignored the way her heart jumped when you pulled the measuring tape just beneath the swell of her chest. “I’m not sure if that was an insult on my parenting or my personality.”

“Oh definitely an insult on your personality, without a doubt.” You responded seriously, but the tilt of your lips lent it to a gentle tease. “You must be doing something right because that kid is better behaved than you and your husband.” You looked up for a moment and she held her breath.

“Or should I be giving this praise to some poor underpaid nanny you torture?”

Valerie scoffed. “Oh please, Miriam is hardly underpaid and she doesn’t do a damn thing right. I don’t know why we keep her around these days.”

You snorted. “Miriam?” The tape measure pressed to the side of her hip as you measured down her leg. “God, you people really tic every box off the one percent checklist, don’t you?”

Valerie hummed, painted lips curls into a smile. “We try our best dear.”

You stood up straight, hands moving behind her to wrap the tape around her chest with an awkward cough. Even as you willed all your focus on the numbers of her measurement you couldn't help but feel your face grow hot.

“How unlady-like.” She murmured, you didn’t look up to meet her gaze but the smug tone in her voice gave it away. “At least buy me dinner, Stitches.”

You chuckled and spared a glance up.

What a fucking mistake that was.

Blue eyes stared you down like you have been presented on a silver platter and the richest woman in D.C. wanted nothing more than to devour you right where you stood.

“Something tells me I wouldn’t be able to afford it.”

“I’m sure I can make an exception.”

You realized Valerie was alot like the sun, you couldn’t look at her for too long without needing to look away.

You stepped back to write her measurements down and put your hands together.

“I think you folks are good to go.”

You just hoped you wouldn’t end up burned.

Maxwell stood up and scoffed. “About damn time, some of us have real work to do instead of twiddling our thumbs and sewing little dresses.” As he walked by, his eyes flicked over yours in a poisonous glare and his shoulder knocked against yours with his son following behind him like a little carbon copy.

You looked toward his wife, who looked just as surprised by the worsening of her husband’s mood.

“You’re one lucky woman Mrs.Lord.”

“Believe me I know.” She leaned forward to whisper with a wink. “But I know a few things that’ll brighten him up no problem.”

You scrunched up your face and pushed out every image that surged into your mind at her implication. “Okay gross, didn’t need to know that but thank you.”

“Always my pleasure Stitches.”

The door shut behind Valerie as she walked out to their car, throwing one last wink over her shoulder before sliding into the backseat next to her son while her husband slammed the passenger seat door behind them.

“Well-” Cassandra looked over at you with a surprised expression. She must've noticed the fact that Maxwell had seemed to be pissier than usual, you did as well but assumed it was because of some deal that went sour at work or some type of rich people shit you couldn’t even fathom. “-his son seemed nice.”

“Yeah.” Their car turned a corner and disappeared from your line of sight. “They aren’t exactly the fucking Brady Bunch though.”

------

“Daniels-” Maxwell adjusted his collar in the rear-view mirror as he spoke. “-swing by the office. I need to go over some papers for a meeting I have tomorrow. Then take Valerie and Alastair home.”

“Of course sir.”

The driver turned left.

“Mom?”

Valerie looked to the boy at her side. “Yes sweetheart?”

“Can I come with you the next time you see the seamstress?” Valerie looked toward the passengers seat, where her husband sat just as shocked as her.

“You want to go see Stitches?” Maxwell asked. “Again?”

His son nodded, too young to realize how surprised his parents were by his answer.

“She’s funny and nice and she doesn’t talk down to me like other people do.” Alastair looked up at his mother, nervous at her lack of response. “Is that okay?”

That seemed to snap Valerie into action. She smiled and took her son’s hand in her with a loving pat. “Of course sweetheart, Stitches would love to have you around.”

The car came to a halt in front of the Chimtech Consortium building, which stood tall, even against the grit and grime of the busy city streets

Maxwell stepped out of the car before ducking his head into the window. “I’ll be home late tonight champ, alright?”

Alastair held no disappointment nor resentment to his father for the time he spent at work but it didn’t make Maxwell feel like any less of a shit father.

“Okay dad.”

Valerie leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek, leaving a red lipstick stain in her wake. “I’ll see you tonight darling.”

Maxwell smiled. “Don’t stay up too late waiting for me dear.” He took a step back, watching the car drive out of the sight of his building before he frowned and wiped the lipstick off his cheek, which in turn left a red mark on his jacket sleeve.

“Damn that woman.”

The moment he entered the lobby, people seemed to pause before greeting him, none of which he gave a response to. It wasn’t until the elevator door shut that he took a deep breath.

Breathe Maxwell, you’ll run yourself ragged this way.

A tiny titter behind him made him realize he wasn’t alone in the elevator. Out of the corner of his eye he could see brown leather shoes that he’d wouldn’t be caught dead in.

“What’s your name son?”

The boy gaped for a moment before he found his voice. “Michael, sir.”

The door opened with a soft Ding! And Maxwell stepped out before turning to face the young man.

Wiry frame, tall, yet hunched over out of pure insecurity and refusing to meet Maxwell’s eye.

He was definitely an intern.

“Well then Mikey-” Maxwell noticed the way his head snapped up as he spoke. “Get me a coffee and bring it to my office, just the way I like it.”

The intern squeaked out a quick “of course sir!” before the doors shut on him.

Maxwell wondered how long it would take for ‘Mikey’ to realize he never told him how he liked his coffee or where his office actually was.

He turned sharply around a corner, taking note in the sea of cubicles he passed, every employee pausing to whisper and watch him march past without speaking. The sound of marketing calls dissipated as he grew farther away from the flurry of lower rank workers. Huddled cubicles were replaced with sleek halls and grand windows showcasing the city view. When his eyes landed on the dark brown door at the end of the hall he nearly wept.

Sweet sanctuary.

His hand had just curled around the silver door knob, the final obstacle between him and sweet sweet isolation when a shrill voice broke out.

“Oh!” Delilah squeaked, jumping up from her chair with surprise. “Mr.Lord, you're here!”

She definitely should’ve noticed that he had gotten here earlier, given that she was his fucking secretary.

“That I am Delilah.” Maxwell answered gruffly, eyes flicking over to the stack of papers on her desk that she would no doubt forget to file. “I do run this company after all.” Before she could respond with some ass-kissing compliment, he walked into his office and shut the door behind him.

Maxwell rolled his shoulders back, undoing the blue tie around his neck as he sank into his office chair with a groan. He spent more time in that chair than his own bed at this point.

