#we all know he’d own the most ostentatious work outfits

[ratsnu]

POV: they hate you

alternative POV: your name is alexander hamilton

[maxwell-grant]

Having asked your thoughts on designing Frankenstein's daemon, might I now ask your thoughts on bringing Count Dracula from the written word into illustration? (I'm definitely in favour of the 'Hairy Old Mountain Man of Horror pretending he's people' look from the original novel; one of the small tests too many Draculas fail to pass is an absolutely tragic lack of the Evil Beard and/or Wicked Moustache explicitly described by Mr Stoker).

Unlike with Frankenstein, where I think the design needs to be painstakingly thought out in order to achieve the best balance of the creature's traits for horror and tragedy alike, I think with Dracula you can actually just take an approach of "whatever works". Because as I mentioned before, I think much of the appeal and longevity of Dracula is how the character's both a layered villain as well as a shapeshifting narrative force that can be tailored to whatever you want to do with. Granted, there are bad or dissappointing Dracula designs, of course there are, but in regards to the leeway you get for reinterpretation, you get a lot more of it with Dracula than with other literary icons.

Like with Frankenstein, I'm gonna bring up how I'd tackle a less grim, more comedy-centric Dracula first, one that's less a force of horror and more of a charismatic villain, and I think to that end I definitely agree that people are sleeping a lot on the hairy old man barely-passing-off-as-humanoid of the original story. Despite very much loving these performers, I'm actually not a fan of takes that mold Dracula too closely to people who've portrayed him, like Bela Lugosi and Christopher Lee, partially because I think it's a waste of an opportunity to create your own Dracula design. Since I can't draw (yet), I'll do what I usually do and make a board of images to try and convey some of my thoughts on one way I'd design Dracula.

(Pictured: Kiwi's design for Dracula, Hotel Transylvania concept art, Nandor, Castlevania Dracula, Charles Dance in Dracula Untold, Vladislav, a Transylvanian rug)

I used the images in my other Dracula post and I’ll post it here again because I absolutely adore @kiwibyrd's designs for Dracula and it's main heroes, in particular I love the way it strikes a good balance at making sure Dracula looks distinctly separate from the humans, but not too much that he couldn't conceivably operate in society as just a harmless old man. I also adore the mustache and bushy eyebrows and pointy ears and I think these three are wonderful features to keep on any Dracula design. I'm also very partial to the Hotel Transylvania concept art, even if it makes me incredibly depressed to look at all the great designs they had for Dracula that they threw in the trash because they somehow decided making him look like Adam Sandler was the idea to go with.

I deeply adore What We Do In The Shadows, both the movie and the show, and Jemaine Clement's Vladislav is one of my favorite (maybe even my actual favorite) on-screen Draculas. But I also enjoy Nandor just as much, and I think it's really great that as a character he's completely different from Vlad while also being ostensibly a take on Dracula, and in particular I bring up his Jersey look because "Dracula in common clothing" is a criminally underrated concept for a joke.

As a character, I'm very partial to comedy takes on Dracula that play him up as a decadent aristocratic supervillain, the kind that can get away with talking in third person. I also have this idea for a version of Dracula who dresses ostentatiously in finely-broidered Romanian or Transylvanian patterns, maybe even wearing a rug as a cape, claiming that he's carrying the legacy of his people on his back. And of course he's lying, he's not Vlad Tepes and he's not even Romanian, he is just a parasite pretending to have a history to be proud of, but good luck getting him to admit that. And finally, I'd like this version to be played by Charles Dance, and I consider it a tremendous crime against humanity that he has yet to play Dracula proper even despite being in a film with the character's name on the title.

So that's kinda how I would design a take on Dracula for something more comedic or more based around him as this guest character and personality on-set. Now, if we're talking a more serious version, I think the possibilities increase, and I won't be getting into all of them because I may prefer to keep them to myself, but I'll elaborate a few ideas.

For example, the edition of Dracula I personally own comes with these really scratchy, really creepy B&W illustrations related to the story, that I can't find scanned online so I'm uploading them here so you can look at. They don't necessarily depict the scenes but rather some of the story's moments, like Van Helsing staking Lucy, Renfield in a straightjacket, Dracula as a coachman, and they are more focused on conveying the horror of the concepts at play.

Dracula never looks the same way in any of the illustrations, in fact you kinda have to piece him out of them by trying to find teeth or capes or eyes or bat-features to see where he's hiding this time. In the first, it's the half-man half-bat, in the 2nd, he's the shrieking bat silhouette next to Renfield, and in the latter, he's the gaping jaws and eerily humanoid eyes in the wolf. The effect to me almost feels like if you were to look at a bunch of tv static and then see a humanoid shape form for a split second before everything went back to normal, something like you'd get from Slender Man or other modern creepypastas, and I’ve argued before that Dracula’s form of horror is a very modern one. 

In terms of illustrations of Dracula that keep up the original traits while still pulling off horror, I definitely have to hand it to the one at the left of the image above, drawn by regourso on Deviantart (account deleted at present). Going back to Castlevania’s many takes on Dracula, two in particular that stick out to me would be Castlevania: Judgment’s armored dress Dracula, who’s got this great twisted heart/rose motif going on in his outfit, and Dracula’s final form in SOTN where he just sits in his throne and his cape twists into all these monsters, particularly how it’s depicted by witnesstheabsurd’s depiction. 

I’m not particularly a fan of how Dracula’s “final form” in these games is usually just some big demon, and part of what I like about his final form in SOTN instead is that, while it’s not a particularly challenging final boss, I do find it interesting the idea of us never actually getting to see what Dracula’s true final form looks like, only an ever-shifting pitch-black torrent of teeth and claws and bloody veins pouring out because that’s ultimately what Dracula is and brings to the world.

On the flip-side of the rotten old monster, we have the charming seductor Dracula, and while I’m really not a fan of how various adaptations have convinced people that “the point” of Dracula is that he’s a seductive force and an allegory for Victorian xenophobia and I’m reeeally even less of a fan of adaptations that make Dracula some misunderstood tragic hero (and I think I’ve made rather violently clear my feelings on interpretations that play up a romance between him and Mina), that the seductive force part exists is impossible to deny, so conversely, while on one hand we can have Dracula as the gargantuan whirlwind of predatory violence, we can also go for Dracula as the tantalizing lover.

I’ve seen a lot of opinions proclaiming Frank Langella as the best Dracula because he was the best at actually being seductive while still playing Dracula, although I haven’t yet seen his performances. If I had to point at one picture I look at and do buy for a second the idea of Dracula as a romantic character, it would be that particular still of Raul Julia in the left of the above image. And it’s strange for me to think of Raul Julia as attractive because I mainly associate him with his brilliant comedy performance of M.Bison (I know it’s far from the highlight of his career but, look, I grew up with Street Fighter, I can’t help it) but those eyes are definitely looking pretty convincing to me, if nothing else. 

And I’ve included this still of Sebastian Stan in the right because, during a conversation between me, @krinsbez and @jcogginsa about who could be a good fit for Dracula, jcog suggested Sebastian Stan, partially because he’s Romanian, and I’ve learned recently that Stan was actually interested in playing the character in Blumhouse’s upcoming remake. And you’d think I’d hate this idea  considering how much I don’t care for tragic anti-hero Draculas, but who says that’s what he’d have to play? 

Do you have any idea how much actors, who are traditionally known for heroic or supporting roles, usually LOVE it when you give them a chance to cut loose as the main villain?

I’d want Sebastian Stan to put all of his charm, all of his talent, all of his good looks and etc, into playing the absolute most vicious, bloodthirsty and irredeemable Dracula put on screen. Someone who is exceedingly, eerily good at being a lovable protagonist, who’s all smiles and charming eyes and politeness mannerisms and maybe even a funny accent, and then it isn't as funny when he's flying through your window intent on kidnapping babies to feed to his brides, except he may take a moment or two to do so because he's feeling pretty hungry himself right now.

Now, admittedly this is kind of a lot to juggle in regards to a single character, which is why my answer for questions like these inevitably has to be “depends on what I’m going for”. That being said, if I was going to try and cast someone who I think could both look the part of Dracula, as well as respectively, play “cartoon aristocrat” Dracula, “mercurial embodiment of evil” Dracula, as well as realistically be an attractive, even seductive performer who can charm viewers even as the character descends into horrible villainy, and juggle these performances even?

I think I’d have to go with Mads Mikkelsen. Not specifically because of Hannibal (I actually haven’t watched it yet), although it’s definitely a factor, the thing that actually made me pick him specifically is, other than his looks, his voice, his reputation for playing sinister characters, the fact that he loves the role and wants to play it, or how many people are deeply in love with this man, or that people already joke that he looks like a vampire, was watching him in Another Round, and specifically that glorious final scene where he’s just dancing to his heart’s content and just, moving with such spring in his step and such joyful vitality even though he’s past his mid-fifties, and that was the moment where, in regards to how much you all love this man, I went

And now I am going to add “casting Mads Mikkelsen as a dancing Dracula” to The List of Reasons Why I Became a Filmmaker.

[downwiththeficness]

In the Bond-Chapter 3

Summary: Lilah often wished she’d never said yes to working with the Gecko brothers—usually while dodging gunfire. At no time was she regretting that decision more than when she’s hanging upside down from the ceiling, staring down a group of hungry culebras and one (1) extremely powerful sun god.

Word Count: ~5,400

Warnings: Blood

A/N: This is an AU of my Story In the Blood, which can be read here. Basically, this fic explores what would have happened if Lilah had met up with Geckos before she met Brasa.

Taglist: @symbiont13

Start from the beginning   Previous Chapter   Next Chapter   Read on AO3   Masterlist

Lilah deliberately did not take any care in how she dressed. She wore jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, same as she always did. Tennis shoes. Ponytail. Chapstick. Foregoing a purse, she slipped some cash and her cell phone into her pocket, refusing to look at herself in the mirror hanging on the far wall of her bedroom.

The room, itself, was small, with an en suite bathroom, tucked into the back of the restaurant. It was one of the only occupied rooms on the main floor as Lilah was one of the few people living there full time who could have windows. Her queen sized bed was pushed up against the far wall, covered in blankets and pillows.  Lilah had spent a very long time living in motel rooms, jumping from team to team, job to job. When she finally got a place where she felt comfortable enough to settle down, she realized how much a creature of comfort she actually was.

With her cut of every job she went on, Lilah made a single purchase towards her little sanctuary. Her most recent score was a candle that she hid behind a stack of books on the nightstand next to her bed. Caramel Macchiato. She’d picked it up in the store, inhaled, and felt something inside snap so hard that she had to buy it immediately. Lilah didn’t have the courage to burn it, too afraid the others would somehow figure it out. So, she would occasionally slip the top from the glass and take a breath before replacing it carefully. Her own little guilty pleasure.

Thinking that she couldn’t stall anymore, Lilah flicked off the light and headed out into the bar proper, noting that she was the last to arrive.

“Is this how you want to take a meeting with our mortal enemy?” Seth said as he shrugged on his coat.

Lilah glared, “I don’t want to take this meeting at all.  Kate’s right, though. You need a voice of reason in that room.”

The woman, herself, wasn’t present. Lilah hadn’t pressed her for any further details of her time spent possessed by an immortal being. Kate hadn’t offered, either. But, Lilah noted that Kate did look at her just a little differently from time to time. Something softer in her gaze. Something secret. Lilah took those looks and hid them away from prying eyes. She only hoped that the others were too preoccupied with their own shit to notice.

“Hey,” Richie cut in, “I can be a voice of reason.”

“You’re just as likely as he is to go in guns blazing,” Lilah responded as she walked decidedly past them and out into the night.

The sleek black car Seth had washed every weekend by one of the bar staff was parked haphazardly in the mostly empty lot, the bulk of their usual crowd not due for a few hours.  She opened the driver’s side door and shoved the seat forward, sliding in to the back of the coupe. Seth slapped at the seat, and Lilah pulled back so that it didn’t hit her in the knees. He dropped down into it and shut the door, Richie not far behind.

In the few days since the letter had arrived, Lilah had done a remarkable amount of research. Brasa had set up a base of operations that looked more or less permanent. What surprised her was how close it was to them, two hours’ drive through the desert. Like Seth and Richie, he’d purchased a bar as a front and was operating some sort of company from it. Trucks came in on Tuesdays, delivering product that was packed in large metal boxes. She never got a clear look at it, though she was tempted to send one of the culebras that was loyal to the Geckos out there to get a peek. She noted that culebras visited throughout the week en masse, a startlingly large number, given that the bar wasn’t even close to the nearest town. Some of them looked to be transient, but there were others that looked like they had settled in the region.

The product never left, though, which was weird. It came in, like clockwork, but nothing ever left. Lilah had followed one of trucks to a gas station and had gotten close enough to lay down a GPS tracker, but the thing had failed. She still couldn’t figure out why.

They weren’t using the normal methods for money laundering, either. The bar could be considered a cash establishment, but their bank accounts looked solid, at least on the surface.  If Lilah could get a good look at their books, she might be able to figure out how Brasa was supporting a business that was serving the majority of the culebra population outside of the Gecko stronghold at Jed’s.

“You’re awfully quiet,” came Richie’s voice, a teasing note beneath the words.

Lilah snapped out of her thoughts, looking at the back of his head, “I’m just thinking about how we’re going to approach this.”

Seth lifted a hand, forefinger stabbing at the air, “We’re going to let him talk. He’s got a plan, we’ll hear it, and then decide if we want to be a part of it.”

So, the plan they’d had at the beginning was still the plan.  That, at least, was comforting.

“And if we don’t?” she edged quietly.

He shrugged, “We get the hell out of there.”

Easier said than done. They were going in virtually blind. No idea of how many were inside, no idea of the firepower they might have, and only one way in or out.

“And if its a trap?”

Richie held up a pistol she knew had been hand crafted with specialized bullets that would take down a culebra, if fired at the heart. His smile was self-satisfied in the way that told her he’d forgotten that she was still human and very killable.

“We got back up.”

Lilah’s jaw worked, “You’ve got back up. I’ve got zilch.”

This was true. Lilah didn’t much like guns, but she carried them whenever they went out to do a job. She never recovered the gun Brasa had taken from her, and every pistol she’d fired since then hadn’t felt right. Her thigh felt bare without the holster, her body exposed. The rush order she’d put in with their local arms dealer for the exact same gun hadn’t yet arrived and she was too stubborn to bring a gun that didn’t even fit in her hand right. Her aim, already questionable, would be shit, anyways.

Seth made a derisive sound, leaning over to dig into a bag on the floorboard by Richie’s feet.

“You know, I could get that for you,” Richie drawled. Lilah knew that tone, a soft needling that he sometimes resorted to when he wanted to get a rise out of his brother. It was an attempt to lighten the mood. An attempt that did not work.

“I got it,” Seth grunted as he righted himself, frowning.

Through the seats, he handed Lilah a knife tucked into a sheath, “Take that. At least its something.”

Lilah ran her hand over it, the handle was intricate silver, the leather worn but still in good condition. There were little straps that she could affix to her forearm so that she could hide the weapon with her sleeve.

Carefully, she buckled the knife in place, pulling her sleeve down over it and holding her arm aloft to ensure it was as concealed as it could be. Lilah wasn’t much good in a fight, but she knew one or both of them would cover her while she ran.  It was a testament to how fucked they thought this might go that they’d even brought her along. She was a good talker, far better than either of them. If they were actually going to broker peace, she’d need to work as a lead.