Truth be told there wasn’t much that needed to be done at work today that couldn’t be done tomorrow. He had no meetings for another three days and he’d worked himself ragged the past few days to play catch up, now he was more than ahead of the game. He simply needed to be alone, to clear his head a bit.

But try as he may, he couldn’t calm the rambling stream of his consciousness no matter how hard he fought. When he opened his eyes again and spared a glance at the clock on his desk, he realized thirty minutes had passed since he first sat down.

Maxwell groaned, threading his fingers in his hair and pulling in frustration.

Why can’t you get the fuck out of his head?

That bratty attitude combined with your god awful sense of style should've made you repugnant, somebody he couldn’t stand the sight of and didn’t see as anything worth the metaphorical shit under his eight hundred dollar shoes. Yet here he sat, hunched over in his office plagued with your voice saying his name like a challenge over and over in his head like some sick chant.

Maxwell ran a hand through his hair, setting each strand into place before he pressed the button on his desk and spoke with authority.

“Delilah, could you meet me in my office?”

Only a few seconds later, she came scurrying into his office with poorly hidden excitement.

“Yes sir?” That was one thing he hated about her.

The fucking voice.

It wasn’t her voice on it’s own, but it was the way she made her voice sound. She made sure to always talk softly, forcing herself up to a higher octave to sound sweet and submissive like a flute when she really sounded like somebody stepping on the tail of a cat.

But her boss wasn’t interested in her voice to begin with.

He pushed his chair out from under his desk by a fraction and unbuckled his belt.

“Knees.”

She was quick to find her way between his legs with a sultry smile.

“Did you miss me?”

Maxwell scoffed. “Hardly. Now do something useful with that mouth before I start looking at new hires to take your place.”

The smile disappeared and she looked down, uttering out a small “Yes Mr.Lord” before she took his cock into his mouth. Maxwell let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding in, head falling back with a relaxed hum. His eyes shut as his mind, always his enemy, began to paint a picture he had been longing for all day.

You sat on your knees between his legs, moaning while you ran your tongue along the underside of his cock.

You seemed like the type to tease, he didn’t doubt that. But he enjoyed teasing just fine, as long as he was the one doing it. Maybe in the form of a toy nestled between your legs while he held a remote, turning it on and off with no pattern just to see you whine and buck your hips like a bitch in heat.

His hand knotted itself in your hair and pushed you further down on his cock with a grunt.

“That’s it.” You whined as your head bobbed up and down, tongue hot against his veins while the coil in his stomach wound tighter and tighter every time you moved. “You take it so well, just like that.”

A nervous knock sounded against his door. Maxwell’s eyes snapped open before they narrowed into angry slits.

Christ, he just couldn’t catch a break today.

Delilah let out a muffled squeak and pushed herself off of Maxwell’s cock before his hand pressed down on the back of her head and bucked his hips against her open mouth.

“You make a noise or move an inch off of my dick-” His voice was even and ultimately unbothered as he spoke to her. “-and you're fucking fired.”

Delilah made a whimpered garble against him, he assumed it meant ‘Yes sir.’

“Come in.”

The door creaked open and in walked the same intern from the elevator, just this time with a Styrofoam cup in his trembling hand.

Son of a bitch, the kid actually did it.

“Well color me surprised Mikey, you came through.”

The boy set the coffee on his desk, completely unaware of the woman crouched under the desk, deepthroating the seemingly unbothered man sitting before him.

Maxwell took the coffee into his hand, taking a tentative sip before his face scrunched up. Just as he did, Delilah gagged loudly against him, causing Michael’s eyes to go wide as he looked around for the source of the sound.

God he hated black coffee.

“A touch too bitter for my taste, but gold star for effort kid.” Maxwell's hand snaked under the table to push Delilah's head down another inch or two. Her nose was now nestled against the hem of his dress shirt, and he could feel her struggling to maintain the position by the way her throat flexed around his cock.

Good. Maybe that would shut her up.

“Next time try a dash of nutmeg.”

“Nutmeg?”

“Yes, nutmeg. It’s a nice wake-up in the morning. But for now that will be all.” Maxwell motioned to the door, to which the boy nodded and bowed his head like some servant.

“Of course, have a good day sir.”

“You too kid. Make sure to shut the door behind you.”

The intern all but sprinted out, Maxwell felt his pride swell knowing even after he complimented the intern, he was still scared shitless of him. The moment his door clicked shut, he gripped his slobbering secretary’s hair by the root and wrenched her off his dick, leaving her to sputter and cough with tears in her eyes.

“I suggest you make yourself useful, Miss Harris.” Maxwell slid his jacket off his shoulders and onto the chair behind him. He pulled a condom out of his pocket with a frown that never seemed to leave when she was in his presence.

“That poor intern already knows where my office is and how I like my coffee, you might be out of a job soon enough.”

Delilah wiped the spit from her mouth and grinned. She stood on shaky legs in those horrendous kitten heels before pulling up her skirt and bending over his desk.

“You could never fire me sir.” She groaned, gripping the desk like a lifeline when Maxwell entered her and began to thrust without giving her time to adjust to his size. “You’d miss me too much.”

Maxwell, still buried inside her, scoffed. “And what exactly would I miss Delilah? The cold coffee? The missed memos? Or you coming in late and thinking I don’t notice?” With each question he thrust in and out, in and out, a harsh unforgiving tempo that his secretary should be used to by now.

She arched her back with a squeaking moan. “No, you’d miss this pussy. Nobody fucks you like I do Sir.” The final string keeping Maxwell together, the one that everybody seemed to tug and pluck all day finally snapped when Delilah her next words.

“Not even your bitch of a wife.”

Maxwell’s hips halted their assault against Delilah’s freckled skin, his eyes narrowed as he stared down at the back of her head, the pregnant pause filled the air that made Delilah realize right as the words passed her lips she had fucked up.

She gasped when his hand wrapped tight around her throat and pulled her up off the desk and against his chest.

“Talk about my wife again, go ahead.” Maxwell growled out, Delilah opened her mouth but no sound came out as his fingers squeezed tighter and tighter around her throat until her face went from pale white to bright red, the cold metal of his wedding band cut into the soft skin of her neck, the pain hopefully proving to be an effective teacher . “I fucking dare you, you even mention Valerie one more fucking time and you’ll wish you never pulled your lazy ass through that door to apply for this goddamn job. You understand me?”

When he loosened his grip she nodded rapidly, taking in a shuddering breath. She looked over her shoulder at him, legs trembling and a pout on her swollen lips.

“I’m sorry.” She croaked out, voice hoarse from his dick and only made worse by his temper. His hand slid up her back before pushing her down on the desk where her body slammed down on the hard wood.

“I don’t care.”

Maxwell slid out of her before ramming back into her dripping cunt with zero grace, continuing to do so as his hands gripped her hips hard enough that he would surely leave behind bruises come the next day.

He thought about the way the same bruises would look on your hips.

Your neck.

Fuck, your chest.

Hearing you moan his name like a plea, a chant to God but Maxwell was one being worshiped. All the bite you showed him at work would melt away when he slid inside you with a groan. His fingers digging into the plush give of your ass while pounding into your sweet pussy that gripped him like a fucking vice.

“You love it.” He spoke through gritted teeth, hair unkempt and falling in front of his eyes. “You fucking love it don’t you?”

You nodded numbly, gripping onto the table and just barely managing a weak moan. Maxwell’s hand came down on your ass in a stinging slap that made you shout. He didn’t care who outside his office heard you, Christ himself could be standing outside and that wouldn’t be enough to pull him from you.

“You speak when-” Maxwell groaned, doubling over your body and rutting into you like an animal. “You speak when you're fucking spoken to.”

Your back arched as his voice growled out against your neck. “I love it.” You fingers dragged against his mahogany desk that shook with each thrust. “I love it so fucking much.”

“I fucking know you do.” His hips stuttered against yours, hot waves of pleasure threatening to crash over him with every thrust, every bounce of your curls and every sweet coo of your voice. “You were made for just my cock, just for me. Weren’t you?”

“Just for you.” You panted. Your knees knocked together as he pushed you into the desk more with each selfish thrust of his cock. “All yours max, only yours.”

Maxwell’s hand slammed down on the table next to Delilah’s head as he came with a low groan. Delilah, feeling her own high slowly retreating, whined.

“Max please.” She begged. “I’m so close please just-” she squeaked at the feeling of her boss pulling out of her in record time as he cleaned himself up.

“How many times to I have to fucking tell you, address me as Mr.Lord or Sir-” his eyes cut down at her trembling form. “-or don’t bother speaking at all.”

Delilah pushed herself off his desk with a weak nod.

“Yes Mr.Lord.”

“Send a reminder to that archaeologist for this Friday.” Maxwell had already fastened his belt and taken seat at his desk once more, plucking the now disarrayed papers off the cool surface and shuffling them into a neat pile in his hands. He read them while he walked over to the bookshelf raised on the wall

“She seems like a ditz and I want to make sure this meeting doesn’t fall through.”

Delilah frowned, tilting her head to the side. A gesture some men may find charming if they were ten years younger and didn't run a fucking company that this idiot woman worked for.

“Archaeologist?”

“The mousy one that works at the museum.” He reminded her. “If you don’t remember at this point, that’s your own fault for only paying attention to the things I say when you’re on my dick.” Without looking up from the papers in his hand, Maxwell waved a hand in the direction of his office door.

“That will be all.”

Delilah bowed her head, whether to hide the bright blush on her face or angry tears, he didn’t know. And quite frankly?

He didn’t care.

He was already focused on the papers he skimmed, deals and mergers that could break other companies while making him a richer man.

At least that’s what he told himself while your voice was playing in his head like a broken record.

Angry, brown eyes left the paper to stare at an unopened bottle of whiskey on the shelf that stared back at him.

A wedding gift.

The irony of it all wasn’t lost on him as he forwent a glass and drank straight from the bottle in hopes of drowning all thoughts of you.

The bottle was halfway empty when he gave up.

#maxwell lord #maxwell lord x reader #maxwell lord x valerie lord x reader #valerie lord #valerie lord x reader #ww 1984 #ww1984 #WW84 #wonder woman 1984 #ROOSASUT

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queenaryastark · 4 years

Text

I don’t understand the obsession with basing Arya’s value and importance on whether she likes dresses or not. It’s brought up, often at random, to simplify the character and to “prove” that she’s not able have love or hold a leadership position or do anything other than commit violence. None of these things are dependent on her wearing a dress or not wearing a dress.

That said, Arya is not a one-dimensional character, but a fully fleshed out, nuanced character that cannot be fit neatly into a type. So many want to put simple labels on the characters like “tomboy” or “girly-girl” and project things onto them based on those labels rather than actually discussing what’s in the books. The novels prove Arya is a lot more complicated than a one-dimensional tomboy stereotype that hates everything the patriarchy has decreed as “girly” on principle. That isn’t how GRRM writes.

“I don’t wear gowns. You can’t fight in a stupid gown.” – AFFC

Arya has just escaped an actual warzone and ended up in the care of a death cult. Self-defense is a concern for this traumatized child. And frankly it is difficult to fight in elaborate gowns. Dressing for specific situations is normal. Like wearing leggings, shorts, or sweats when exercising.

Also, Arya is exaggerating when she says she doesn’t wear gowns since she has them on before and after that statement. In AGOT, she never criticizes dresses. She wears them until she leaves Winterfell to ride south to King’s Landing. While riding south, she wears riding leathers. When she begins training with Syrio, she wears pants. This is about wearing clothing to fit the situation:

Small wonder; she was barefoot and dirty, her hair tangled from the long run through the castle, clad in a jerkin ripped by cat claws and brown roughspun pants hacked off above her scabby knees. You don’t wear skirts and silks when you’re catching cats. – AGOT

When she escapes the Red Keep, she is still wearing the pants she was training in and she gathers the variety of other clothes for practicality as well:

Arya recognized silks and satins and velvets she never wore. She might need warm clothes on the kingsroad, though … and besides …

Arya knelt in the dirt among the scattered clothes. She found a heavy woolen cloak, a velvet skirt and a silk tunic and some smallclothes, a dress her mother had embroidered for her, a silver baby bracelet she might sell.- AGOT

Those clothes are all stolen from her while she struggles to survive on the street, so she only has her pants and shirt going forward until she was forced into slavery at Harrenhal, where she is stripped and put into a “scratchy wool shift” or simple dress. After helping the Northerners take Harrenhal, she gets a promotion and a page uniform to match:

In her cell, she stripped to the skin and dressed herself carefully, in two layers of smallclothes, warm stockings, and her cleanest tunic. – ACOK

So she’s probably wearing a pink version of this. She wears that until reaching Acorn Hall where Lady Smallwood puts her in two dresses and a pair of breeches:

And afterward, they insisted she dress herself in girl’s things, brown woolen stockings and a light linen shift, and over that a light green gown with acorns embroidered all over the bodice in brown thread, and more acorns bordering the hem.