When they arrived, Lilah stared at it. The parking garage was the only way in or out. The entrance was wide enough that trucks could back right up to drop doors, unload, and then drive right back out again. Seth pulled in, spun the car around, and backed into a parking spot with a clear view of the exit. At least he was being careful. This boded well for whatever happened next. She glanced at the back of his head. He was sober, too, which also gave them a leg up in this mess. Drunk or high, Seth couldn’t be controlled. Sober, at least she had a chance.

Lilah waited for Seth to step out of the car, taking his hand as helped her up. He pulled her close, leveling a serious look at her.

“First sign of trouble, you run. Richie and I can handle ourselves, but you run. Got it?”

He’d said the same thing on their first job, robbing a minor drug dealer to get some extra cash for inventory at the bar. Lilah smiled and said the same thing that she’d said to him all those months ago.

“Duly noted, boss.”

He looked at her another moment longer, then nodded and let her go, shutting the car door and joining his brother near the front end.

“Lilah, entrance?”

She nodded towards an elevator, “Only way in is through there.  No stairs down, I checked.”

On cue, the doors opened and a man in a three piece suit stepped out. The suit was immaculately tailored, a soft baby blue that was accented by the purple of his button up and tie. Lilah scanned him—Rolex, Italian leather shoes, what looked like a real diamond in the tie clip.  The whole outfit screamed money in a way that was just this side of ostentatious. She caught the pinky ring—the other side of ostentatious, then.

“Mr. Gecko, Mr. Gecko,” he looked at Lilah, “Ms. McNamara.”

Well, shit.

She knew she’d only given Brasa her first name, but here this guy was, calling her by her last. Lilah frowned at him. She wasn’t the only one who had done her research.

“Who the fuck are you?”

She almost made a sound of censure at the bite in Seth’s tone, but they were already moving. The brothers stepped in front of her, working as a unit. Richie put his hands in his pockets, and she knew he was casting the man a hard look. Seth’s arms were at his sides, but his coat was unbuttoned so that he could get at his firearm faster.

“You gonna answer?”

The man, shorter than both brothers, shorter than Lilah (even though she was tall for a woman), was effortlessly cool, “I am Javier. Lord Brasa has asked that I bring you to the conference room.”

Lord Brasa, Lilah scoffed to herself. Fucking pretentious fucks.

“Well,” Seth prompted with a flicking gesture of his hand, “Lead the way.”

Javier smiled, fingers touching the button of his jacket nearest to the lapel, “Of course. If you please.”

The elevator doors were still open, the carriage looming in front of them. Lilah resisted the urge to touch the knife strapped to her forearm as she followed all three men inside. The floors were marble, the fixtures glinting with gold. More money screaming at her. Where did it come from? How were they running their scheme?

There was a ding and the door opened to a dimly lit bar. The tables, the bar top, the stage, everything was cast in red glow. It muted the dark of the wood, softened every edge in a way that made the room blur in a dreamy way. Lilah kept close to her friends, moving through the room to the back, where Javier opened a door.

The hallway was just as dark as the room behind them. Neither of the two men in front of her hesitated, so Lilah continued following, flinching when the door closed behind her. Javier led them through a few turned to a nondescript door, which he opened, gesturing for them to enter.

Catching the way Javier looked closely at her as she passed, Lilah breathed deeply, barely containing the growing disdain for the man. He smiled serenely.  She got the distinct feeling he knew way more than she wanted him to know, and that unsettled her. They were already on an uneven playing field. Every second she spent in his presence made her feel more unbalanced.

Brasa was already sitting at a long rectangular table when they arrived.  He stood as they approached, one hand remaining on the wood. Lilah noted that he wasn’t wearing his coat, though the gloves remained. He was, as seemed his habit, dressed in all black.

“Welcome,” he said amiably, though he didn’t smile.

Seth’s gait slowed to a swagger, and Lilah very nearly rolled her eyes as he slid a chair out and sat, Richie taking his place beside him. She pulled out the chair on the other side of Seth, sitting carefully. Brasa waited a beat, then sat as well.

“What do you want?” Seth asked.

Brasa leaned forward on his forearms, hands folded, “I can tell you what I don’t want. I don’t want another endless war. I don’t want to see my people hunted. I don’t want any more killing between us.”

Lilah watched his face as he talked. His voice was calm, even in a way that told her he wasn’t attempting to dissemble. His body language was guarded, but that was to be expected.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Seth replied, jaw set.

Brasa looked at him, unblinking, “I want peace. I have people to care for. My attention needs to be on them, not on fighting off every attempt to kill us.”

Seth smirked, “I wouldn’t say ‘attempt’. We’ve been pretty successful.”

Richie nodded, “Very successful, in some cases.”

Lilah felt her mouth thin at the boast. Telling Brasa that they had been killing off his people wasn’t conducive. She wondered if they intended to talk peace at all, or if this was a very dangerous scheme to irk their enemy. Her fingers itched to touch her knife. She resisted, barely.

“That’s right, Richie. Got a whole nest, what, six months ago?” Seth’s tone was conversational, bordering on jovial.

“We did, indeed.”

Jesus, she thought. We’re all going to die down here.

Brasa’s eyes closed briefly, and Lilah could tell he was annoyed, though he telegraphed nothing with his body.

“The point is,” he asserted, his fingers flexing with the third word, “I’m offering to stop the fight. A complete cease fire, if you will.”

“Why?”

Oh, God, why are you talking?

Brasa’s eyes flicked to her, his mouth twitching. Lilah sensed his amusement, felt it brush against her mind as clearly as any physical touch. Beneath the table, she lifted her toes, the urge to haul ass out of the room riding her hard.

“My kind were made for war,” he explained, “Bred for it, bound to it. We had no choice in the matter. Now, I can make that choice. I can stop the cycle, at least in this dimension.”

Lilah very carefully avoided the fact that he had just confirmed there were other dimensions. Though she had gotten a little background information on Xibalba, she hadn’t yet put it together that it was co-existing somewhere that wasn’t Earth. That put a lot of her reading into a very strange and very mind bending context. Focus.

“That’s it?”

His head cocked to the side, “Does there need to be more?”

“There’s always more with you people,” Seth interrupted blithely. “We just don’t know what it is yet.”

Brasa smiled a very small smile, “Perhaps. But, at this time, this is all that is on the table.” He tapped the wood with a knuckle.

“So,” Richie prompted, pulling a pack of cigs out of his jacket pocket. He tapped one out along with a Zippo lighter. “What are your terms?”

Leaning back a little in his seat, Brasa lifted a shoulder, “As I said. Complete cease fire on both sides. We’ll outline our territories and keep to our sides.”

Richie took a drag, considering. Lilah watched him mull over the words, his keen intellect working his way through the problem.

Seth sneered, “You gonna keep killing humans, while you’re at it.”

Brasa shook his head, “No need. We have our own supply.”

The trucks. That’s what he’d been bringing in on Tuesdays. A blood supply, but from where? The shipments were massive, would feed far more than she’d seen coming in through the garage. Unless, there was another entrance, something underground, perhaps? She hadn’t seen anything, not even in the blueprints she’d managed to snag from the city.

Seth looked unconvinced, “You say you’ve got people. How many? How are you going to feed them all?”

“That is my concern,” Brasa answered levelly. “Your concern is that your people adhere to the terms of our agreement.”

Richie flicked ash, saying, “I’ve got some terms to add.”

Brasa’s brows lifted, a silent urge for the other man to continue.

“I want no interference with bondmates. None whatsoever.”

Lilah had no control over the way her heart thudded, and she knew two of the three males in the room were hearing it. Though he didn’t look her way, she felt Brasa’s attention shift over to her, felt heat rolling towards her from where he was sitting.

His lips parted, “How do you mean?”

Richie stubbed his cigarette out on the wooden table, “We both know I’ve completed my bond with Kate. I don’t want her to be a target for retribution.”

Ah, there it is. Lilah wondered if Richie would bring Kate into this. She was the silent voice in the room, a key player in absentia. With what she knew about their interaction, it made sense that Brasa might want a little vengeance.

“Kate,” Brasa began, curtly, “Is not Amaru. And, neither am I.” He drew in a breath, “But, I agree that bondmates must be left out of any disagreement, no matter how fierce. They are too precious to be used as bargaining chips.”

Richie stared hard, his mouth thin, nostrils flared. After several long seconds, he gave a nod, indicating his satisfaction.

“Are there other terms you want to discuss?” Brasa asked.

Seth gave a little sound of thought, “I’m sure we’ll think of something along the way.”

Here, Brasa’s eyes lit up, “I agree. I would like to implement the use of an ambassador during the drafting of our treaty. I will send one of mine to you, and you will send one of yours to me.”

At this, Lilah felt Javier step up to the table, though he didn’t say anything. Seth glanced at the man, tongue touching the back of his teeth. Lilah could feel how they’d been boxed in, though she doubted either of them knew just how it had happened. Or, why.

“Why would we need to do that?” This came from Richie, his eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

For the first time since they’d entered the room, Brasa relaxed. Lilah felt a little jolt of fear go through her. Relaxed was not going to go well for them.

“I have either brokered or been present during the brokering of many, many peace treaties.”

“And, how many of them have you broken?” Seth bit out.

Lilah felt her throat work around a noise she’d been holding back for a while. A short, guttural sound that meant ‘shut the fuck up’. They were almost through this, and if he could keep from pissing Brasa off, they could maybe end out with a good deal.

Ignoring the comment, Brasa continued, “In my experience, the first draft is rarely accepted as the final. It will go through several revisions before we add our signatures. The use of ambassadors is standard practice.”

Seth took a moment, staring Brasa down, “Who do you suggest?”

Brasa lifted a hand, indicating the man beside him, “Javier will suffice for us. He knows my expectations. And for yourself?”

“Richie’ll do it.”

The man in question scoffed, leaning over to talk lowly with his brother, “I’m supposed to be running point on our other projects. How would I have time to draft a peace treaty?”

“You don’t sleep, Richard.”

“I do, too, sleep.”

“Like two hours a day.”

“That’s still sleep, you asshole.”

Lilah touched her temple, knowing that they’d come to an agreement eventually.  She’d just have to listen to them bitching about it for a bit first. Across the table, Brasa hid his smile behind his hand, dark eyes glancing at her. She avoided his gaze.

“This project will likely take several months, and extensive ongoing meetings,” Brasa said eventually, leaning his chin on his hand casually, “Can you spare your brother for that long?”

Seth paused in his bickering, his brain working around the problem. Lilah watched his expression carefully, waiting. The furrow between his brows relaxed and she knew he had it. He looked at her and she knew she was going to hate what came out of his mouth next.

“McNamara,” he muttered. She was already shaking her head, “You do this all the time.”

“I negotiate our cut when we pull jobs, Seth. Its not the same thing.”

“Close enough,” he responded quickly, turning in his chair to look at her head on. “You know what we’ll accept, anything else you can run past us.”

Lilah stared at him, though her attention was straying to the heat creeping up the side of her neck to her cheek. It took effort to keep from shifting away from it, the unfamiliar weight disconcerting. She felt her resolve crumbling under the pressure.

“Seth,” she breathed, “Richie’s right. You’re an asshole.”

Then, she turned in her chair and faced Brasa, “I’ll do it.”

She sensed more than saw his satisfaction. They had just given him something he wanted. Lilah was unsure how she felt about that.

“Good,” Brasa announced, rising.  “I have an initial draft in my office. I also have a separate office for your ambassador. I will show her both, and then you may be on your way.”

“Hold up,” Seth said, rising, “You’re not taking her anywhere.”

“I’ll be fine,” Lilah grumbled, already circling around the table. “Besides, he’s got a lot to lose, if he kills me.”

No one needed to know just how much Brasa stood to lose with Lilah’s death. She let the implication stand in the deadened air, though. With more confidence than she felt, Lilah stood before him, waiting for him to lead the way.

After casting her another assessing look, Brasa turned and moved towards the back of the room. Another set of doors, another hallway, and she was stepping to a massive room that looked like it was carved right out of the earthen stone.  She was entering it from the side, about ten feet of rock separating the front of the room from a pool of water that was bisected by a walkway.  Cast once more in a red glow, the walkway led to singular desk with two plush chairs.

“Good work out there, by the way,” she commented, uncomfortable with the extended silence.

He looked back at her and smiled. Lilah had to swallow back the shock of how young he looked when he smiled like that. She knew he was ancient, knew that he’d seen things she couldn’t even fathom, and yet...his boyish pleasure at the compliment was so evident that it washed all of that away.

“That wasn’t work,” he replied, moving towards the desk, his hands slipping into his pockets, “That was a negotiation.”

Her eyes narrowed, “For the treaty?”

“For you,” he answered, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

Lilah bristled, “I thought bondmates weren’t going to be used as bargaining chips.”

Brasa huffed a short breath, turning and leaning against the desk, “Its been weeks, Lilah. Forgive me if the separation has made me brash.”

What he’d done wasn’t brash. It was cool, calculated, efficient. He’d maneuvered not only the peace he sought, but a guarantee of her nearness within ten minutes. She was in over her head. She was in way, way over her head.

Licking her lips, Lilah approached him with all the wariness that she would give a wild animal, “What do you want from me?”

He looked at her a moment, “Time.”

“Time?”

“Yes,” he confirmed with a dip of his chin, “Just time.”

She thought about it, “Then, I need something from you.”

Lifting from the desk, he stood up straight, “Name it.”

“Discretion. I know those men out there. I know what they are capable of. If you really want peace between our people, they cannot know how you and I are...connected.”

He considered it, and she could tell that he was on the verge of refusing. This was a proud male that she was dealing with, someone who’d fought a long time to get where he was. The little bit that she knew about bondmates made the request seeming somehow unreasonable.

“You ask too much,” he murmured, taking a step towards her. “I have already given you more than I should.”

She was bewildered, “A few weeks? Is that more than you should? This is my life we are talking about.”

Heat blew at her, his anger a physical thing, “This is my nature we are talking about.”

His words were lowly spoken, but filled with such an undertone of severity that Lilah couldn’t bring herself to reply.

“I am Xibalban,” his hand cut across the air, “It is my right to claim my bondmate when I find her, no matter the circumstances.”

“And, what about my rights?” Lilah sneered, arms crossing.

Brasa took a deep breath, centering himself. Then, he took another breath, his eyes focused and she could tell he’d already formed another deal to make, “I’ll need something from you, to keep this secret.”

Ice moved glacially down her spine, a cold kind of fear. Her skin pricked with awareness. She jerked her head to the side, indicated for him to continue.

“Blood,” he stated, “Blood and bond.”

There was a soft lilt in the way he said it, a hint of ritual. Lilah’s jaw clenched as she waited for more information.

“I need to assured of your safety, of your strength, when you are not with me. I have many enemies, and if they discover you are human—if I haven’t fortified you properly—they will kill you. We will have a blood exchange when we meet, every time. That is what I want from you.”

Blood. Time. Discretion.

Lilah nodded, “Done.”

He was satisfied, but he was not pleased. Lilah could read it in the shift of his body, the ash in his scent.  She waited, unsure of how happy she was with the arrangement.

“We will begin now,” he announced, a blade already in his hand.

Lilah closed her eyes, working to keep her instinctive reaction at bay. An angry Xibalban with a knife was not to be taken lightly. Before she could react, he appeared in front of her, taking her arm—the arm with the knife strapped to it. Lilah didn’t have the ability to pull back as he lifted the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She did have the ability to glare at him as he laughed.

“What were you going to do with this?”

“Well,” she deadpanned, “Shooting you didn’t quite work out last time. I figured another method might be more effective.”

He flashed his teeth at her, “I applaud the effort.”

“Thanks.”

Letting go of one arm, he took up the other, peeking underneath the fabric. Satisfied that she wasn’t harboring any other weapons, Brasa pushed it to her elbow, glancing at her for her readiness. Lilah gave a nod, hissing when the blade went through her skin.  This cut was deeper than the last, though just as precise. He brought the wound to his mouth, sucking gently.

Lilah didn’t know how to feel about the way her body reacted to watching him drink from her. There was an alien revulsion to the act, itself. Mentally, her brain screamed that she was in danger, that she had to get away. The primal part of her brain, the thing that was deeper and stronger than any other, ensured that she stayed right where she was.

He groaned against her skin, and she felt the vibration of it go right through her, rolling along her arm and over her chest. His body was so close, the scent of coffee and caramel all she could sense. Lilah kept trying to breathe, kept trying to remain upright. When she wavered, his arm went around her waist, pulling her into a broad chest. Her free hand gripped his shirt for balance.

Too late, and too soon, he pulled away, his tongue lingering over the cut a moment longer. Lilah swallowed, eyes wide, when he looked at her. The black had taken over the whites of his eyes again, and though his lips weren’t pulled back over them, she knew his fangs had dropped. She held her breath.

Without a word, Brasa slipped the button at the cuff of his shirt through the buttonhole and rolled it up, blade slicing through his forearm. She almost said no. She almost shoved him away and ran full sprint back to Seth and Richie. His eyes stopped her.

Brasa’s eyes, black as they were, were so wide and beguiled that Lilah had to stop and stare. He was looking at her with such unrestained awe, such grateful affection that she made no move to resist as he guided her to his own skin.

Lilah wished it had been a fluke. She wished that her memory of how good he tasted was so distorted by adrenaline and fear that it couldn’t even come close to reality. He was...exquisite. Honey thick, and twice as sweet.

She had to stop this. She had to get control. Turning her head, Lilah tried to get away. His hand slipped to the back of her neck below her ponytail, a firm grasp.

“More than a mouthful, this time,” he murmured against her temple, “More, Lilah.”

God help her, but she took it. Swallow after swallow, her eyes squeezed shut, words of praise sounding her ear. When he finally allowed her to lift her chin, she struggled to breathe. She didn’t know how long she’d been at it, only that his taste remained, coating every inch of her mouth.

His arms held her steady, “You did so good. So good.”

Lilah felt her body overheat, sweat forming on her temples. His face swam in her vision, so close she could feel the vibration of every word he said. Though her sight was blurred by the intensity of what she was feeling, Lilah could absolutely tell that he was still wearing that expression of awe, that he was looking at her as if she were the entire world. And that scared her.

Drawing on years of experience with unstable and dangerous situations, Lilah righted herself, rasping, “I need to get back. They won’t wait for long.”

Brasa ran his hands down her arms, the action serving to compose his demeanor. Assured that she could stand on her own, he stepped away towards his desk where he picked up a thick file.

Handing it to her, he explained, “This is the first draft. Take a look at it and we’ll discuss edits.”

Javier was standing near the door as they walked out. He handed Lilah a Gatorade with a smile. Lilah’s eyes cut at him as she took it, thumb and forefinger already twisting off the cap. She’d have to get more details on that man as soon as possible. He was definitely more than he seemed.

It wasn’t until they were almost home that Richie finally turned around in the front seat and cast her a curious gaze, “What happened in there? You haven’t said anything.”

Lilah caught Seth looking at her in the rearview.  

She shrugged, “He showed me an office and handed me the file. He wants to see our edits as soon as we have them ready. I’m going to look at this tomorrow and let you read what I come up with.”

He wasn’t satisfied with her answer. Lilah could tell by the way he sucked his teeth. She didn’t care. She had much, much bigger things to worry about.

[writefightandflightclub]

Rebelle of the ball

Poe x fem reader (mainly so the pun worked, sorry gender-neutral readers!)

Author’s note: this my very loose riff on a traditional princess story- particularly that “princess moment” when a guy sees his girl all dressed up walking down a staircase and falls hard / realises his existing feelings. Reader’s POV is that if Poe doesn’t fall for her tonight, in this dress, then it’s never going to happen, is it? This fic is written from Poe’s POV which was a different kinda challenge altogether. Also, I didn’t agonise over this one so sorry if it’s no good. Let me know how I did, k?

Summary: You and Poe have to go on an undercover mission to a diplomat’s ball at Canto Bight casino to gather intel for the Resistance. While you pose as an esteemed Princess, will Poe turn out to be your Prince Charming?

Warnings: Language, canon-typical violence, mild sex references. 

GIF by @vivienvalentino

Poe is nervous and pacing. He’s read and reread the briefing package sent to him by the ops team. He’s gotten dressed in his black and gold suit. He’s checked his slicked-back hair in the mirror more than he would usually care to. Now he’s waiting on you. And he’s not a particularly patient man.

He raps on the door to your adjoining suite one more time. “What now?!” you hiss through the door, and he sucks air through his teeth. He’s sure you sound even more angry than last time he checked-in with you.

“Are you sure you don’t want a hand, Princess?”

“Fuck off, Prince Charming.” you shout through the door. Charming, indeed.

You’ve been in there at least two hours, bedecking yourself in some form of complicated finery for the evening. A delegation of Resistance members had managed to do some stellar work off-planet, securing a sponsor for the mission. Which -essentially- meant that you had both been hooked up with outfits grotesque and gaudy enough to fit in at tonight’s delegate’s ball in Canto Bight; the casino and playground of the rich and powerful. Only the finest and most elaborate costuming would do to convince guests that you truly were an esteemed Princess of Pavia-9, as you claimed to be. And only then could you get the intel on arms drops you so badly needed to intercept the shipments and topple the Order’s plans.

A fresh wave of nausea hits Poe when he thinks about what you’re about to do. Sure, the pretentious assholes who frequented Canto Bight weren’t battle-hardened like you. But they were abundant enough in number, and had pleny of hired muscle around for things to go royally wrong if they caught on to the fact you were an imposter. No, Poe isn’t a patient man at all. He doesn’t like waiting on you because it allows him plenty of time to plan ahead; “planning ahead”, in his book, is also known as an extended opportunity to ruminate on all the ways things can go wrong. Characteristically, he’d much rather just get out there and wing it. To worry is to suffer twice, and all that.

When you eventually emerge from your suite your expressjon and your body language are impartial, neutral. But you twirl gently, and ask “well?”

Poe looks you up and down and back up again. A gold, elaborate sculpture of a crown adorns your head. Your hair is folded in intricate petals. Your face is caked in so much make-up you barely look like yourself. Your body is enrobed in an ostentatious jewel blue dress and cape, complete with flamboyant shoulder decorations and arm cuffs.

“You look...” he can see you holding your breath, awaiting his reaction, but this is all he has. “You look ridiculous.”

Despite your best attempt at bravado you are visibly upset. “I’m not supposed to look ridiculous, I’m supposed to look good.”

“No, you’re supposed to look rich, trust me, there’s a difference.”

Poe considers reminding you not to take it personally. That you are beautiful. But it’s not relevant for the mission and it’s probably not the kinda thought that -as your Commander- he should be entertaining anyway.

His eyes flick back over you again. “Can you run in those shoes?” he asks, genuinely concerned looking at the height of them.

“Poe. Do I look like a Princess?”

“Don’t go getting ideas below your station.” he smiles at you gently, trying to mask the nerves which prod insistently at his chest, not allowing him to forget the risks. You look like a Princess, for sure. He just thinks that Princess is a bit of a step down for you. Although he does know one Princess who turned out to be pretty badass, most he’d encountered were detached and self-absorbed, outsourcing the true cost of their lifestyle to those who stood to suffer most. 

“Poe!” you yell, scowling now. He concedes that you need some actual reassurance rather than his loose platitudes.

“They’ll buy it. 100%. I promise.” Then he adds, “Do you have your blaster? Communicator?” You nod and flash him your thigh, showing where it’s strapped. He tries not to visibly react to the flash of skin but there’s something he finds very hot about the holster tightened around your leg.

“Good. Now. How do I look?”. He straightens his tie and opens his palms to you, presenting himself.

You look him up and down. “You’re doing a great job of looking like a rich asshole.” He had to figure there’d be no way you’d compliment him after his own reation. But, he can tell by the flare of your nostrils -and the areas of him that your eyes travel to- that you like what you see. He prays you do a better job of hiding your emotions when you’re in front of the crowd.

On that note, he clasps your hands in his, conscious of his clammy grip, and looks deeply into your eyes.”Are you ready to do this?” He searches for any hesitation and finds only a determined resolve.

Poe offers his next words measuredly, carefully, recapping the plan.“You know the mark. Let him come to you. Find out what we need, find me, and we get out. Provided the bribes have worked, the real Princess will be delayed at the checkpoint for 35 minutes. That’s all we’ve got and then we need to move.”

“This’ll be fun.” You smile; a wild, improvident look in your eyes. Poe figures the adrenaline must be kicking-in and overriding some of your nerves and better judgement. Fine then, you’ll both just wing it.

He’s certainly done enough worrying about this. He sincerely hopes that will mean he has saved you the trouble of having to suffer.

***

These people, this place; it’s all grotesque. If this is luxury, Poe has already had an excess of the excess.

Everything is obsence. The thought of these people getting rich by dealing arms, wreaking havoc on innocent people - all to catwalk their garish outfits and passively agressively outbrag one-another at champagne mixers - makes his blood boil. But, he must refrain from blasting anyone just yet.

Poe is posing as a middling member of the Galactic Senate from a planet with plausible ties to the old imperials. Nothing risky enough that anyone should question him too insistently. So, he mingles amongst the throng of the crowd, rubbing shoulders with tasteless, vulgar individuals and trying to keep his fists and weapons to himself. Groups of men stop him, with faux interest, seemingly only to boast about pointless items within their possession as if they mattered, and then to dismissively describe arms deals which contributed to massacres as though the lives taken were of zero consequence. The only thing preventing Poe from blasting half of these assholes is the satisfying thought that you’re about to dupe them and they have no kriffing idea. It makes a delicious smile spread over his face, which these over-indulged narcissists mistake for tacit approval, of course.

Finally, the announcement sounds out informing the room that the arrival of the Princess of Pavia-9 is imminent. The guests, noticeably abuzz, seem intrigued to finally catch a glimpse of the famously beautiful, ruthless, and reculsive monarch-in-waiting. The throng move to congregate at the bottom of the central staircase, ready to watch you make your entrance. Poe joins the thick of the crowd, taking a position off to the side, flanked by obtrusive flower displays, imposing gilded statues, and gaudy champagne towers. The orchestral music is paused, and, as everyone awaits your appearance, you could hear a droid-bolt drop.

Poe’s heart is in his mouth, a slight taste of bile as he readies himself for your moment of truth. His legs are shaking a little with nerves now, a sheen of sweat developing on his brow. You really are surrounded by people who would not hesitate to kill you, or worse. Then, he sees you appear at the opening of the stairs, the jewel blue of your dress in stark contrast to the gold staircase.

Well, you’ve made it this far, at least. Hopefully you can pull-off being a Princess for half an hour more. Poe looks nervously around to see if the crowd are buying it. Well, he never should have doubted you.

The crowd is enraptured, looking at you in awe. There is an audible ripple of excitement and nervous energy which spreads across the room as they receive their first glimpse of you, and the ripple of bows which follow feels like more than a simple act of obeying custom; it feels like they are bowing because you inspire them to. Because your presence commands it. You move deliberately, confidently, gracefully down the staircase.

A woman to Poe’s side whispers to her companion “She’s breathtaking.” Poe’s face can’t help but spread into a grin. Not even because they’re buying-it (although that is an untold relief). Not even because of the compliment. More so, because everyone here in awe of you is missing the point entirely. Maybe they like that ridiculous outfit, the power and status you appear to convey, your body in that form-fitting dress -which, ok, now that’s he’s looking he admits you carry off well. But no, Poe looks at you and he knows the secret. He knows you’re majestic because of the way you just bravely, cooly, commandingly walked into a room full of your enemies and still owned it, not giving off a hint of nerves. He knows you’re majestic because you were prepared to risk yourself not for your own gain or status; you did so for the good of the Resistance. For all that, you are more beautiful than any self-regarding poser in this room. You’re fucking baller.

You make it down the staircase without a stumble and the orchestra start-up again. Poe sees you begin to track through the crowd, people simutaneoulsy flocking to be close to you and shrinking back from your steely and arresting presence. He knows your mark will soon beeline for you. The transaction is well-rehearsed and Poe is confident in what you can do. All being well, you will rendezvous with him in the hallway by the service exit in 15 minutes.

Itching to whisk you out of there, perhaps overly keen not to lose sight of you in the crowd, Poe lingers a little too long in just the wrong spot. Edging close enough to the periphery of the party to arouse suspicion.

“Excuse me. Can I assist you?” It’s one of the security officers the casino has assigned to protect the Princess, now that’s you. He sidles over, chest puffed out, towering over Poe.

“No, thank you.”

“Can I see your credentials?” 

Poe flashes his best, affronted-rich-person face, but subterfuge really isn’t his strongpoint. He’s just the getaway pilot. “How dare you...” he begins.

From the corner of his eye, he sees you notice him and the brewing confrontation. He sees you subtly -via a thread of greetings and kisses to your hand- trying to weave through the crowd and reduce the distance between you both, in case of the need for a quick exit. He throws you a somehwat helpless, sidelong glance.

And then, it gets worse. Poe guesses that the real Princess’ ship has made its way through the checkpoint early, as the guard’s communicator crackles to life, a panicked voice raising a very valid concern about how the Princess could possibly already be there. That will, emphatically, be your cue to leave then.

“Oh, shit.”

Poe whistles loudly, his pinkies in his mouth, and yells indiscrimately into the crowd. “Let’s roll, Princess!”

You are close enough that he hears you exclaim, “oh fuck”, before push-kicking another guard right into the orchestra, and he hears them landing in a dischord of groans and reverberating strings. He sees a flash of jewel blue as hands grab at your robe, which you abandon, throwing it over the head of one of your pursuers. This buys you an extra split second to slip away as you elbow your way through the crowd of -thankfully- sufficiently confused delegates. The crowd are startled enough that the path of the other guards remains blocked, a few beelining and jostling through towards you from all corners of the room, sending people and drinks and champagne towers toppling.

Poe uses the distraction to land a respectable hook to the chin of the security officer who had decided to accost him and you skid to a halt in front of him, in time to follow his hook up with a solid elbow to the guard’s face.

And then, to him; “We royally fucked up, what can I say?”

He makes a mental note to tell you how fucking badass you are, but that can wait.

“It’s just a slight hiccup, Princess. You ready to run?”

You lift the hem of your dress to reveal your old, worn flight boots in place of the heels you’d donned earlier.

Poe beams in delight “You changed your shoes,”

You grin back “I changed my shoes.”

Poe guides you urgently out of the service exit with a hand on your back and you head out first. You both know where you’re running, having scoped out the speeders earlier in the evening. You can’t let the security forces get there before you. You both leg it, running and half-sliding down the steep hilside until your lungs burn and your legs shake, your blasters now drawn. You haven’t made it far enough by the time blaster shots begin to lick at your heels.Thankfully the ground has begun to flatten out a little or with their higher vantage point -and your disadvantage point- you’d be done for.

Thinking quickly, Poe crouches and takes a position behind a crumbling bit of wall. He needs you away from their line of fire, now. “Get to the speeders, I’ll stay here and pick a few off.” You don’t even hesitate to leave him there to be all heroic, which he chooses to believe is a sign you trust his judgement. Trusting you also, to come back for him, Poe focusses at the task at hand, dropping a few of the security team as they make their way down the hill. He notes with vexation that crafts have taken to the skies already, searchlights combing through the long grasses.