——

Lady Smallwood insisted that Arya take another bath, and cut and comb her hair besides; the dress she put her in this time was sort of lilac-colored, and decorated with little baby pearls. The only good thing about it was that it was so delicate that no one could expect her to ride in it. So the next morning as they broke their fast, Lady Smallwood gave her breeches, belt, and tunic to wear, and a brown doeskin jerkin dotted with iron studs.

——

“I’m sorry, my lady.” Arya suddenly felt bad for her, and ashamed. “I’m sorry I tore the acorn dress too. It was pretty.” – ASOS

Arya can’t stay in the acorn dress because she wrestles with Gendry, which gets the dress dirty and torn, further proving that delicate, elaborate clothing isn’t a good choice for physical activity. The delicate lilac dress proves the same thing, which is why she is given more practical clothes.

Her next costume change comes at a brothel where the workers “dressed her up like one of S*nsa’s dolls in linen and lace”. One of the patrons of the brothels tried to proposition her until Gendry stopped him. This leads back to the reason why Yoren had her pretending to be a boy in the first place, to make it less likely that men would try to rape her. Note that she is never free from threats of rape while she’s wearing pants, since she is threatened repeatedly before this. Wearing pants just makes it a little less likely. She is back in her breeches and tunic after that until she gets a fresh version of that garb in the House of Black and White, which is in turn followed by a new Faceless Man uniform:

Her servant’s garb was taken away, and she was given a robe to wear, a robe of black and white as buttery soft as the old red blanket she’d once had at Winterfell. Beneath it she wore smallclothes of fine white linen, and a black undertunic that hung down past her knees. – AFFC

From there on, she wears clothes to fit her station in the HOBAW or to fit the role she has taken on, which include simple dresses or the equivalent of dresses:

A long iron knife rode on her right hip, hidden by her cloak, a patched and faded thing of the sort an orphan might wear. Her shoes pinched her toes and her tunic was so threadbare that the wind cut right through it. –AFFC

The clothes she wore were rags, faded and fraying, but warm clean rags for all that. Under them she hid three knives—one in a boot, one up a sleeve, one sheathed at the small of her back. – ADWD

An ugly girl should dress in ugly clothing, she decided, so she chose a stained brown cloak fraying at the hem, a musty green tunic smelling of fish, and a pair of heavy boots. Last of all she palmed her finger knife. – ADWD

She shaved, donned her smallclothes, and slipped a shapeless brown wool dress down over her head. …Her boots were lumps of old brown leather mottled with saltstains and cracked from long wear, her belt a length of hempen rope dyed blue. She knotted it about her waist, and hung a knife on her right hip and a coin pouch on her left. Last of all she threw her cloak across her shoulders. It was a real mummer’s cloak, purple wool lined in red silk, with a hood to keep the rain off, and three secret pockets too. She’d hid some coins in one of those, an iron key in another, a blade in the last. A real blade, not a fruit knife like the one on her hip, but it did not belong to Mercy, no more than her other treasures did. –TWOW

The issue with Arya’s aversion to dresses was due to functionality. As an active girl, most dresses don’t work with the activities she enjoys. As she’s training to take on other roles and using clothing in addition to performance to fill those roles, she’s seeing the benefit of other kinds of outfits in different situations.

I would also argue that dressing her up in pretty clothes makes her uncomfortable due to the pressure she was put under to conform to the patriarchal restrictions put on women. Her sister and septa bullied her for not fitting those restrictions and her mother held out the possibility of being pretty as a carrot or prize she would receive once she obeyed.

All of that said, it really doesn’t matter if Arya hates dresses, loves them, makes use of them, or is ambivalent toward them. That’s not something that will impact whether she is loved or if she takes on a position of power. She can effectively administrate no matter what she wears and the kind of people she would love, would love her no matter what she wore.

#text post #arya stark #asoiaf #the way these people link a woman's worth to how well she conforms to patriarchal ideals is disturbing #my meta #meta

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friendlylocalwriter · 4 years

Text

Chapter 2 of The Quiet Stranger

Pairing(s): Geralt of Rivia x fem!reader

Warnings: None

Requested: No

Prompt: You live a quiet life in the forest with your mother after the fall of Cintra, selling grains and produce to keep enough coins for survival. When your mother leaves for a long journey to the market, you're surprised to meet a white-haired stranger in dire need of help, and even more surprised by how you feel about him.

Word Count: 2916

Chapter: 2/?

Previous Chapters : Chapter 1

A/N: Hi guys! I had so much fun writing this chapter, and I’ve already started planning the next one which’ll be much longer and spicier ;) I have a Superman request that I will hopefully be filling next week, and I want to write a Mando fic while we get tortured wait for the s2 trailer to release! As always, reblog + comments are so welcome, and this is posted on my AO3 @/violettaren. Love you guys <33

Geralt slept for the entire day and through the night.

You weren’t surprised, though. You assume that whatever fight he had gotten into, which he seems intent on not telling you about, must’ve been intense if they were able to get that good of a gash on him. So you let him rest. And, you weren’t averse to stealing a few glances of his bare chest rising while he slept on your cot. You spent the first day of his arrival tending to the garden and trying to ignore how your mother would feel about you housing a stranger in your shack. The guilt only increased when you slept on your mother’s cot, tossing and turning in your sleep as you remember all your mother told you about not letting anyone in.

You woke up the next morning before him, and rushed to change out of your nightgown. You chose a linen white skirt that hit just above the knee and a long sleeve off the shoulder black sweater that was a bit too thin for the humid Spring weather, but you’d make do. As you take your hair out of your ponytail and attempt to tame it, you wonder why you’re putting so much effort into your appearance, since he’ll be gone tonight anyway. As you pass by his sleeping body, your eyes focus on the gray pendant around his neck and creep forward to try and get a better view.

A wolf. Interesting.

You jump when he shifts slightly and immediately move away, not looking to be caught in such a compromising position. As you clean through the cot, you try and rack your brain to see if you remember ever seeing that necklace when you were in Cintra. But, like most things, you simply cannot recall much of anything from your childhood.

Maybe it’s in the books.

After you glance over to make sure Geralt is still sound asleep, you tip-toe to the back of your shack where a large, old locked box resides. Your fingers toy with the lock and you make sure to get it just in that right position to…

You sigh in relief when you hear the quiet click of the lock opening. You lift the lid and remove the many tablecloths to find what you were looking for - the mangled brown leather journal with your father’s initials inscribed on the bottom of it. Your father, a sorcerer, compiled an anthology of all the monsters and non-humans that he came across, and it was the only thing of his that you and your mother still had. You trace the indentations with your finger, ignoring the heavy pull in your chest. You lock the box again and make your way to the main table, making sure to sit with your back to Geralt.

It only takes a few moments of you thumbing through the yellowed pages of your father’s anthology to find that same design that’s on Geralt’s pendant, and the words above it scream at you.

WITCHER .

Of course. The secrecy, the wound, the swords, the hair . You read through the paragraphs on the page that describe the process of becoming a Witcher, and the effects of it. You can’t tear your eyes off of the underlined portion at the bottom, describing how Witcher’s no longer feel emotions after they consume the mutagenic compounds and complete their grueling training. It doesn’t take a scientist to understand why your father wrote that. He thought Witcher’s were evil.

“What are you doing?”

You immediately shut the notebook and launch out of your seat to see Geralt standing in front of you, his right eyebrow raised and his arms pressing folded over his chest, his biceps bulging underneath the pressure.

“God, Geralt, you scared me,” you place your hand over your heart as you try and catch the breath that was shocked out of you. “I thought you were still asleep.”

“I wasn’t. What are you doing?” he repeats, unrelenting.

You quickly run through the possible outcomes of what could happen if you tell Geralt that you know he’s a Witcher. Surely, he wouldn’t wear his pendant if he was that intent on hiding his identity, right? But, then again, he could easily kill you if you try and be more invasive than you already have been. I mean, you just read about how Witcher’s are soulless monsters who only exist to take lives.

You try to think of something, but you remember that you couldn’t lie to save your damn life. With a sigh, you pick up the notebook from the table and thumb through to find the page about Witchers.

“Why didn’t you tell me you are a Witcher, Geralt?” you shove the notebook in front of you, and Geralt takes it from you, scanning the pages. You fumble with your hands, hoping Geralt didn’t notice how fake the confidence in your voice was.

“I assumed you already knew. Is it not quite obvious?”

You scoff, surprised at how easy Geralt’s few words made you feel so naive and stupid. You snatch the notebook from his hand and brush past him, walking back towards the box.

“You could’ve at least told me,” you close the lock with more force than you mean to, eliciting a loud bang as it comes in contact with the aged wood.

“Why are you so upset?” he asks, and the simpleness of his question makes you even more pissed for some reason.

“I’m not,” you retort, standing up and away from the chest. “I just wish you told me.”

“Would you have not treated me? Had you known I was a Witcher?”

You turn around sharply and don’t attempt to hide the confusion on your face. Geralt’s face was tight, the same it always was, but his voice was strained and his eyes were narrowed, the bright amber of his irises much more intimidating than they once were.

“What? No, that’s not - that’s not what I meant. Geralt!” you call him after he walks away from you, grabbing his bag of weapons. He nearly makes it out of the shack completely until you yell his name again and he stops in his tracks. You flinch when he turns around to face you with one of the venomous expressions you’ve ever seen, his golden eyes boring into you.

“What?” he spits, his mouth in a snarl. “You read that book. That’s what you all think of me, right?”

You can’t help the tears that begin to pool in your eyes at the venom in his words. No one has ever yelled at you - even when your mother scolds you, she never raises her voice even slightly. You hated that Geralt was so upset at you for something you didn’t even mean.

“Geralt, I promise you, that isn’t what I meant. I’m sorry,” you drop your head, sniffling. If he was going to leave, you wanted him to know you didn’t think anything lesser of him. You would never do anything like that.

You hear the clink of the bag of metal hitting the floor and an exhale come from the man in front of you.

“Stop crying. Please,” he folds his arms over his chest, and you can’t tell if the statement comes from guilt or annoyance.

“Of course I still would’ve treated you, Geralt,” you whisper, breaking the silence that had fallen. “I- I know what that feels like - to not be liked for something you can’t change. I’d never wish that feeling on my worst enemy.”

Geralt says nothing, his eyes locked on yours.

“If you wish to leave, I won’t stop you,” you empty your chest, trying to convince yourself that you’re okay with that. “But I want you to leave knowing that. I was just scared, I guess. I have not seen anyone in ages, let alone someone like you - but that isn’t a bad thing. Not to me.”

Geralt still doesn’t speak, but he tears his eyes off of you to sit down on your bed.

“Are you upset with me?”

“No,” he murmurs, wincing as he tries to move without tearing the stitches. “I’m not.”

“Good,” you move forward and crouch in front of him, picking up the bottom of his shirt so you can take a look at the stitches. You look up at him to make sure he’s okay with it, and you take his stoic expression as a yes. You see that the stitches are healing quite nicely, but you also notice the dirt and grime that has gathered around it and on the rest of his stomach.

“When was the last time you bathed, Geralt?” you graze your fingers across his abdomen, cringing at the dirt that gathers under them.

“Bathing is a luxury for me. I do it when I can.”

You kiss your teeth and stand up, shaking your head. “A luxury? Nonsense, it is integral. A basic human right.”

“Well, I’m not exactly human am I?” Geralt counters, and you furrow your brows in confusion.

“If you are implying, Geralt of Rivia, that you do not need to bathe simply because you are a Witcher,” you pause to dramatically sniff him and make a sour face, “Then you are terribly, terribly mistaken.”

“Alright, enough.” he waves you off as you snicker proudly at your joke. “There’s no bath in here anyway.

“I know a place.”

••••••

You focus on the crunching of your feet on the leaves as you lead Geralt towards the river that you use to bathe. The moist dirt tickles your bare feet and you move the tall green weeds out of the way as you breathe in the fresh air, letting it fill your chest.

“The air is so clean because of all the trees. I love going back here.”

“Hmm,” is the only response you get from the man behind you. You briefly look back at Geralt with a smile.

“Such a man of few words,” you say after a few moments, your voice low. You’ve begun to not let the lack of detail from Geralt sting, since it seems that he won’t be opening up to you with his life story any time soon. In fact, you found an odd bit of comfort in his presence - somebody who doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence with empty talk. So you accept it and make your way to the river with the quietude heavy between you.