Distracted by the whirr of one such craft as it comes unnervingly close overhead, he doesn’t spot one of the pursuers until they have already cleared the brow of the nearest hill, looking equally shocked to find Poe crouched behind the makeshift cover as they plant their feet and recover from their jump.

The split seond needed before recognition hits is the only reason Poe hasn’t been blasted yet. It’s also the reason neither of them see or hear you approach on the looted speeder, given the additional cover of the noisy craft overhead. At least, Poe’s adversary doesn’t notice you until it’s far too late. You steer the landbike towards him, your golden headdress now being yielded in one fist, like a goddess riding into battle, as you straddle the vehicle. You sock the guard in the back of the head with your crown, the momentum of your strike knocking him out cold. You toss the now useless adornment to the floor and it rolls down to land at Poe’s feet. The guard too wavers and then drops to his knees in what feels like slow motion, rolling down the hill limply.

“That’s it. Bow down to your Princess, you fucker.”

See. Fucking baller.

Poe is almost inspired to fall to his knees too.

He looks up at you from the lower ground. You have a split in your dress up to your thigh, leaving your oh so practical flight boots and blaster holster on show. Your hair is a mess and a cut seethes on your lip. This is it. This is the moment the force of his feelings for you hits him. It’s like a sucker punch. He relates a little too heavily to the guard you’ve just KO’d.

“Can you stop gawping and get the fuck on, Poe!”

Your command rips him back to reality and he clambers over to the speeder, throwing his leg over and shuffling close to you, hands circling around your waist.

Now it’s just a small matter of making it down to the secluded cove where the ship is hidden and he can finally make himself a bit more useful.

“Don’t let go!” you shout above the throttle of the engine as the vehicle accelerates with a jolt.

No, he certainly doesn’t plan on it.

***

You make it back to the ship, tumbling through the doors with a flood of relieved laughter.

“See, I told you that would be fun,” you grin deliciously.

Poe vaults into the pilot’s seat and fiddles with various nozzles, levers, and dials, flying manually until he’s sure it’s safe enough to jump into hyperdrive. He ditches the Cantonican ships with ease - he’s one helluva piot after all- and you settle into the chair next to him to jump straight on comms.

“General. One slight hiccup, but we did it. Listen, the shipment is on Malomir, they have an outpost there amongst some old salt mines. It’s the centre for their whole distribution and it’s weak at the top peak where the two ridges meet- that’s where there was a cave in of the main shaft a couple of decade ago. I’m patching coordinates through now, but hit it hard and fast, there’s no way that they can move anything much out of there before we can strike. We light it up that whole thing is going to blow. Let’s take them down!”

“Copy that, Major, Commander. We’ll move now. Well done.” Poe can hear the smile in Leia’s voice through the comms, can hear celebration in the background of the briefing rom.

“Thank you, General, copy that.”

After that, Poe breathes out a big sigh of relief, of elation. This victory could save a lot of lives and really slow the Order as well as a lot of warmongers down. Pleasingly, it would also hit them where they understood too- their wallets. But, there’s also another layer of joy mixed in. You are safe. A significant victory.

Poe jumps the ship into hyperdrive which allows you to sit back for a moment. You handled it, this mission, but it can’t have been a breeze. You’re good at hiding the truth (and extracting it too)- it’s part of your skillset, but Poe knows you well enough to see through your cool exterior, or at least he likes to think so. You are quiet as you take a moment to look out at the blue and white light slipping by, letting your muscles untense. He let’s you have it, uninterrupted. Poe regards you ardently, the light casting an ethereal glow over your features, and over the contours of your body. In that jewel blue gown, it’s almost as if you are made of starlight. He smiles softly to himself as he realises how disappointed that crowd back at Canto Bight are gonna be when they get their “real” Princess. Surely nothing could compare to you.

When you turn back, you see that Poe has spun around in his chair, legs spread and hands clasped behind his head.

He’s still looking at you. Still gawping, he realises, but he suddenly doesn’t care if you know it.

“What?” you ask bashfully, recognising the blatant admiration on his face.

“Now you look good.” 

“I do? Not ridiculous?”

He smiles. He’s going to be paying for that comment for a long time, isn’t he? “Yeah, like you usually do. Badass, gorgeous, fucking majestic.” His voice is soft, genuine. He scopes your reaction to the compliment, but you don’t seem to bristle. That’s good, because he has a lot more where that came from.

“Well,” you venture, “if I’m being honest you look pretty good in that suit.”

“I know, I saw you looking.” There’s a beat. “I’d look better out of it.”

“I’ll bet, you goof.”

Again, he’s pleased to see that you don’t seem entirely averse to the suggestion. In fact, you come to sit on the arm of his chair, that gorgeous split extending up your thigh again.

“Seriously though, I didn’t mean to offend you earlier. Those people in there, they’re ugly. No matter how they dress it up. But you, you’re ...” His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and with you so close he can barely get his words out anymore. Maybe he’s a little distracted.

“Uh-huh. I get it, Poe.” Your lips quirk up at the corners. “But are you also liking this dress a little more now?” You might have noticed the way his eyes are sweeping approvingly over your body, his words becoming less and less coherent.

“Oh yeah, it’s working for me a lot more out of context.”

“Good to know, Prince Charming.” you say with a gratified smile as you straddle him on the chair, thighs spread, lips hovering close to him. “Now how about we make-out and then go blow some stuff up on Malomir?”

“Anything you say, Princess. I’ve seen what happens to your disloyal subjects and I don’t want to suffer the same fate.”

Poe might be about to have his best day ever, he thinks.

You pulled off being a Princess for the night, but you are most definitely his Queen- he hopes, for a long time.

[spookyceph]

Rating: Teen and up

Crossposted on Ao3

Day 1 | Prompt: Fantasy

A Small Price to Pay

Appearing unremarkable was an underrated skill. So many people wasted their lives scrambling to be noticed. They traded away their dignity and sense for scraps of fame or fortune as if it would change their fate. Nobles, beggars, warlords, courtesans, criminals, heroes—they all wound up feeding the worms in the end. Tomura would know. He’d sent more than one of each category to their graves with a dagger slipped through the ribs.

The man who’d just strolled through the open tavern door, however, couldn’t have avoided attention even if he’d been making an effort. He wore all black, for one thing. The only variety came from the iron studs glittering across the shoulders and on the half-sleeves of his long leather coat. Even his disheveled hair had been dyed—that shade of coal couldn’t be natural. Like most not in Tomura’s line of work, he probably believed black was the ideal color for stealth. In truth, an entire outfit declared, Look! I’m up to no good and I think I’m being sneaky about it! Clothing in a drab, washed-out brown, like the threadbare cloak Tomura had draped around his shoulders, actually worked best. With wisps of his white hair sticking out from the hood, he’d easily be taken for an old drunk nodding off over his drink. No one of note. Certainly not the heir to the most feared assassins’ guild in the empire.

The stranger approached the bar. His step hesitated for a split second when faced with the rippling construct of shadow��a guild contact by the name of Kurogiri—who was tending it. Tomura channeled his energy into a bouncing leg as the pair conversed. After a minute or two, Kurogiri fetched a wooden cup and filled it with the tavern’s finest for the man in black, who must have given all the correct pass phrases because he turned and looked directly at Tomura’s corner.

His flashy clothing was nothing compared to his skin.

Initially, Tomura thought he was staring at raw, purple muscle stretched over the stranger’s forearms, neck, and lower half of his face. Not flayed, he realized several stunned seconds later. Burned. Some disaster or curse had charred his skin in impossibly symmetrical patches. Even more striking were the neat rows of slim silver rings running along the seams, binding living and ruined flesh. They flaunted what might have been a disfigurement as decoration instead. To anyone with a taste for the macabre, the effect came across as artistic. Even beautiful.

Tomura hated him instantly. Still, he regulated his breathing and didn’t allow his hands to lift from the table to scratch his neck while the ostentatious bastard meandered his way to the table to join him. Master All For One had entrusted him with assembling the team that would eventually topple the empire. If he meant to take over the guild one day—meant to rid the world of hypocrites and bootlickers like Yagi Toshinori, the Emperor’s Champion—he would need to deal with people he didn’t care for. Nothing would get done if he just shut himself in his room and played out ancient battles with maps and models forever.

The man in black stopped at the chair to Tomura’s left, resting long, slender fingers on its back. The blue of his eyes shone as bright as the center of the flame in the tin oil lamp sitting on the table.

“Evening. Mind if I join you?” His voice shared none of the swagger of his appearance. Low and soft, Tomura had to strain to hear it.

“If I did,” he snapped, patience frayed along the edges, “you’d be on the floor already, choking on your own blood.”

This warm welcome only made the man smile, silver rings pulling at scar tissue. He sat and made the mistake of actually drinking the ale.

Now here was something to cheer him up. A nasty grin stretched Tomura’s own scar, slashed straight down the side of his cracked lips. “How is it?”

The stranger tilted his head, peering into his cup as if he’d caught something swimming in it. “I think the only thing more likely to kill me is the water.” Regardless, he took another swig.

Bah. No fun after all. Mouth sagging into a grimace, Tomura pushed his own cup away just a bit more. “So. You’re the flame mage looking to tag along on the job.”

“Afraid so. Call me Dabi. And you’re the dreaded Shigaraki Tomura, protégé of the most feared criminal overlord in the empire.”

“The same. What makes you think you’d be any use to me, Lord Call-Me-Dabi? Looking at you, I’d say your spells blow up in your face more often than they hit your enemies.”

To his credit and Tomura’s further exasperation, the mage didn’t lunge at the bait. “If only it were that simple. My scars,” he lifted his rough, pitted arms, turning them over and back for display, “are the result of my father making a deal with a demon.”

Tomura had to catch himself before he looked Dabi directly in the face and revealed too much of his own. “Your father did what?”

That earned a wagging finger. “I’ll tell you the story…but only in exchange for answering a question about your own past.”

Unease played with the hair along the back of Tomura’s neck. “Let’s hear this question first.”

“Fair enough. I want to know whether it’s true you’re cursed to destroy anything you touch.”

Muscles knotting down his spine, Tomura stiffened. How did this flashy asshole know more about his past than Sensei’s own network of informants had been able to dig up on him? Was he lying about the demon story just to get Tomura to talk? For what purpose? He couldn’t determine an advantage for doing so. But…since he already knew about the curse there didn’t seem to be any use in hiding it. Anyway, maybe his reaction would reveal further clues.

Reaching out with his left hand and keeping his right on one of the daggers sheathed against his ribcage, Tomura touched Dabi’s cup with all five fingers. A series of soft crackles filled the silence as the wood split apart first along the grain, then into individual fibers before disintegrating into a powdery ash that plopped to the table as a pile of mush when combined with the ale. The mage’s eyes became as round and shiny as marbles.

“Fascinating.” He lifted one of his own half-scarred hands. Instead of curiously poking the mound of pulp, though, Dabi went for Tomura’s wrist. His fingers brushed skin, warmer than the sunlight it rarely encountered, before Tomura recoiled.

“Are you insane?”

“Depends who you ask.”

Two fingers carefully folded against his palms, Tomura tucked his hands under his elbows and shoved away suddenly intrusive thoughts of what the mage’s touch might feel like on other parts of him. “How did you hear I’m cursed?”

Dabi chuckled, low and deep and quiet like his voice. The sound sent a little thrill racing out from Tomura’s belly to the crown of his head before plummeting straight down to the tips of his toes, which curled in his boots. Bastard. He had to be using some sort of enchantment to enhance his voice. Had to. “So many questions. Information is too valuable to just give away, though. You of all people should know that.”

Tomura’s jaw clenched hard enough to make his teeth squeak. “What do you want?”

“Nothing much—the answer ties in with your initial question, actually. A kiss should cover it.”

The remaining cup of ale tipped over and splashed its contents across the table as Tomura sprang up, jostling the edge.

“You want what?” He could sense the eyes of the handful of other patrons in the tavern locked on him from the outburst. Kurogiri, surely, must have been staring at him like he’d lost his mind. But Tomura couldn’t stop gawking at Dabi, who, despite an amused quirk of the brows, didn’t appear to be joking.

“A kiss in exchange for information,” the mage said. “To be collected in private, at your earliest convenience, of course. A more than agreeable price, if you ask me.”

For the first time in his life, Tomura was left speechless. “Wha…but…you…”

“’Why a kiss’, you ask?”

“Yes.”

Dabi’s shoulders bobbed in a shrug. “There’s already plenty of gold to be had for accepting this job from the guild. Ten tablets of gold upon completion, wasn’t it? A story about kissing a deadly assassin and living to tell the tale, though? Much harder to come by. Anyway, it seems fitting. I tell you something interesting about my past and you give me a new tidbit to share in the future.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“I thought we already touched on that subject.” Leathery forearms folded on the table, the mage craned forward. “So? How about it?”

Realizing how far his common sense had flown from him, Tomura yanked his hood closer around his face and plopped back into his seat. He began snagging his thoughts out of the cyclone of emotion that had swept them up. From a purely practical view, Dabi lost in this bargain. Even if everything he said turned out to be a pile of unicorn shit, Tomura could still learn something from the telling itself. There had to be a hidden angle to this farce. A ploy to see his face fully and sell a description to the authorities? Hardly the easiest, most efficient way to go about it. An attempt to get Tomura alone and off guard to exact revenge? Plausible. He’d killed dozens of people, including two mages, in his career. There was no reason one of them couldn’t have been a friend or relative of Dabi’s. Giving the mage what he wanted, keeping him close, was an ironclad way to find out. A bit of pride was a small price to pay to destroy an enemy with their own trap.

And if paranoia had made something out of nothing…he could always kill Dabi anyway rather than live it down.

Tomura sniffed. “Fine. I agree to your insane terms. Now answer my questions.”

A sliver of white, straight teeth glimmered in the mage’s smile. Tomura had to rein in his imagination before it ran away with picturing them leaving bite marks all over his neck. “The reasons this story happened at all are rather prosaic, I’m afraid. My father was a powerful flame mage who wanted to be above all other warriors. Wanted to be the Emperor’s Champion, in fact. He fought in tournaments and dueled noble-funded contenders, beating every opponent, rising quickly through the lists despite being only twenty-five. Then he faced the man who would become his life-long rival. No matter how many times my father challenged him, he could never best him. So, not getting any younger, he changed tactics and decided to have a perfect child capable of beating this better man.”

Turning just enough to peek at Dabi past his hood and messy hair, Tomura snorted. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Told you the motivations were uninspired.”

“Don’t tell me he summoned a demon woman to bear him this perfect child.”

“The circumstances of my birth aren’t half so interesting, sadly.” Lacing his hands behind his head, Dabi leaned back in his chair until it was balancing only on two legs. “No, my father scoured noble families for any daughters with promising magical talent. Eventually, he wound up marrying an unlucky woman from a line of ice mages and she had me not long after. I inherited my father’s power over fire, but apparently not to the god-like levels he’d been hoping for. When ten years of trying to beat greatness into me didn’t produce results, he turned to alternative methods.

“I’ll spare you the gory details, but the old bastard summoned a demon with the authority to make the type of deal he wanted. He offered it my soul in exchange for augmenting my power. And now…”

With a flourish of one hand, flames the same brilliant blue of his eyes rippled up from Dabi’s fingertips. Heat slapped Tomura in the face even from that distance, sucking the breath straight from his lungs. Another flick of the wrist and the mage clenched his hand, snuffing the fiery ribbons.