Even though you’ve been to this river so many times, it never fails to take your breath away. The water is a remarkable pale blue color, and it’s so clean that the light reflecting off of it is almost blinding. Old, decaying logs are littered throughout the bank of the river, spotted with green moss. As you get to the end of the worn trail where the rocks leading to the body water begin, you look up at the blush pink early morning sky and bask in the soft hum of various insects.

“It is nice.”

Realizing that Geralt talked to you of his own volition and not just because you spoke to him., you feign surprise and look at Geralt with an exaggerated face of shock. “Wow, he speaks!”

Geralt rolls his eyes but you catch the smile on his face when he drops his head. A grin involuntarily makes its way onto your face, and you gesture towards the beautiful river.

“Well, here it is. I’ll go back to the garden and come get you later, alright?”

“You’re not going to bathe?”

Your cheeks and chest immediately get hot as you think of the idea of being so close to Geralt in such an intimate position with no clothes on, imagining the water droplets trailing down his chest and onto his-

You clear your throat and try to remember how words work.

“I was, um, just going to bathe after you were finished. So, uh, yeah.”

“Wouldn’t it just be quicker to bathe together? Wastes less time,” Geralt shrugs, placing his bag with his sword on the ground and reaching to pull off his shirt. “And I’m not sure of this road. Wouldn’t want to get lost.”

Huh. I guess that makes sense.

“Well, only if you’re okay with it.”

“I proposed it, why wouldn’t I be?”

Not knowing what to say, you nod in agreement and watch him peel off the rest of his clothing. When he looks back at you, you don’t have a chance to explain why you were staring before he asks why you aren’t undressed.

“Uh, close your eyes, please,” you ask, toying with the waistband of your skirt.

Geralt laughs, like really fucking laughs, after you say that, but you can’t seem to find the humor in what you said.

“Geralt. I’m serious.”

“Fine,” he says with a chuckle, making his way towards the river and, after testing the temperature with his foot, glides in with his back facing you. Relieved, you take off your top and skirt, deciding against removing your undergarments, which included your underwear and a light tank top. You’re suddenly very conscious of your body and the way that it looks - no one has ever seen you like this. You force the anxiety out of your head and join Geralt in the river, giving him permission to turn around once you’re submerged up until your shoulders.

“Have you still got a shirt on?” he gestures towards the white strap that is peeking out from the water. “Is that not uncomfortable?”

“No,” you shut down any attempt at continuing that conversation, running your hands over your forearms to scrub off any potential gunk. The two of you naturally fell into another silence, enjoying the cool water as the sun started to rise, glaring down onto the river. The silence permeates for God knows how long until Geralt asks you a question.

“What did you mean earlier?”

“Hm?” you turn at the sound of Geralt’s voice. “What are you talking about?”

“You said you know what it feels like. To be judged.” Geralt moves closer to you, causing ripples in the water.

“Oh,” you sigh, mentally preparing yourself to tell a story you’ve never spoken about with anyone after it was relayed to you.

“My father,” you start after some moments, “He was a sorcerer - he was born with magic inside of him and had no proper training, but he was still incredible at his craft. Instead of working for the royal family, he decided to help the impoverished who lived near our home. He would heal them, mentally and physically, for quite little money. He took a few jobs under Queen Calanthe that granted him the coins to feed us, but that wasn’t where his heart was. He wasn’t interested in pointless politics,” your voice starts to break as you blink rapidly, attempting to keep it together. You notice Geralt’s expression soften, his jaw releasing from the clench it always seems to be in.

“And when Nilfgaard attacked, he didn’t fight. He stayed in burning buildings and ashy rubble, looking for anyone who needed help that wasn’t a priority to Cintra. And when he was found, he was trying to help a young girl whose leg had been caught under steel. He didn’t even flinch when he was struck, he just kept trying. He never stopped, never - it wasn’t in his blood,” your mouth opens to continue but nothing comes out except for a sob that racks your whole body. Your head falls in your hand and you cry and cry, forgetting that Geralt is standing in the water in front of you until you feel two large arms wrap around yours, enveloping you in a tight embrace. You stiffen instinctively at his tight grip, but let yourself melt into his arms and the water, grasping at his biceps.

“He sounds like he was a good man, Y/N. You should be proud,” he reassured you, releasing his tight grip and lazily running his hands up and down your forearms. You nodded, not wanting to remove your face from the crevice in Geralt’s neck

“I understand the - the pain of loss,” Geralt says quietly, and you look up, expecting to hear more. Yet you see Geralt staring out straight in front of him, his expression unreadable, and you know that’s all you can squeeze out of him. You're okay with that, though.

"I feel like I've cried more in the last few days than I have in years, Christ," you laugh, trying to wipe the tears off of your face but realizing the effort is futile as your soaked hands make your face even damper.

Geralt says nothing but he brushes his thumbs across on your arm, and you register that he's still so close to you. You tilt your head up to look at his face and your eyes fall on the red scar on his cheek, the skin around it slightly raised from the inflammation of the cut. You slowly bring your hand up to his face using your index finger to lightly ghost over the cut, tracing the shape. Geralt closes his eyes as you continue running your finger over the left side of his face until the pad of your finger gets to his jawline, and you pull your finger away to point the pad of your finger in Geralt’s face.

“See?” you prompt with a smile, waiting for him to open his eyes. “All clean.”

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia fanfic #geralt x you #the witcher fandom #geralt reader insert #geralt fluff #geralt of rivia smut #henry cavill #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill x reader #fanfiction #fanfic #the witcher fanfic #cute fic

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dancingkirby · 4 years

Text

In which Azula learns to not judge a book by its cover

WARNING: Discussion of past rape.

To the surprise of both his parents, rather than moving back to the palace full-time after graduating from Capital University three years ago, Kazuo had elected to rent his own apartment in the Caldera. A “bachelor’s pad,” Azula was pretty sure it was called in modern slang. Kazuo had said that this was because he’d wanted to take a stab at independent living, but Azula suspected that the real reason was so he could have a place to entertain various lady friends in private. Azula didn’t care to think about that too much, and decided that as long as her son was diligently using protection and keeping everything consensual, she would keep quiet on the subject. Besides, he wasn’t so caught up in his liaisons that he was neglecting his duties as a member of the Royal Family. He showed up for every required event, and had inherited Azula’s knack for public appearances.

Last year, Kazuo had gotten into his first serious romantic relationship, and had taken the young lady to meet Azula and Tom-Tom. Azula had initially been excited about her son finally thinking about settling down, but the meeting had not exactly gone well. Kazuo’s girlfriend, who was named Kumi, had completely defied royal protocol and run up to shake Azula’s hand, even having the audacity to address her by her given name without so much as a “Princess” before it! The young lady had then spent the entire encounter bragging about her accomplishments so that neither Azula nor Tom-Tom could get a word in edgewise. Azula had made her displeasure known by giving Kumi death glares at every opportunity, yet this did nothing to curtail the woman. Tom-Tom, of course, had been as unerringly polite as he always was. However, when Kumi finally left, he admitted that even he hadn’t cared for her much. Neither of them was surprised when it turned out that Kumi had been in it simply for the status.

Azula had been relieved when that was over. On the other hand, poor Kazuo was heartbroken. Then, this spring, a devastating earthquake had hit Shuhon, destroying most of the island’s natural gas deposits and killing tens of thousands of people. It was the worst natural disaster to hit a home island in living memory. Her son volunteered to take an extended trip there to help with the rebuilding process once the air was deemed safe to breathe, and Azula had thought it was probably for the best. She’d hoped that the hard work would take his mind off his anguish.

What she hadn’t anticipated was that within weeks, Kazuo would write home that he’d met a girl in Shuhon and was going out with her. And now, six months later, he was bringing her home with him.

Tonight was the big night, of both their reunion with Kazuo and introduction to his girlfriend…and they were late. At this rate, the food would get here before her son would. Azula began to worry that Kazuo had crashed his…what was it called again? Satomobile, that’s right. Some young upstart in Republic City had started manufacturing them a couple of years ago, and now everyone in the Caldera wanted one. Everyone except Azula, that is. Those vehicles went entirely too fast for her liking.

Just as Tom-Tom was attempting to talk Azula out of sending servants to look for the pair, there was a knock on the door. Azula bid the person to come in, and felt enormously relieved as her beaming son ran straight past the servant announcing his arrival and into his parents’ arms.

“Mom! Dad! I missed you both so much!” Kazuo exclaimed. “Sorry we’re late…traffic was horrible.” When they broke from their embrace, Azula appraised him with her sternest maternal gaze.

“You have been gone entirely too long. Your skin is all brown; did it never occur to you to wear a hat?” she demanded. But she couldn’t keep the act up for long. Within seconds, she had cracked a smile, hugging Kazuo again.

Tom-Tom cleared his throat.

“Son, I believe you said that you wanted to introduce us to someone?” he prompted. Azula finally got a glimpse at the young woman hanging back in a doorway, who fell into a kowtow as soon as she saw that Azula was looking at her. Well, that was one point in her favor already.

“You may rise,” Azula told her. When the girl stood and walked into the room, Azula finally looked her over properly. She was quite tall and a little gangling. However, seeing as how Kazuo had attained a height of 6’3’’ (just like his grandfather), it didn’t look as awkward as it might have. Although her face was nothing memorable, her hair was glossy and reached down to her mid-back. She was attired in a pretty yet modest outfit of a pink tunic and a matching set of red jacket and pants.

“Mother, Father, this is Lady Botan,” Kazuo said.

The girl was shaking like a leaf, but managed to get out, “P-princess Azula. Prince Tom-Tom. It is an honor to meet you.”

“And it is a delight to meet you too, Lady Botan,” Tom-Tom assured her. This, combined with Kazuo placing a protective hand on her shoulder, made Botan look slightly more relaxed.

“Yes, well, dinner will be ready shortly,” Azula added. Then, at another knock on the door, “I stand corrected. Dinner is ready now.”

The four of them sat at the table as the servants arranged the first course. Azula gazed intently at Botan over her bowl of wontons in clear broth. She was perfectly aware of how intimidating her appearance could be to those who weren’t close to her. Although she would be sixty next month, she could pull off her trademark eyeliner and bright red lipstick as well as ever. Plus, as this girl’s potential mother-in-law, was it not expected of her to be overbearing? Her standards were exacting; none but the best would do for her only son.

“So,” she began, “How did you come to meet Prince Kazuo?”

Botan jumped a little in her seat at being so abruptly addressed, and began, “Shuhon is my home island, Princess. My dad, my sister, my brothers, and I were all contributing in any way we could. We were lucky that our house escaped the worst of the damages…but anyway. The first day I arrived there from Capital Island, I was carrying some heavy crates of medical supplies. They slipped, and I would have dropped them all if Kazuo hadn’t run up just then to help! And then we started talking, and something just…clicked. He said his name was Kazuo, and I was like, ‘Oh, like the prince?’ and he was like ‘Uh…yeah.’ He didn’t end up actually telling me who he was until after our fourth date! Can you believe that?”

She gave a very annoying high-pitched laugh.

“I see,” Azula responded. She daintily picked up a wonton from her bowl with her chopsticks and popped it in her mouth, her eyes never leaving Botan’s. Once she had swallowed her food, she continued, “My son called you Lady Botan. That means you are a member of the nobility. How could you possibly not have known who he was?”

“Azula…” Tom-Tom said softly. However, his pleasant smile never left his face.

“I don’t believe we have ever seen you at court, Lady Botan,” he said in an attempt to soften Azula’s words.

“No, my mom was the one who was noble,” Botan explained. “She was an only child and inherited the estate. But she died when I was four, from cancer. My dad’s just a silk merchant, and he didn’t see a reason to live at the Caldera after that.”

“Ah, yes, I remember hearing about that now,” Tom-Tom replied. “Lady Ayako, wasn’t it? I think I met her once or twice. I offer my condolences for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Botan said. “But it’s okay. I hardly remember her, so I’m just kind of used to it now, you know?” Another nervous giggle escaped her.

Their conversation had to be suspended at that moment, since the servants were clearing away their soup bowls; Azula noted that Botan had scarcely touched hers. Then, two beautiful roast ducks were presented for their main course, skin sizzling and deep golden-brown. They were accompanied by a sweet and spicy sauce, along with sides of rice, scallion pancakes, and mixed vegetables.

“You’re in for a treat, Botan!” Kazuo said while grinning. “They make the best roast duck here in the palace. It was one of the things I missed the most when I was in Shuhon.”

Botan smiled back at him, although it looked a little strained.

For a few minutes, they ate in silence. However, Azula wasn’t quite done with her interrogation yet.

“Prince Kazuo informed me that you are a recent graduate of Capital University,” she said. “What was your major?”