“My flames burn hot enough to melt steel—hotter than any mortal can cast. Therein laid the problem and the demon’s trick. My new powers were too intense for a fourteen-year-old boy to withstand, let alone control. The attempt broke me, leaving me severely burned over most of my body and on the verge of death. In his infinite wisdom and mercy, my father declared me a failure. He sent me away to a monastery to ‘recover’. Really, he figured my injuries would finish me off and the demon would have its prize early. Fortunately, I’m more resilient than he gave me credit for.”

Despite Dabi’s casual, even flippant tone and posture, something in his eyes told Tomura that maybe this story—the core of it anyway—wasn’t a complete fabrication. Something within the burning-blue irises too cold and hard for even them to melt. “Not only did I pull through, I learned ways to protect myself somewhat from my own magic thanks to the monks and their connections to various rare book sellers and libraries. By the time my father sent someone—perhaps one of yours even—to finish what my injuries hadn’t, I was ready. I spent about another five years after that in hiding, accumulating knowledge and skill. Skills like breaking wards, or getting minor spirits to collect tidbits of information, such as a curse placed on an infamous assassin, say. When I finally had the strength, I summoned the demon who’d traded with my father and renegotiated the terms of the deal.

“See, promising somebody else’s soul, especially a child’s, is tricky when you don’t just outright sacrifice them. Comes with all sorts of cosmic snags. Rather than risk winding up empty-handed, the demon was willing to heal me as much as it was able and accept my father’s soul instead for services rendered. The next week, I delivered.”

Slowly, Dabi let his chair rock forward back onto all four legs. At the same instant, the scales in Tomura’s mind tipped as well.

“Fine. You’re on the job. Ten tablets of gold before, as you already heard. Thirty after. You cooperate with everyone else on the team, no exceptions, no complaints. Agreed?”

Dabi bowed as much as the table would allow. “I’m at your service.”

“Hmph. We’ll see if it’s worth anything soon enough. Are you familiar with the old entertainment district on the west side of the city?”

“I’ve kept an appointment or two over that way.”

“Do you know the fountain?”

The mage tapped his scarred chin. “Dried up, statue of a fox woman, lots of crude writing all over it?”

“That’s the one. Be there at sunset two days from now. Be on time or don’t bother to show up at all. I’ll take you to meet the rest of the rabble helping with this venture.”

“Perfect. And about that remaining payment—”

Tomura stood from his chair abruptly. “You’ll get it when I say so. Don’t push me or you’ll wind up with a blade through your windpipe instead.”

“I look forward to it.” Smiling, Dabi offered his hand across the table. “Working with you, that is. Not the slashed throat so much.”

He didn’t even glance down at the gesture of goodwill. “We’re complete opposites then.”

That parting barb still wasn’t enough to stifle the soft laugh that followed Tomura as he strode away, pretending not to notice the strange fluttering in his middle.

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

What Might Have Been - 11

(From my ongoing fic using @goodomenscelebration‘s theme prompts. This one is a bit lighter, but the next few will bring the angst again.)

Masterlist of previous parts here. 

Old-Fashioned

Aziraphale stared at the sleeping angel. He’d never even asked her name. It hadn’t mattered, really.

He hated how callous that sounded. That was what Heaven had always wanted him to be, for six thousand years. Callous, disinterested, distanced from the beings who surrounded him, tending to them without caring, like a farmer preparing animals for slaughter. Until one day, he couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t ignore the pain. Couldn’t pretend it – they – everything – didn’t matter.

With a sigh, he walked over to the window, looking out across the remains of the shattered city.

Crowley’s the one who taught me, he thought, tugging at the curtain. What matters. What doesn’t. If the Aziraphale of this world had never learned…what did that mean? Did Crowley not exist? He didn’t know how these other worlds worked, but surely there couldn’t be an Aziraphale and no Crowley. The thought was too wretched to consider.

She’d said there were still humans out there, somewhere. New Eden. Under the thumb of the Archangels. Were they any kinder in this world than his own? It didn’t seem likely.

Six millennia of hard-won empathy. If he just walked away, could he say he’d changed at all?

“Don’t be a fool,” Aziraphale told himself. “This isn’t your world. It’s not your responsibility. Crowley must have come by now. You need to find him and get back home. Where you belong.”

He paused to adjust the blanket over the sleeping angel. She’d stay unconscious for at least a day, and he’d shielded her enough to ensure she wasn’t interrupted. After that, she’d be on her own.

Nothing more to do here, Aziraphale began searching for a way outside.

--

Halfway back to the villages of the South Downs, Aziraphale saw shapes moving in the sky.

Angels. Probably.

He fluttered down to land next to an abandoned car, rusted through so that he could tell nothing about it except that it was smaller than the Bentley.

Hundreds of angels, it appeared, weaving in a grid over the South Downs. Searching.

But not, he thought, searching for him.

A few shot by nearly overhead. He couldn’t get a good look at them, but it was enough to jog his memory. Cream jacket, gold buttons shining. Two rows. Winged pins at the collar. Tartan kilt. And a white pith helmet to complete the look.

One piece of glass still survived in the car’s wing mirror, which he used to inspect the result. The tartan had come out a little off – he’d tried to imitate a basic foot soldier’s pattern, but instead it was just his own with a bit more gold woven in. That might stand out.

Well, it he was going that route already, may as well give himself a promotion. He added some gold braid to his epaulettes, a smattering of ribbon bars on his chest, nothing too ostentatious. A bottom-choir angel, but one with an exemplary record. Perfect.

He almost wished he’d taken the other angel’s sword, but he was happier without it. Besides, she would almost certainly return to the fight before she’d even fully recovered. She needed it more than he did.

“Alright. A message. Just delivering a message. Top Secret. Priority. Yes.” Don’t overthink it, as Crowley habitually reminded him when Aziraphale’s cover stories became more complex than the plots of his favorite thrillers.

He kicked off from the ground and flew directly towards the other angels, hands out so they could see he was unarmed.

“Halt!” one shouted, almost immediately.

Aziraphale spread his wings to hover in the air and immediately wished he hadn’t. Six thousand years on Earth, certain muscles were far out of practice, and really, these wings weren’t designed for hovering even in the best of circumstances.

“Identify yourself!” another angel snapped.

“Kasbeel, Third Warden of the Fourth Heaven, Second Battalion, Fourth Platoon, recently transferred from Fourth Battalion, Third Platoon. Messenger of –” he hesitated for half a second, because messengers weren’t numbered. “—of, er, Venus.” He threw up his hand into what he hoped was the correct salute for his alleged station.

The other two angels glanced at each other. “Third Battalion you say?”

“No, Second Battalion, though, previously, I was in the Fourth Battalion, though, interestingly, when I was first created –”

“Alright,” the angel on the right said, saluting him back, “we don’t need your life story. But you can’t come through here. This area is under containment.”

“Really?” Aziraphale asked, trying to look as though he knew nothing relevant. “Why would it be under containment?”

“That’s classified.”

“Ah. Well. I need to come through here. I have a message. Information on the most recent troop movements, for…” another hesitation. Gabriel’s name would get him anywhere, assuming Gabriel wasn’t currently in Heaven and willfully ignoring such petty details as death tolls and battle formations, which sounded very probable. Michael would work as well, but there was a chance she – or Uriel, or Sandalphon – was leading the charge back over the sea. If he gave the wrong name, they would know. “…for headquarters.” There was always a headquarters.

“That sounds very important,” said the angel on the left. “You still can’t come through here.”

“Classified,” the angel on the right added.

“But you don’t understand! I need to deliver this message as quickly as possible. Do you know how many battles have turned based solely on the arrival of timely information?”

“How many?”

“Lots! Think of the Battle of Marathon! The Charge of the Light Brigade, though that’s really more of a counterexample. Er.” Aziraphale was already near the end of his scanty military knowledge, but the two angels looked baffled already. “The Battle of the Iron Gate! The War of the Outlaws! The Boston Molasses Flood! The Great Wrath!”

“Did you say Molasses?”

Perhaps he’d overplayed it a bit. “Many died at the hands of Distilled Purity.”

The two angels exchanged another glance. He wished their faces weren’t so carefully blank. “I suppose you’re correct,” the one on the left started, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

“We can take the message and deliver it for you. To save time.”

“You can’t,” Aziraphale jumped in, a little too quickly.

Now he could read their expressions: obvious suspicion. “Why not?”

“It’s…classified.”

“I can carry a sealed container without opening it,” pointed out the angel on the left.

“There is no physical message. I have it…memorized.”

“You have all the troop movements memorized?” The angel on the right had graduated from suspicion to downright distrust.

“Yes. Which is why I need to deliver it soon, before the memories start to decay.”

The angel on the right leaned closer. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Kasbeel, Third Warden of –”

“And what does your name mean?”

“Er.” Aziraphale glanced at the swarms of angels fluttering around the South Downs. “You know, I’m starting to think it would be much simpler to go around. Yes. Far less hassle. No tedious bureaucracy or other nonsense. I’ll just be on my way. Toodle-pip!”

He spun and folded his wings, gliding and diving above the twisted motorway. As near as he could tell, no one was following him.

With one last flutter of aching wings, Aziraphale settled down beside another rusted-out car. He stretched and flexed his wings, which had not been used this much since before the atmosphere was formed. The one on the right had developed something like a cramp. “Perhaps I’ll walk for a bit. Old-fashioned footwork and all that.” With one last arch of his back, he tucked his wings away and started walking, eyes still scanning the sky for any sign of pursuit.

Which was why he almost missed the sounds from the road up ahead. Voices, not loud, but numerous. Traveling in the same direction as he.

Crouching behind another car, Aziraphale watched them. Twenty, thirty – likely more – humans, traveling in a pack. A few had children, including the young woman at the back with short, dark hair. All of them were smudged with dirt, exhausted, and moving as fast as they could.

He shot another glance back towards the South Downs. There wasn’t much he could do to try and meet up with Crowley, not until the angels found whatever they were searching for. Assuming they weren’t searching for beings from another world, as that would make things immensely awkward.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm down. Crowley was here. Crowley would find him. And in the meantime, a bit of detective work was in order.

A wave of his hands turned the battle outfit back to his usual suit. He did his best to shield himself, just in case, but it wouldn’t hold up to scrutiny. Hopefully the humans would be too distracted to notice his aura. Hopefully there would be no angels or demons.

“Right,” he muttered, adjusting his waistcoat and straightening his tie. “Time to get a few answers.”

--

(Kasbeel, according to my dictionaries of angels, means “He Who Lies to God.” Seemed accurate.)

[fallintosanity]

the common fandom interpretation of mts is that they’re half-daemonified people inside suits of armor, which isn’t true according to either the main game or episode: prompto

but what the actual fuck besithia was doing with the clones is really hard to work out. 

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15

“C’mon,” Future Prompto said over his shoulder as he sauntered toward the ramp down the side of the haven. “It’s a twenty-minute walk out to the water tower and if we take too long we’re gonna get sunburned.” 

“Right,” Prompto said, and scrambled after him. 

They walked for a few minutes in silence, following a faint track along the sun-hardened ground. In the distance, Prompto could see a short, squat water tower, probably their destination. His future self, despite what he’d said about sunburn, was walking at a lazy pace, his face tilted up to the sun again. Prompto trailed behind him, feeling awkward and unsure. How did you start a conversation with your future self, anyway? 

He picked at the gauze that wrapped his right wrist in place of the familiar wristband Ardyn Izunia had sliced off. He couldn’t see his future self’s wrist; the crisp sleeves of his Kingsglaive uniform jacket covered it. The uniform looked surprisingly good on him. Prompto had never thought about joining the Kingsglaive, or even the Crownsguard, not seriously at least. The Crownsguard was for people like Gladio and Ignis, who’d trained since birth in all kinds of crazy fighting arts, who were muscular and powerful and brave. Prompto figured the former out-of-shape, shy kid who’d been too chicken to even talk to the other kids at school wouldn’t stand a chance.

No, Prompto had just planned to get through high school and find a job taking photos for magazines or something. Maybe see if Noctis wanted a royal photographer, though he’d known that was unlikely. Not that the Lucis Caelums didn’t have royal photographers, but like the Crownsguard, that was a prestigious role reserved for the country’s best. Not some nobody orphan with a barcode on his wrist. 

But apparently his future self had ended up a Kingsglaive. He looked good, too - other than the unhealthy sunless pallor of his skin, which all four of the future adults had because apparently the sun went away in the future too, what the hell. But he was a couple of inches taller than Prompto, and while he was no Gladio, he’d filled out with muscle. Prompto’s own arms and legs were basically twigs, all skin and bone after a growth spurt he hadn’t planned for in his diet, and he felt constantly awkward and clumsy. His future self moved with easy confidence, the way Gladio did, the way the guards who followed Noctis everywhere did. 

As if sensing his scrutiny, Future Prompto met his gaze. His mouth quirked, a small expression that wasn’t quite a smile. “Go ahead,” he said. “Ask.”

“Ask what?” Prompto said, nerves making his voioce less steady than he would have liked.

His future self waved a hand vaguely. “You have questions, right? Ask ‘em. It’ll be easier like that than if I just start babbling, you know?” 

“Uh, right,” Prompto said. He rubbed at the gauze over his tattoo, took a deep breath, and blurted, “Your Noctis knows, doesn’t he? About… about the…” He waved his wrist. “Does that… does that mean you know, too?” 

Future Prompto nodded. “Yeah.”

“So…” He almost couldn’t get the question out. He hadn’t thought he’d ever know the truth, and definitely hadn’t thought he’d learn it like this. “What is it? What does it mean?” He didn’t have to say what am I? If anyone would understand, it was his future self. 

For a long moment Future Prompto said nothing, his gaze turned up toward the sky. Then he sighed and stopped walking, turning to meet Prompto’s eyes again. “You sure you want to know?” 

Prompto opened his mouth to say Of course I’m sure, but the words didn’t come. Future Prompto wouldn’t be asking that if he didn’t think Prompto had a very good reason not to want to know. Instead he asked, very quietly, “It’s… it’s bad, isn’t it.”

His future self didn’t answer, which was answer enough. Prompto swallowed hard, looking away, eyes skating over the bright yellow desert landscape without really seeing it. But there really was only one option he could take. The barcode had haunted him his whole life; he couldn’t let it keep being a phantom holding him back. He said, “I’m sure. I want to know, even if it’s bad. Especially if it’s bad.” 

Future Prompto started walking again. “Have you had that world history class yet, the one with, what’s his face, that one teacher who hated Noct?” 

Prompto frowned at the non-sequiter, hurrying to catch up. “Mr. Malazan? Yeah, we have him this year, why?” 

“Have you done the Niflheim module yet?”

“Yeah, last semester.” 

“So you know about the origin of MTs.” 

“Uh. I guess?” Prompto tried to remember what they’d covered. He hadn’t paid much attention to the lessons; he hadn’t thought he would ever need it, for one, and for two the whole idea of robot soldiers wigged him out. It wasn’t fair, Niflheim fighting with robots they could build and replace, while Lucis had to send humans to fight and die. “They were first created like thirty years ago by some Niff scientist, but didn’t start showing up in combat for another ten years or so.” 

His future self nodded. “Thirty-two years ago from now. Forty-four from my time. The name of the scientist was Verstael Besithia. They didn’t show you a picture of him in class, did they?” 

“They did, but it was some old grainy thing,” Prompto said. “All I remember was he was bald on top and kinda spotty. Why are you asking about this?” He wanted his future self to get to the point. 

Future Prompto snorted. “Spotty,” he muttered, and shook his head. He held out a hand; blue magic shimmered between his fingers and suddenly he held a small, battered notebook. Prompto watched in amazement - even Noct didn’t use the magic of the royal Lucis armory that freely, and it was strange to see his future self treat it with the casualness of reaching into a pocket. Future Prompto handed him the notebook. “Take a look.” 