“Psychology and sociology, Princess. Double major,” Botan said. At least that was a hopeful sign. Perhaps this young lady wasn’t as unintelligent as she appeared.

“Then you must have made the acquaintance of my friend Ty Lee,” Azula stated.

Botan nodded eagerly, seemingly relieved that they’d found some common ground. “Yes. She taught my Trauma Psych class. She…well, it could be a difficult class at times, but it was always interesting.”

Azula raised an eyebrow, feeling annoyed for reasons she didn’t fully understand. “Why ‘difficult?’ Is my friend too strict of a teacher for your liking? Or are you simply averse to a little hard work?”

She heard intakes of breath from both her husband and son. Botan’s face flooded with color. “No, no, she was a great teacher! Really nice. It’s just…it was difficult for another reason…” Her gaze darted frantically over to Kazuo. He squeezed her hand and whispered in her ear, and she nodded.

“We’re going to go take a walk,” he stated, glowering in Azula’s direction. Before she could protest, Tom-Tom said, “Yes, that’s fine. I think it would be best for all of us.”

As soon as the younger two had left the room, Azula’s husband turned to her.

“Azula, we have been married for twenty-seven years, and I love you more than anything. You know that,” he said. “Nevertheless, you went too far this time. I thought that Botan was a perfectly nice young lady, and was trying her best. You should consider apologizing to her when she returns. I will certainly do so myself for not doing more to intervene.” His voice was as level as always, but it had a hint of underlying steel that Azula had only heard a handful of times during their marriage. It meant that this was one of the rare occasions that Tom-Tom was genuinely angry at her. And if something was sufficient to piss him off, then she knew it was serious.

“I didn’t think I was that…” Azula began somewhat lamely, only to cut herself off when she heard muffled sobs coming from down the hallway. It was clear that Tom-Tom heard it too.

“…Right. I’ll go apologize to her now,” she sighed in resignation as she got up from the table.

When she opened the door to their apartment, she heard Botan wailing, “She hated me! A..and I can’t blame her because I sounded like an idiot!”

Kazuo took her into his arms. “Aw, no, sweetie, you did just fine. Mom can be…difficult. But I’m going to talk to her later tonight, and I think Dad already did.”

Azula waited in the shadows for a while, until Botan’s tears faded, and her mind wandered back to the day almost twenty-nine years ago when Tom-Tom had comforted her in much the same way. It appeared that her son had turned out to be as good a man as his father.

Finally, she cleared her throat, and both Kazuo and Botan’s head shot up.

“If you wanted to say something to me, you might as well do it now,” she said.

Kazuo frowned. “I don’t think this is a good time, Mom…”

“No.” Botan stepped out of Kazuo’s embrace. “I…I want to tell her. Alone.”

“Wow. Are you sure? That’s…I know that would be difficult for you, especially since this is just your first time meeting her.” Kazuo touched her shoulder again. Botan looked down and took a deep breath.

“…Yes,” she finally said.

“Might I suggest doing this in my study instead of in the hallway? The palace servants are quite proficient at making themselves almost invisible in order to eavesdrop,” Azula pointed out.

“Good idea,” Kazuo admitted. Then, to Botan, “One last time…are you really sure? I don’t want you to feel pressured to do it if you’re not ready.”

The younger woman squared her shoulders. “I’m ready.”

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

“Now,” Azula said, once they were both situated in comfortable upholstered chairs and free from any listening ears, “What was it you wanted to tell me? I give you permission to speak freely.”

She was expecting for Botan to yell at her, to fling all sorts of insults. What she actually said was somewhat surprising.

“I’d been wanting to meet you for so long, before I ever knew Kazuo,” she began. “You’re...you’re my hero. All that work you’ve done to raise awareness for sexual abuse, all the charities you run…and I read the book you co-wrote with Professor Ty Lee. It was so comforting to me after…”

She broke off; tears were running down her face again. Azula wordlessly gave her a handkerchief from the stack on her desk. Even though her own crying spells occurred nowhere nearly as frequently as they had in her youth, they still had the nasty tendency to blindside her every now and then.

Once Botan had gotten this latest burst of emotion under control, the words poured out of her like water from a burst dam. She said, “I was nineteen. A man who I had seen as one of my closest friends put something in my drink when we were at a party, and then he took me to his dorm room and…and raped me. And everyone thought I was lying about it because he was so popular! I tried to go to the campus police, and they wouldn’t press charges because they didn’t think there was enough evidence. All they said was that I shouldn’t have looked away from my drink. I was so discouraged that I kept it from most of my family; didn’t even tell Kazuo until about a month ago…”

“And yet you told me, even after I upset you,” Azula pointed out.

“Yeah,” Botan acknowledged. More scrubbing at her eyes, and she continued, “I know it seems weird. But I thought if anyone would understand, you would. Your book helped me get through that. I kept telling myself that you had it so much worse than me, since I was an adult when it happened, and not…I mean, I’d had boyfriends before, and I couldn’t even remember much of it, and he wasn’t my dad, and I didn’t…didn’t…”

“Didn’t get pregnant?” Azula guessed.

“…yeah.”

“I see.” She took a moment to figure out exactly how she wanted to say this.

“Trauma isn’t a competition,” she finally said as she rose from her chair and walked closer to Botan. “Just because yours was different from mine, doesn’t mean it wasn’t as real. And…I apologize for my behavior, as difficult as it is for me to say that. You shouldn’t have had to feel compelled to share something so personal just to seek my approval. At the same time, I am glad that my life’s work meant something to you. My goal was that no abuse survivor should feel as alone as I did, or my father’s other prey did. It appears as though there is still much work for me to do, though. Perhaps my charities need a younger spokesperson who is more in touch with the times. Someone like you…if you find that arrangement pleasing.”

Botan was struck speechless for a few moments. Then, she breathed, “Of course I would, Princess. It would be such a great honor, and my dream job. I just hope I can be worthy of it.”

“If you are seeking to become a part of the royal family, you’ll have to find some cause to champion,” Azula remarked. “My brother is all about public service. Now let us finish our dinner, shall we? There is plum ice cream for dessert, which we won’t want to miss.”

“Sounds good,” Botan replied.

“It is Kazuo’s favorite flavor. If you intend to marry my son, it would be wise of you to memorize all of his preferred foods, don’t you think?”

Perhaps she had found that perfect mate for her son that she

#azula #fanfic #short stories about Azula

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