Prompto frowned at him, but flipped through the book. The pages were covered with his own neat handwriting, and various newspaper clippings and photos had been wedged in between. Most of the handwritten blurbs were marked with the words “Transcript”, dates - all between ME 757 and 763 - and strings of letters that might have been abbreviated place names. The newspaper clippings were much older, dating back to 721, mostly from Niflheim and talking about Besithia and the production of magitek troopers. 

Then he flipped a page and found a photo of himself staring back. 

Except it wasn’t him. For a second he thought it was his older self instead, but that wasn’t right, either. The man in the photo was probably in his mid- to late forties, his blond hair fading to grey around the edges, his freckles turning into age spots above his beard. His outfit was ostentatious, brightly colored with a tall collar and broad shoulder pads, and matched the arrogance in his expression. 

Prompto looked up at his older self in horror. “Who…?”

“Verstael Besithia,” Future Prompto answered shortly. His eyes had gone dark and shuttered, the way Noct’s did the rare few times someone mentioned the daemon attack he’d suffered as a child. 

“But…” Prompto looked at the picture again, then up at his future self. They were damn near identical save for age. Even Gladio didn’t look that much like his dad. “He’s - he looks like—” 

“Yeah,” Future Prompto said. “Noct mentioned where daemons come from, right? Last night?” Prompto nodded, not trusting his voice. Future Prompto continued, his voice flat, “Besithia needed daemon miasma to power his MTs. But using regular daemons didn’t work well, and when he tried using people who were in the process of turning, that didn’t work either because of something he called ‘ego death’. So he figured, why not use babies? They don’t have egos.” 

His voice was bitter and sharp enough to cut, and Prompto flinched. His future self noticed and took a deep breath, visibly reining himself in, before continuing. “He cloned himself. He eventually figured out a way to speed up the babies’ aging without actually letting them develop as people enough to have egos. But before he did… some Lucian spy stole one of those cloned babies.” 

Prompto stared at his future self, horror curdling his stomach; he was suddenly glad he hadn’t eaten anything since lunch yesterday. “That was—You mean—we were—”

Future Prompto nodded. “We were just one of thousands of clones meant to be infected with Starscourge and harvested for daemon miasma to power MTs.” He reached out and flipped the pages in the notebook Prompto’d forgotten he held, stopping on a page that had nothing but a photo taped to it.

A photo of tall narrow glass tubes, each one holding Prompto. A Prompto, a clone, one of many in a row, each with Prompto’s face and a barcode stamped on its right wrist.

“I was taking photos of every room I went into,” Future Prompto said tonelessly. “I figured the intel might be useful. I didn’t realize what I was looking at until after I took the shot.” 

The world swayed and for a second Prompto had to focus on staying upright, on not collapsing to the hard desert rock and throwing up or passing out or screaming. The notebook fell from his fingers, shattering into blue crystal light before it could hit the ground. “But… but…” 

Future Prompto said nothing. When Prompto looked up, his future self was staring at him, his expression grim. Prompto managed, “Noctis - your Noctis - knows? He knows?! And Gladio and Ignis?” 

Last night, in the van, Future Noctis had said, It’s nothing to worry about. You’re fine.

Except Future Noctis had been wrong. How could Prompto be fine, how could he ever be fine again when he was—was that?!  

His future self just nodded, and said softly, “They don’t care. They’re—It’s rare, people that good.”

“Does anyone else know? In the future?”

Future Prompto’s expression darkened and he gripped his own right wrist. “Everyone.” At Prompto’s horrified look, he added grimly, “Ardyn thought it would be fun to spread the news.” He met Prompto’s gaze, eyes cold and sharp and deadly. “He’s probably gonna do it again. He hates Besithia damn near as much as he hates Noctis, and Besithia’s dead in my time, so guess who he’s taking it out on. The guys are okay—” with a tilt of his head back toward the haven to indicate Noct and Gladio and Ignis— “but from now on, you don’t turn your back on anyone. Not strangers. Not people you think are friends.” His eyes closed for a moment, his fingers tightening around his wrist so hard the leather of his glove creaked. “Especially not people you think are friends.” 

Prompto shivered. Despite the desert heat, a chill had seeped down into his bones, one he doubted any amount of sun or warmth could dispel. It was too much to take in all at once, too much to process, to understand. He couldn’t think, the photos of Verstael Besithia, of the clones in their tubes - him in a tube, hairless and placid and stamped with a barcode like the property he’d been created as - spinning through his brain. He doubled over, hands on his knees, breathing hard like he’d just finished a run, like he’d pushed himself past his physical limits only this time it was his mental limits, his ability to comprehend his own freaking existence, not who he was but what he was— 

His future self hooked an arm around his shoulders, jolting him back to awareness. “Sorry,” Future Prompto said ruefully. “I didn’t…” He sighed. “I fucked this up. You need to know, but… it’s a lot to take in at once.” 

That startled a laugh out of Prompto, watery and maybe a little more hysterical than he’d have liked. “A lot. Yeah.”

“C’mon,” his future self said, and ruffled his hair. “Let’s get to that water shed before we both get burned crispier than the steak when Noct’s cooking.” 

Prompto snorted another almost-laugh, nearly choking on the hysteria before he wrangled himself under control. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Okay.” 

[pengiesama]

The Fox Groom (Fic, TGCF, HC/XL)

Title: The Fox Groom Series: Heavenly Official’s Blessing (Tian Guan Ci Fu) Pairing: Hua Cheng/Xie Lian

Summary:

Once upon a time, a brave and compassionate prince saved the life of an injured, starving fox.

Once upon a time, a fox fell in love with a human.

Once upon a time, a fox made a wish: a wish for a human form, to serve the prince, and stay by his side. But, like all things, that wish came with a price.

The story of a prince-turned-penniless cultivator, and a fox-turned-human, incapable of saying the words he wants to the most.

Notes:

Written for the MXTX Reverse Big Bang 2019! @mxtxbigbang

I partnered up with the wonderful Blu (@bluestrawberrypaint / shibe_sann (Twitter)), who provided the writing prompt as well as beautiful art for the fic! See their finished art piece here. I'm honored to be allowed to write their idea into reality.

Link: AO3

Read on Tumblr!

Xian Le was a glorious kingdom, and was renowned far and wide for its splendor. This notoriety was well-earned: it was, after all, very glorious, very splendid, and very, very wealthy. However, to maintain such an envious reputation, there was a certain necessity for loud and ostentatious displays of its attributes.

Its gilded palaces and jeweled temples were as numerous as flowers, and equally as beautiful. Its music and poetry and plays were known even across the seas. There was always an occasion for a festival, a parade, a feast at the palace with only the most elite of attendees. An envious reputation was best cultivated through a perfect balance of gratuitous showboating and exclusivity. Look, look all upon us – look upon us, and know the glory that you dare not touch.

The event that best encapsulated this mindset was the annual Imperial Hunt.

The Xian Le imperial hunt; a glorious and storied tradition, where the royal family and nobility valiantly set out into the wilderness to vanquish evil with nothing but the swords on their hip, the arrows on their backs, and hundreds of personal assistants to keep them in the comfort they expected. They were of course also accompanied by fleets of elite soldiers, who did the lion’s share of the work in scouting out and chasing down prey.

It would not do for the Xian Le nobility to be thought of as the idle rich – well, not entirely. While few of the nobles looked forward to leaving the comforts of the imperial city, the idea of not attending – worse, not being invited – was simply scandalous. And so, most were content to spend their week in the autumn wilderness in spacious and well-outfitted silken tents, sipping tea and writing guqin compositions on topic of the red maple leaves, while the busy work was taken care of by the staff.

…most were content.

“Your highness! Please, wait!”

Xie Lian had never listened to his bodyguards before, and was not about to start now – especially when his target was almost within his grasp.

Said target was a spider-legged demon the size of a draft horse. The eight sharp, jointed legs supported a massive round body, covered entirely in long, coarse black hair. Unlike the noble arachnid it had crudely copied its shape from, it sported only a single pair of eyes and a grinning, toothy mouth; both too large, and too human-like. It was a fearful sight to behold. It had terrorized nearby villages for months, and had effortlessly taken down troops of soldiers and cultivators sent to neutralize it. It was powerful, and terrifying, and was fleeing for its life from Xie Lian’s relentless pursuit.

Xie Lian was the crown prince of Xian Le; the only son, an only child, the one and only darling of the heavens themselves. His martial talents were known far and wide – he was as unparalleled in the sword as he was with the spear, with the bow, with the staff, with nothing but his fists and feet. His mind was as sharp as the blades he wielded, and his sense of justice was as sturdy as the earth beneath his nimble feet. Or – being that he was currently freefalling through the air – at least as sturdy as the impact of his foot colliding with the thorax of the demon spider, sending the awful beast tumbling down from the tree trunk it had been previously scaling.

It landed hard on the forest floor; flipped on its back like a turtle. It let loose an awful croaking noise as it flailed its legs, trying and failing to right itself. It was too little, too late. A flash of sunlight in the tree canopy heralded Xie Lian’s descent, as if he was a bolt of divine lightning. He leapt from the highest branch, sword drawn, aiming straight for the wretched beast’s exposed underbelly.

It was mercifully quick. The demon spider croaked out its death rattle, and its legs twitched spasmodically for a few seconds before they stiffened and went motionless.

Xie Lian withdrew his sword, and pulled a paper talisman from his sleeves. He attached the talisman to the beast’s corpse, and murmured a quick incantation. The talisman erupted into white flames, and rapidly started to spread across the beast’s body; purifying its remains to ensure none of the corruption roiling within it would spread and reform itself into something equally vile.

“Your highness! For heaven’s sake…”

Xie Lian smiled at his bodyguards as they approached. “Sorry, Feng Xin. If you and Mu Qing keep squabbling over whose turn it is every time we spot a target, you can’t blame me for taking matters into my own hands.”

Mu Qing clicked his tongue irritably. “It was my turn, for the record.”

Feng Xin shoved him. Mu Qing punched him in the jaw. Within seconds, they were rolling around on the forest floor, kicking and slapping each other; lit by the setting sun and the gentle glow of the burning spider monster corpse. Xie Lian shook his head and took out a handkerchief to clean the blood from his sword.

Most Xian Le nobles were content to allow the soldiers to capture and beat targets into submission; once subdued, the killing blow would be delivered by whatever noble liege the troop was assigned to. This would ensure the points for the kill were properly granted to their rightful recipient – tallies were carefully tracked by enchanted jade bracelets attached to every participant, and were quite serious business indeed. As crown prince, Xie Lian was of course entitled to a first-place finish; however, he was quite determined to earn this placement legitimately instead of relying on his bodyguards’ undeniable talents…

…and this, unfortunately, had the side effect of giving his bodyguards more free time to fight with each other. (Although they seemed to always make time for it regardless of the situation.)

“We only have an hour’s worth of daylight left,” Xie Lian stated. He stuck his empty sword sheath between Feng Xin and Mu Qing, trying to separate them as one would two fighting cats with a broomstick. “Then we’ll need to be more on guard. I’d like to keep our lead and not be stuck playing catchup tomorrow.”

Finally, Xie Lian managed to pry the two of them apart. Grumbling, they stood up, dusting themselves off and rubbing their sore jaws and shoulders.

“With all due respect, His Highness’ lead is such that it would take more than a single idle night for others to catch up,” Feng Xin said.

“We could very well spend the rest of this joke of an expedition drinking ourselves to death in a ditch and still comfortably hold the top placement,” Mu Qing added, with no small amount of disdain. “Even with an entire damn fleet of soldiers doing all the work for them, these nobles still manage to be useless leeches.”

“A harsh statement,” Xie Lian chided. “An insult to the hardworking leeches in the medical field.”

A horrible shriek rang out through the trees.

“From the southeast,” Feng Xin stated with confidence.

“Southwest,” Mu Qing corrected.

“Split the difference,” Xie Lian confidently declared; setting southward before Feng Xin and Mu Qing started brawling again.

It wasn’t hard to find their target – its continued shrieking and cursing were like a guiding beacon. Initially, the noise sounded inhuman enough for Xie Lian to assume they would be closing in on another demon target. However, as they got closer, it was clear they were dealing with something a little more…familiar, but no less foul.

“FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING RANCID MANGY SHIT I’LL FUCKING SKIN YOU WHILE YOU’RE STILL ALIVE AND FUCKING CRUSH THAT FUCKING SKULL AND—”

“Qi Rong!” Xie Lian barked. “Where is your entourage?”

Qi Rong was madly chopping at the base of a tree, wielding his gilded sword like a woodsman’s axe. Having finally turned fifteen, he’d begged and screamed and demanded to accompany his much-adored cousin Xie Lian on the Imperial Hunt this year, which was an outing that required a sword on one’s person. Reluctantly, Xie Lian’s father had bestowed upon him a fine golden blade, with the strict guidelines that he was not to wield it against anything but the beasts of the hunt, and that he would not leave the accompaniment of the soldiers assigned to protect him. These guidelines went out the window the moment Qi Rong had the sword in hand, and within half a day he was swaggering through the palace halls like an accomplished general, terrorizing servants and wielding the sword against rogue porcelain vases with all the finesse of a child with a stick.

Xie Lian had put a stop to his nonsense, but his father seemed to have no interest in disciplining Qi Rong further, or revoking the privilege of attending the hunt. His royal status gave him a right to attend regardless, he’d said, but the truth of the matter was that he simply did not feel it was worth the effort to bother. The tantrum at having his much-desired invitation snatched away would have resulted in far more than just a few shattered vases.

Xie Lian strode, chin high, to interrupt Qi Rong’s assault on the tree’s roots. He snatched the blade between two fingers as Qi Rong raised it once more, and effortlessly yanked it out of his cousin’s grip. He tossed the gaudy golden thing behind him, hearing it stick into the ground well out of reach. Qi Rong sputtered in wordless rage.

“Explain yourself,” Xie Lian said.

Qi Rong tried to dart away to reclaim his sword, but a battle against Xie Lian’s reflexes was destined to failure. Xie Lian grabbed him by the back of his robes and held him in place.

“Ow ow ow ow! Cousin crown prince!” Qi Rong wailed. “I wanted to hunt monsters too!! Those stupid meatheads just wanted to march around and shoot arrows at targets, and they wouldn’t even let me do anything when we did find a monster! I could’ve did it like you and chopped off its legs, then gone in and start stabbing right into its vital points—”

Qi Rong had never been trained with a sword for the same reason one would not strap knives to the limbs of a rabid beast. (Even if he had been given training, he surely would have skipped all his lessons like he did with every other topic.) The idea of him being able to emulate Xie Lian’s feats was laughable.

“And this explains why you’re here, chopping firewood?” Xie Lian interrupted him before he could go on with his violent fantasies any longer.

Qi Rong made a noise like a hot tea kettle, and he pointed accusingly at a little recess underneath the tree’s roots. It was small, too small for anything larger than a small animal to hide – all the beasts and monsters and demons gathered for the Imperial Hunt were chosen for their massive size. It was, after all, much more exciting to fell a giant creature, and made for more impressive trophies and commemorative prints after the fact.

“That thing was stealing our rations!” Qi Rong hissed. “I kicked it away and it made this awful fucking noise, like some screaming woman, so I know it’s not really what it looks like, so I ran after it and it fucking hid down there before I could kill it…”

Xie Lian gestured, and Feng Xin and Mu Qing came over to supervise Qi Rong while Xie Lian investigated. He knelt to the forest floor, his heavy silk robes spreading around him like a flower; white and red and gold. The sun was setting behind him, bathing him in a heavenly glow. He peered into the little root hideaway, and saw the “monster”: a small, injured, terrified little fox. Wholly ordinary, wholly innocent. Its great dark eye focused on Xie Lian’s face; intense and unblinking, despite the halo of the sun surrounding him.

“It’s alright,” Xie Lian said softly. “You’re safe now.”

He extended a hand to the poor creature, trying to beckon it out. Xie Lian, for all his martial prowess, was a spoiled prince who lived in a golden palace – even if this wasn’t some dangerous monster as his cousin insisted, Xie Lian was heedless of the danger of trying to befriend a wounded wild animal. All he knew was simple compassion for an innocent creature in desperate need of kindness.

“Cousin crown prince!” howled Qi Rong. “Don’t! It’s a fucking monster, it bit the shit out of my hands and kept screaming like some bitch getting slapped around—”

“It’s a fox,” Xie Lian shot back. “And what did you expect him to do when you were trying to kill him?”

Xie Lian felt a tiny exhale of breath against his hand, and looked back to see that the fox had crept forward from its hiding place to delicately sniff Xie Lian’s hand. Xie Lian’s heart sank as he took in the poor thing’s condition. It was small, so small that it couldn’t yet be fully grown, and so emaciated that Xie Lian could clearly count its ribs through its filthy matted coat. Blood, both fresh and long-dried, was caked on its fur. A deep cut over its right eye had left the organ so damaged that it was wholly red and almost certainly blind. It clearly had been on its own for some time, with no mother to help it hunt, or keep its fur tidy, or defend it against those who meant it harm.

As far as Xie Lian was concerned, there was only one course of action.

“We’re going back to my tent,” Xie Lian declared. “Mu Qing, please run ahead and tell the royal physicians to draw a medicinal bath and bring supplies. Have the chefs bring in some meat and milk as well. Oh, and get some fresh linens to make bedding with.”

Mu Qing stared. “…it’s a fox.”

“It’s a fucking monster!” Qi Rong hysterically insisted.

“I don’t like repeating myself,” Xie Lian said firmly. “Feng Xin, accompany Qi Rong back to his entourage. I’ll need to rush back to the tent to get him treated once I coax him out.”

“…it’s a fox…” Feng Xin echoed, helplessly, but he’d known Xie Lian long enough to understand when his mind was made up.

With his two bodyguards (and screaming cousin) now gone, Xie Lian was able to devote his full attention to the little creature cowering under the tree’s roots. The fox was still staring at Xie Lian; staring and staring, trembling in every limb, ears plastered back. But not growling, not showing its teeth. That was a good start. Belatedly, Xie Lian remembered the satchel of rations tucked into his sash – dried meat, good for long-lasting energy while on the hunt for creatures of darkness. Xie Lian peeled off a bit of it, and offered it to the little fox.

“Here,” Xie Lian said softly. He took a bite of the portion in his other hand to demonstrate. “Passable as far as camping food goes.”

Hunger was a powerful motivator. The fox inched forward, on trembling limbs, to investigate. It became clear that the fox’s fear wasn’t the only thing slowing its step – from the way it held the limb up, limping along, one of its back legs was clearly badly injured. Broken, perhaps. The creature was battered and trampled all over, with injuries both old and new. Qi Rong could hardly be blamed for all of it. Or even most of it.

Little fox, all alone in the world. Xie Lian’s heart ached.

“I’m sorry. I doubt this foolish hunt of ours has made your life any easier, lately,” Xie Lian said.

It doesn’t look like your life is easy in general, he added silently. It was not something that he saw fit to voice – this creature needed his action, and his compassion, not his pity.

…Even if the fox surely couldn’t understand a word he was saying, regardless…

He gave the fox another strip of meat to eat. The fox swallowed it down, hardly chewing; driven by urgency to get something in its empty stomach.

“I’d like to take you back to my tent,” Xie Lian said. “We have food, and a warm and safe place for you to spend the night. The monsters always more active during the night…”

…as if the fox wasn’t already well aware. Those recent injuries had to have come from something, and it wasn’t all Qi Rong. Xie Lian felt a twinge of guilt. He always thought of the Imperial Hunt as a frivolous waste of time, simply another kind of social gathering for idle nobles, a way for the Xian Le military to showcase its might…but he’d also thought that the only things getting hurt were the monsters the military rounded up into the hunting grounds. It was so unfair, that this little fox – already struggling to survive – had to suffer all the more just so a bunch of nobles could have a pointless romp in the woods. Xie Lian wanted to do what he could to make things right.

He gave the last of his rations to the fox, and, again, offered his hand to sniff. Slowly, hesitantly, as if expecting to be struck at any moment, the fox leaned its little head into Xie Lian’s palm. Its eyes slid shut, and it let out a small breath before going completely still. Xie Lian almost panicked – the fox was in such bad shape that it wouldn’t be surprising if it had just dropped dead before his eyes – but calmed somewhat when he still saw the slow rise and fall of the fox’s chest as it breathed.

Carefully, Xie Lian moved to pick up the little creature. The fox’s eyes flew open at the feeling of Xie Lian’s gentle touch, but it made no move to run (as if it could make it very far) or bite. It simply continued to stare, eyes huge and mismatched, up at Xie Lian as he bundled the creature close to his chest. Xie Lian could feel the quick stuttering of its heart, even through his robes. Such a steady, strong heartbeat. Such a remarkable creature.

“Come on,” Xie Lian said. “Let’s head back.”

 --

 Despite his cantankerous personality, Mu Qing was as excellent a personal assistant as he was a bodyguard, so when Xie Lian entered his royal tent, he was presented with everything he’d requested: a warm bath, food, and three royal physicians who stared at him as he entered. Disbelief was plain on their faces.

“…a fox,” one finally stated.

“Yes,” Xie Lian confirmed. “I am quite sure doctors of your stature can manage to attend to him. If I’m mistaken, however, I’m quite sure there are many army physicians milling about that we could call in to consult.”

Xie Lian knew that they would not dare go against a direct order from the crown prince, but it would perhaps do some good to remind them to take their charge seriously. The physicians rose from their kneeling positions and hurried over to Xie Lian to examine their new patient. Xie Lian carefully studied their faces, looking for any sign of disdain or disgust. He would not hesitate to dismiss any of them if he needed to. This creature deserved to be treated with care and respect.

The fox eyed the doctors warily, and flinched and growled as they poked and prodded him. Xie Lian soothed him:

“It’s alright, it’s alright. Let’s get you cleaned up so they can treat you, and then we’ll have dinner…”

The fox’s eyes had slipped shut again at the sound of Xie Lian’s voice and the gentle touch of his hands, but they flew open again at the sound of fabric slipping to the floor. Xie Lian laughed.

“Don’t worry! I’m just getting undressed so I can get into the tub with you. It’ll be easier for me to wash you that way…”

The fox’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head, and it began to squirm relentlessly in Xie Lian’s arms. Xie Lian tilted his head curiously.

“…too shy?” he hazarded a guess.

The fox stopped squirming, but couldn’t quite meet Xie Lian’s gaze. Ah well, Xie Lian thought as he walked over to the tub, dressed only in his inner robes. We can do it this way then. It would be easier to do this undressed – I just so hate the feeling of wet sleeves.

After carefully lowering the fox into the warm medicinal bathwater, Xie Lian gestured to Mu Qing, who – not without sighing – came over to help tie up Xie Lian’s voluminous sleeves, baring his snowy-pale skin and firm arms. The fox, still unable to look at Xie Lian’s face, was now equally determined to not look at the arms and hands that came to card through his wet fur.

At every pass of Xie Lian’s hands, the fox flinched less and less. The blood and mud caked to his coat washed away, revealing fur of a most marvelous color – a deep reddish-gold, like the autumn forest surrounding them. One could only imagine how beautiful it would be after a few months of being fed and cared for in the palace. Although Xie Lian’s heart still ached at how thin he was – Xie Lian could distinctly feel the outline of his spine, his ribs, just as he could feel the pounding of the creature’s heart – Xie Lian was relieved to see that his injuries were not quite as bad as they’d originally looked. The medicinal water was already working to heal the fox; wounds knitting shut before his eyes, bones setting into place. The fox’s eyes stayed mismatched, but this really only added to his charm.

“There now,” Xie Lian said. “I’ll get you dried off and we’ll have something to eat.”

The fox shook out his coat, sending a shower of bathwater everywhere. Xie Lian laughed in delight, but Mu Qing wasn’t quite as entertained. With an annoyed grunt, he handled off a towel to Xie Lian’s waiting hands and stormed off to prepare bowls of food, cursing to himself all the way.

“Such a beautiful coat,” Xie Lian praised, and meant it – even though said coat was now pointing every which way, fluffing the fox out enough that he almost looked well-fed. “Like a red maple. I don’t suppose you have a name already? What do you think about ‘Red Maple’?”

The fox stared at him blankly as Xie Lian worked the towel over his fur.

“Hmm. Just ‘Red’, then? That would be more masculine-sounding, I agree…”

“Your Highness,” Mu Qing said. “A thousand apologies for interrupting your conversation with your new associate. Dinner is ready.”

Despite Mu Qing clearly not actually being sorry at all, his feelings on the situation were clear enough; he’d chopped the meat in one of the bowls into small enough pieces that they could be easily chewed, and wet it with milk to help with digestion.

“Your Highness,” Feng Xin said with despair evident in his tone. He’d returned from his harrowing quest to deliver Qi Rong to find this scene before him. “Please, I’m certain the animal can eat on its own…”

Xie Lian had Red settled on his lap, swaddled in blankets, and was hand-feeding him chunks of meat from the bowl. It brought to mind the image of a lady noble doting on a small ornamental dog. Or a mother bird feeding its young. At that thought, Feng Xin had a brief flash of terror that Xie Lian would start chewing food for the creature.

“He’s still recuperating,” Xie Lian stated, his tone brooking no argument. “Once Little Red comes back to the palace with us, he’ll have healed up enough to take his meals normally…”

To the creature’s credit, it was just as shocked at this statement as Feng Xin and Mu Qing were. Its huge eyes stared up at Xie Lian, ignoring the tempting bit of meat offered between Xie Lian’s elegant fingers.

“…back to the palace,” Feng Xin echoed. “Your Highness. With respect, a common wild animal is not a fit companion for someone of your stature…”

“My grandfather had a pet tiger,” Xie Lian said mildly, trying to get Red re-interested in his dinner. “There’s more than enough precedence.”

(As if Xie Lian actually cared about precedence, instead of doing exactly what he had decided upon already and ignoring any arguments to the contrary.)

“I’m certain your noble parents would give you a whole stable of tigers if you wished it,” Feng Xin began, with a very convincing argument on his lips.

“That’s very nice of them. Little Red has proven himself to be far stronger than a stableful of tigers, though,” Xie Lian said, cutting off that argument before it even sprang into existence.

Feng Xin’s jaw gaped, and Mu Qing rose an eyebrow – the two were actually in mutual agreement over something for once, and it was unsurprisingly on the topic of Xie Lian doing something ridiculous. Xie Lian smiled and hoisted Red up under his front legs, lifting him so they could see eye to eye.

“Surviving alone for so long in a den of monsters, armed with nothing but his wits and teeth. Truly, as powerful as any tiger I’ve seen.”

“If a fox is as powerful as a tiger, then the farmers that chase them away from their chickens must be mighty martial gods.” Mu Qing flicked his eyes to Feng Xin’s untouched dinner bowl, and scowled. “Eat before I shove your face in it. I won’t reheat it for you.”

It was rather hard indeed for anyone to tell the crown prince of Xian Le that he wasn’t allowed to do something. And so, the three of them went to bed that night fully expecting to be bringing a furry addition back to the Xie household.

It was very unexpected indeed for Xie Lian to awaken with no ball of red fluff curled against his chest. He looked, and looked; turned his whole tent and the surrounding camp upside-down, sent Feng Xin and Mu Qing and his own self searching in every direction. There was neither hide nor hair of the sweet creature that Xie Lian had sworn to protect.

As the hunt concluded that afternoon, Xie Lian left for the palace with a heavy heart. He hoped that Red would grow and thrive, wherever his paws had carried him.

 --

 The fox was just an ordinary, ugly thing. The fox was not powerful, it was not beautiful. It was a lowly scavenging beast.

But the prince had saved the fox, all the same. The prince had appeared, bathed in golden sunlight, and had treated him gently. He’d eased his pain, he’d held him close. He’d given him a name.

The fox’s heart would belong to the prince forevermore. This was simple fact. But it was true, what that other, lesser human had said. The fox was not a fit companion for the prince.

But the fox had gotten a taste of what it could feel like, if he was. And the fox was so, so greedy.

There was a legend that all foxes knew, deep in their bones. (The fox could not remember anyone having told him, anyway – he only dimly remembered a mother, and perhaps two older siblings. Long dead, in any case. He’d been alone for as long as he could recall.)

The legend was as such: journey to the realm of the Fox God, undertake their trials, and be granted an audience and a wish.

Red knew what he needed to do, if he was ever to be able to return to his prince. He would earn a place at his side. He would make himself into something worth his prince’s compassion.

And so, Red had slipped away into the night, with the cadence of his prince’s heartbeat thrumming in his bones.

[arosesthorne-blog]

Her Night

((The second part of Kina’s backstory, followed from the first part here.))

She didn't want anything to do with this family anymore. Why couldn't they understand that?

Last year, after a night spent crying alone, her cheek reddened by a spite-filled slap, the dress she'd worked hard on thrown into a crumpled mess of creased blue-white silk in the corner, head hung between her shoulders in scarcely candle-lit darkness, Kinaali had come to a decision.

Never again, she'd told herself. She wasn't going to her mother's ball; she wasn't going to try to impress anyone. With no regard for whatever ramifications it might have, Kina was going to be herself. She'd spent a year scraping and saving and sweating to salvage as much gil and as many favors as she could, and she'd show up to mother's ball this year in the most disruptive, risque, wild black-gold corset she could find. She'd turn eyes and she'd really show her mother this year, just who she was.

That night had come, and this time, Kina wasn't crying - she wasn't meekly asking forgiveness or quietly, somberly sulking on her bed. She'd get a good slice of revenge, and though she knew she'd suffer scolding and slaps and maybe even a full week locked away in the basement as punishment, it'd be worth it to see her mother surprised; her sister's eyes wide with brimming, blazing rage as everyone stopped looking her way for a moment.

"Tie it tight, Petr'a," Kinaali whispered, as if afraid even the slightest whisper would reach the ears of the matron, and spoil the whole plan. The first son of the Liniahlohpo, the only family that dare stand up to Kina's mother in the whole of the clan, Petr'a had always been a bit of an outsider - like Kina, he'd been something of a bystander in the face of his family's plans of clan intrigue. In spite of his height, his athletic build, his striking features - amid dark-blue hair and deep-olive skin - all he really wanted to do was paint.

Regardless, his place as first son of an important family made him living, breathing leverage - and it would've made Lukkha furious to know he was helping Kina tie up her tightly-ribbed, lacy black corset. He weaved the strings up tight in what little light Kina's candles provided until he felt the girl's body gripped like fingers snug inside a glove. Cut low, cleavage exposed, the diminutive amateur-troublemaker spun around, lilac eyes blistered with impish glee, looking up into Petr'a's eyes.

"Mother's going to be so mad," she whispered, throwing a side-glance to her outfit. Tight lace on top, loose lace beneath - black stockings wrapped around her legs, a dangerously short silky red skirt at her waist, expensive red heels she'd snatched from a high-fashion cobbler in Ul'dah, expensive enough they'd legitimately draw some envious eyes at a party full of wealth.. entranced by her own devilishness, she leaned forward to get a better look at juuust how short her skirt was, and found herself pressed face-first into Petr'a's chest, half-exposed by the deep-blue dress shirt lain over his fit abdomen. She glanced up, smiling sweetly.

"She'd be extra mad if she knew you helped me put it together," Kinaali murmured, blinking up at Petr'a's face. Not a cross bone in his body, he nodded, a warmth to his voice.

"Just helping a friend," he exhaled. Kina's eyes big and round and her breath hitching briefly, she perked onto her tip-toes - not an easy task, given the daggered heels on her feet - meeting her 'friend' halfway, their lips pressing together. Maybe life here wasn't so bad after all - a comforting thought, heightened by the feeling of Petr'a's comforting arms wrapped around her midsection.

"I'm ready for whatever's.. going to happen," Kina took a deep breath. "You should go to the ballroom, Petr'a. Don't want anyone to-"

"Yes, I know," Petr'a grumbled. "Our mothers would kill the both of us." Regret in his tone Petr'a hesitantly unfurled his grip from Kina's body, straightening his posture and striding to the door.

As she heard the door click shut and silence follow, Kina turned to the mirror, gazing at the outfit, and her tiny body bound up inside. Second-guessing - then, third-guessing and fourth-guessing, her mind tried to trick her into abandoning this whole game. Nerves wound tight as harpstrings plucked anxious worry into her mind, and though she tried to keep herself steady, she couldn't help the stuttering in her breath, or the shake in her shoulders.

"You deserve this night, Kinaali," she said to herself. "It's just one night for you."

The questions didn't stop. Do I really deserve this? Mother was right. I'm never living up to her expectations. I deserved those nights in the basement. Alone, nothing but bread and water. Rats. But she was right. She gave birth to me. She gives me a place to live. She fed me. I've been an ungrateful witch.

Kina's hands slowly drifted towards her back. Towards the knots keeping her oufit together. Maybe this whole thing was a terrible idea. Mother was a good mother, wasn't she?

"No," Kina reassured herself, hands falling flat to her hips. "I get one night, one night to feel special. Mother can't hold that against me."

Kina started walking and-- damn, heels are hard to walk in - wobbling, left-right and all-around, she staggered her way to her door. Throwing it open with a flourish Kinaali stormed as best she could along the hall. Do people really wear these things all the time? Kina pondered, her feet throbbing weakly after only a short walk along the hall. Cutting across with an awkward sidestep, Kina approached the ballroom doors, hearing the low din of haughtily-polite conversation. The heavy entryway stood shut, but even through stone doors Kina could easily hear the obnoxiously-loud guffaw of her older sister in the other room.

Kina's awkward procession down the hall brought a giggle out of Esoni, one of the family's servants - a well-dressed, gray-haired Keeper, he watched in amusement as the young woman approached.

"You're planning to make quite an entrance aren't you? That outfit," he commented wryly. "You're certain to catch a fair number of wandering eyes, Miss Kinaali."

"D'ya like it?" Kina pipped up in a proud little squeak. The old manservant had always been kind to Kina, and the little redhead thought it best not to dwell for too long on the seeming paradox of a family who despised her and a staff of servants who had always been her only friends and protectors.

"My opinion on the ensemble pales in importance as compared to your mother's," Esoni warned Kina. "This is her night you're about to crash, after all."

"I decided it's gonna be my night, for once," Kina swaggered with uncharacteristic confidence.

"As you wish," Esoni chuckled, turning to throw open the doors to the ballroom.

"Introducing daughter of house, Miss Kinaali, second daughter of matron Yvesti!" Esoni's cry pierced through throngs of fancifully-dressed hangers-on and plotting clan politicians alike; it was a name many had likely forgotten about. The runt. The outcast. Many clansfolk had no doubt presumed Kinaali quietly disposed of; sold off to some lonely Ul'dahn noble as a bride, or somesuch. Hushed whispers of astonishment and gossip replaced etiquette-tempered dinner conversation; Kinaali was here, a daughter of Yvesti.

And she was wearing that!

Striding in slowly, Kina watched the crowds part, heads nodding in acknowledgment of her. Of her! Eyes both confused and enthralled scoured every inch of the girl's alluring outfit, corset emphasizing her diminutive curves, her healthy chest; her skirt swaying close to her hips as she strode in. Kina's own eyes immediately cut across the floor in search of her family - and she found them, quick. Crowded around the ostentatious centerpiece of the ballroom - a delicately-crafted ice sculpture of a goobbue - there, they stood; her brother Yvesti'a, bulging body of dim-minded muscle enclosed in ornamental gold-pearl plate armor, and sister Lukkha, wrapped in the finest matching white-gold ballgown, her expression crossed with shocked anger, lips slightly agape. Her arm threaded through Petr'a's, Lukkha's gaze snapped up to his - and, finding it affixed on Kina, Lukkha's rage grew into absolute cheeks-blushing venom.

Kina wasn't surprised to see her mother next to the three of them, only looking on in quiet contempt. Mother would never let her displeasure be known in a place like this, in front of the clan.

"Hello, everyone," Kina murmured meekly, strutting towards her family. She was starting to get the hang of these heels, and she was definitely starting to like this feeling of eyes-on-her. The crowd stood still and silent, watching, as Kina crossed towards the goobbue-statue, and curtsied a wobbly curtsy to her mother.

"Welcome, daughter," Yvesti announced in her aged and authoritative tone. Offering a palm to Kina, the young redhead greedily clasped her hand against her mothers, nodding in a sign of acceptance. That show of ceremony seemed to satisfy the throngs of captivated onlookers, and conversation positively ignited, clansfolk buzzing in scandalous whispers at the surprising arrival.

"Hello, mother," Kina said, her voice crackling with quiet pride. Even if the clasp of hands had been only ceremony, Kina wanted to pretend mother meant it. That mother had accepted Kina. Even been proud of her, maybe.

"Hello, Kinaali," Yvesti responded sharply, her voice that condescending sing-song it often took in moments of displeasure. "I didn't think you were going to come. Much less, did I think you'd come dressed like a harlot in a Limsan alehouse." It cut deep into Kina's hopeful imagination, and she visibly winced. Tears staining the corners of her eyes, which had only moments ago been brought welling up in joy, now tinted her expression bitter.

"Mother, I--"

"We can discuss this stunt of yours some other time, child," Yvesti hissed between teeth gritted into a false smile.

"I'm sorry, mother."

"Not as sorry as you will be," Yvesti snarled. Then came Lukkha, bristling in the same half-concealed and seething spite, dragging Petr'a alongside her, not allowing him a moment away from her side.

"How dare you ruin mother's night like this," Lukkha hissed poisonously. "How dare you--"

"Shut your sycophantic little mouth before I clasp it closed with wire, Lukkha," Yvesti interrupted her elder daughter's tantrum. Lukkha blinked, befuddled. Had she just heard those words come from her dear mother's mouth?

"M-mother, I-- she's ruined your night! She's made a scene--"

"And yet when I've told her to still her tongue she has, hasn't she?" Yvesti cut at Lukkha again, only spurring her anger.

"Bu-but mother! Mother, how can you--"

"Kinaali did something you'd not have the guts to do in all your pitiful years on this planet, Lukkha," Yvesti shifted her hateful heaping of insults in her other daughter's direction; Lukkha stood utterly slackjawed. "When's the last time you turned any eyes your way with an outfit, or an entrance, like Kinaali just did, you mud-scaled wood-asp?" Kinaali appeared just as completely, completely confused as her older sister at mother's response to this incident, though she truly savored hearing every word. "Perhaps if you spent more time listening to me, and less time frolicking in baths and swallowing handfuls of that powder you're addicted to, you'd be capable of drawing Petr'a's eyes to you."

"Wh-what?!" Lukkha's jealous eyes snapped towards Petr'a, who had indeed been watching Kina since the moment the small daughter had entered the ballroom. He shrugged.

"I'm not.."

"Shut UP!" Lukkha seethed. "You aren't going to--"

As if intending to drown out this episode of domestic turmoil, the string quintet at the rear of the ballroom struck the bright high-note of a new song; something upbeat. Elezen musicians, arrayed across a stage of marble, gold and fresh oak, carried a jaunting tune joyfully through the hall, bringing a lively round of applause and laughter from the audience.

"Now, Petr'a, go. Dance with my daughter," Yvesti demanded contemptuously. Face twisted in snotty satisfaction, Lukkha began to drag the handsome Keeper away, before another demand from her mother's lips halted her advance.

"Not that daughter. She's not the daughter you're interested in, anyway, is she?" Yvesti asked. Just as familiar with Yvesti's mood swings, manipulations and mania as Kinaali was, Petr'a hesitated to answer. "Don't worry, I'm not going to get mad. You can answer honestly."

"..No, matron," Petr'a admitted, arm unhooking from Lukkha as he extended a hand towards Kinaali, whose eyes lit up, and whose breathing picked up a pace.

"Very good, then. Take her for a dance," Yvesti commanded, her voice straddling the terrifying line between 'motherly' and 'murderous.' Kina's joy could scarcely be contained; she clasped Petr'a's hand feverishly, slipping her feet free of those damnable heels and kicking them aside in preparation for their dance.

Don't think this means you aren't going to pay for this, Kinaali," Yvesti warned in parting. Kina glanced over her shoulder as she and Petr'a scuddled towards the dance floor; the girl knew she had more trouble to come, but at least she'd get to forget about it, for one night. Her night.

"Get out of my sight," Yvesti growled at her other children; Yvesti'a had come to stand at Lukkha's side, the whole turn of events keeping his addled mind sadistically amused.

"B-bu-- mother, but--"

"Sometimes I think I should have chosen Kinaali," Yvesti said cryptically, turning her back on her daughter and sauntering lazily into the crowd.

"Mother, come on, you can't even be serious, you--"

But she was gone.

Lukkha's eyes darted to the crowd; then back to the dance floor. She saw Kinaali, that runt, that little snake, dancing with her date. He was smiling. That little bitch!

"I can't-- I d... how.. UGGGHHH!" Lukkha huffed, bringing a deep, rumbling laugh out of her brother. "Shut UP! Don't laugh! Did you hear what mother said?!" Lukkha snapped at her Yvesti'a.

"Yeh. She told th' tall one to dance with the daughter he wanted, and he didn't pick you," Yvesti'a announced. Lukkha responded with an enraged flurry of slaps to his armor.

"Shut UP! Shut UP! AGH!" Lukkha fussed. "She's going to pay for this!"

"You've been sayin' that fer years, Lukkha," Yvesti'a seemed skeptical.

"Then that means she'll have years to pay for," Lukkha retorted. "She can't take my place. She'll never take my place. EVER."

"We'll see 'en," Yvesti'a chuckled oafishly.

"No," Lukkha responded coldly. "We won't."

[justanartsysideblog]

Prompt - Aelynthi and Thenvunin as cosplayers? Or Caserole and the trainee nurse one?

“We’re bothcosplayers and we somehow always manage to meet each other at cons dressed as apopular ship and people want photos of us in compromising positions and oopsnow we’re kissing” AU for Aelynthi x Thenvunin

Enjoy some Crackship Aelynthi and Thenvunin, Fey!

---

He doesn’t get it.

How does this keep happening?

Aelynthi has specifically gone for the most obscurecharacters to ever be cosplayed and somehow this other elf is always in a matching couple costume.

It begins innocently enough, at a decent sized convention inArlathan, when Subtlety suggests they go together so she can sell some of herprints, and offers to let him sell some at her table too and well, he wants toget a gift for his mamae’s birthday and needs some extra cash, and his outfitmaking skills are, in his humble opinion, quite good.

It's Subtlety who spots him the first time, “Oh, isn’t thatyour character’s love interest?”

And Aelynthi glances up and spots a handsome blonde elfdressed in a perfect, if not a bit ostentatious, rendition. Someone obviouslyhad fun with the jewelry embellishments.

He’d made note of it, and commented something or other onhow nice the other man’s hair looked, and had promptly forgotten about him tenminutes later when he and Subtlety had been swamped at their booth. It wasn’t untilthe third day of the convention that someone else made note of the fact and hadwanted a picture of the two.

Aelynthi had promptly refused, and then the other cosplayerhad looked offended that he’drefused, and also slightly hurt and Subtlety had pushed him toward the otherelf, “Just let them take some pictures.”

And after that it kepthappening.

They had even amassed an odd following, eager cosplay fansthat keep finding the two and shoving them together. At first, Aelynthi had letit happen so he could get it over with, and try and ignore the other elf’scontinued protestations at not wanting to do it and also really enjoying himself.

Not that Aelynthi could blame him. He knew he wasattractive, and took quite a lot of pride in the fact. Though he had to admitthat while his own slender frame and eyes and traditional elvhen aesthetic madehim pretty, his fellow cosplayer was gorgeous.

Broad-shouldered, and muscled in all the right places, andhis hair. Aelynthi was quite enviousof his hair, especially after one photo where he’d picked up a few strandsbetween his fingers and felt how softit was.

No one should have hair that perfect. It wasn’t fair.

The fans, Aelynthi has noticed, had also become quite bold. Gigglingand photoshopping pictures of the two kissing on cosplay websites and suggestingposes that Aelynthi thinks are frankly more fit for the cover of a smuttyromance novel than a cosplay convention photo shoot.

And that’s why he finds himself here now, with the blondeelf straddling him and his own hand tangled in a mass of that perfect hair ashe leans forward. The paler elf’s face is close enough that Aelynthi can feelhis breath on his cheeks. It smells like peppermint toothpaste.

“I don’t know why you keep following me to conventions. Itis obvious that you are using this opportunity to…to…”

Aelynthi raises an eyebrow, “To what?”

The blonde elf swallows, flushed, as he whispers heatedly, “To touch me indecently.”

Aelynthi snorts. “What era did you crawl out of? Who says itlike that anymore?” He leans forward a bit more and frowns, their noses nearlytouching, “And whose to say that you aren’t following me around, huh?”

“I would never.” The other elf gasps. “I don’t even knowyour name, and yet you insist on these pictures and—”

“That’s true,” Aelynthi agrees, “What is your name?”

The blonde elf blinks. “Thenvunin.”

“Thenvunin.” Aelynthi murmurs, testing it out. He likes howit sounds. “I’m Aelynthi, and I want to kiss you because your hair is tooperfect and I like your eyes.”

Thenvunin, to his credit, takes a moment to process exactlywhat Aelynthi has just asked, and lets out a gurgled sound that might have been a scream of horror or a girlish, delighted giggle, Aelynthidoesn’t know for certain. “Kiss—you don’t, you don’t just tell someone you wantto kiss them.”

“It would be extremely rude to just do it withoutpermission,” Aelynthi asserts, hand running up the other elf’s back. He can seethe flicker of camera lights, and hear the intensified ‘ooooohs’ of the peopletaking photos.

“It is…this is all very sudden and I do not think you shouldbe trying to seduce me in the middle of taking pictures! There are people here.”

“Then can I do it later, when there aren’t people around?”Aelynthi is finding himself oddly hypnotized by the growing flush alongThenvunin’s face and ears. He wonders if it goes down his neck, and maybe evenfurther.

Thenvunin lets out another sputtering protest, and Aelynthigrins, “Fine, we can start with getting a coffee and work our way up.”

He doesn’t mention it, years later, when he and Thenvuninare curled up on the couch watching a nature documentary about the migrationpatterns of geese, that he’d noticed Thenvunin rushing to the bathroom with atoothbrush right before they’d been dragged to their impromptu photoshoot and thefact that his breath had smelled quite distinctly like peppermint.