#we historically do not see eye to eye on a few things but fuck's sake; she hasn't done anything wrong

[shinyvibrava]

why in the world did avery predstrogen get nuked off the face of the website but that one freak that's running a pedo and bestiality ring got their blog back and is still happily posting with not so much as a slap on the wrist

[she-wolf09231982]

Chapter 7- Loss

Summary: Easy Company is stuck in Bastogne and is succumbing to the cold harsh winter. Despite this, things are looking up! They are due to take the town of Foy and finally be done with the dreaded winter.  Easy returns to the front line in the forest just outside of Foy. You experience your first real loss due to a senseless accident. This sends you down spiraling into a dark place, and Joe is the only one that can pull you back. 

A/N: Mature audience, Joe LiebgottxFem!Medic, post D-Day, She/Her Pronouns, Y/F/N, Y/L/N, Cursing/Swearing, Derogatory Slurs, Mentions of death, Confrontation, Military Terminology, 1940’s slang, Inappropriate Nicknames, Band of Brothers References, Mentions of Weaponry, Yiddish to English Translation, Descriptive Wounds/Injuries, Blood/Gore, Smoking, Banter, Pining, Consensual Physical Contact/PDA, FOREVER FLUFF 💚 This chapter continues from

1x6 Bastogne then transitions into 1x7 The Breaking Point

*These stories may not fall entirely in accordance with the TV series timeline. I do not know the real soldiers the actors portray in this series, so please understand I show no disrespect. Some or most of historical events and character interactions in my fanfics are fabricated purely for the sake of the enjoyment of fiction*

~~~~~~~ 

Adrennes Forest, Belgium 

January 2, 1945 

Easy company combed through the trees of the forest in the relentless cold near the target town of Foy.

Eventually, Easy encountered sporadic machine-gun fire causing a few casualties. After Hoobler’s kill shot of a German on horseback, he finally gets a Lugar and comes back to the guys to show it off to them.

LT Compton and Lipton are having a chat about where LT Dike has disappeared to while Malarkey and Shifty are digging a foxhole nearby.  

“-I haven’t seen him all day. I didn't see him coming through the woods, and I have to figure out how we ended up with-” 

Lipton respectfully interrupted Buck, “-Two wounded.”  

“Who?” Buck asked concerned stopping in his tracks. 

“Brown and Stevenson.”  

 “Goddam it-” Buck looked away rolling his eyes, “Where’s Dike!? Where the hell does he ever go?”  

“-I don’t know, but I wish he’d stay the hell there.”  You chime in approaching the first sergeant and LT. 

“Hey, Y/L/N.” Lipton greeted. 

“Would be nice if he took LT Shames with him, too-” Malarkey added. 

“-Shut up, guys.” Lip cautioned. 

“Shutting up, Sarge.” Malarkey acknowledged. 

You nod to Lip before addressing Buck, “Sir, Brown and Stevenson are stable. Me and Doc got them all patched up and ready for transport, they’re gonna be fine.” You report. 

Buck gave you an approving nod, obviously relieved. 

Suddenly a single gunshot sounded off too close for comfort and you all scrambled to the nearest half-dug foxhole with Malarkey, Shifty, Lip and Buck. 

“Patrol?” Malarkey asked. 

“No, we would’ve heard.” Lip replied. 

“One man...maybe a sniper.” Buck added. 

“That was no rifle.” Shifty confirmed. 

“What do you see, Shift?” Buck asked. 

“Nobody out there.” Shifty said. 

“Are you sure?” Buck questioned. 

“Uh-huh.” 

One of the guys came running up. “Ah Jesus, it’s Hoob! He’s shot!” He yelled out. 

“Sniper!?” Buck called back. 

“Nah, nah, he—he shot himself. MEDIC!”  

“Jesus Christ, I’m right here!” You shouted out over Lip’s shoulder as you leap out of the hole running. 

You get to Hoobler with Perconte kneeling over him. 

“It’s my fucking leg!” Hoobler cries out. 

“What happened!?” Lip asked. 

“What were you doing with a loaded gun in your pants!?” Buck asked Hoobler finding the Lugar next to him. 

“It just went off! I wasn’t touchin’ it or nothin’! I wasn’t touchin’ it, I swear!” Hoobler responded panicked. 

“Hoob, hold still dammit, I gotta cut the pants!” you bellowed at him as calmly as your voice allowed.  

You lift the fabric away from Hoobler’s skin where blood soaked through his right thigh and began feverishly slicing through his uniform. It was clear by the color and saturation of the blood that he hit the main artery. 

“It hurts like a son of a bitch!” Hoobler shrieked. 

“We gotta pack this to make it stop.” you think outloud more so to yourself.  

You pull off his belt in one fleeting motion and apply it above the wound as a tourniquet and start tightening it. Hoobler lets out a cry of pain and starts rocking side to side. 

“Goddam it, hold him down! I can’t get this tight enough to stop the bleeding if he’s moving around like that!” you tell the other five men present. 

You secure the belt, then dump your bag to get the sulfur and clean gauze to start packing the bullet wound. 

“Keep him warm!” you tell them as you dash the sulfur onto the thigh and start stuffing with the dressing. 

Doc rushed in sliding onto his knees next to you. 

“Let me see it.” Doc said pushing Malarkey aside, “Y/L/N, let me get in there so I can get the bullet out.” he said noticing you were becoming fatigued. 

Doc shifted over and started working Hoobler. Buck removed his coat and put it across Hoobler to keep him warm. 

The guys started talking to him to keep him from passing out. 

“How we doin’, Doc!?” Buck asked nervously. 

“I can’t see a thing. We gotta get him back to an aid station.” Doc stated. 

“Well let’s get ready to move him then!” you say with your voice shakier than you had intended. 

Doc still frantically working on the leg, the rest of the boys suddenly fell silent. 

“-Doc...Doc!” Buck barked. 

Eugene looked up to see Hoobler laying lifeless.

Lip and Doc stare in horror panting, trying to catch their breath. You stand over all of them with a blank stare, lost in your own thoughts over what had just occurred.  

“Dead...all because of his ‘treasured’ fucking Lugar...’” you thought to yourself. 

This revelation made you angry. Your emotions began to boil over as you voiced your recent thoughts outwardly. 

“All because of a precious Lugar!” you roared.  

The six men look at you startled. You met their shocked gazes with your eyes filled to the brim with tears. As they start to spill over, you continue. 

“Didn’t even need a fuckin’ Kraut to do it for him, did he!?” Your voice cracks as you ask them rhetorically, gesturing towards Hoobler. 

The men all look down at the expired soldier. 

You inhale loudly, tilting your head back and sniffling to try to keep the discharge from expelling from your nose. (Not very lady like). 

“Malarkey,” you say sharply in a motherly tone, side eyeing him.  

Don snaps his head up to look at you, jaw slightly slacked waiting for you to speak, “-if I fucking catch you risking your life looking for a Lugar after today, I will shoot you myself.” you stated harshly. 

Don nodded and looked back down as you turned on your heel and stormed off. 

~~~~~~~ 

Later, Lipton found you spaced out in a foxhole by yourself. He approached cautiously, recognizing the distant look on your face and not wanting to spook you. You sensed his presence and looked over at him with emptiness in your eyes. 

“Hey, Y/F/N.” he began. Your face remains as you looked straight ahead again. 

Lip sat on the edge of your foxhole, allowing his feet to dangle inside. 

“You ok?” His voice was gentle and worried. 

You only nod. 

“Listen, uh, when you’re ready, I need you to come with me to Captain Winters to explain what happened. Just, whenever you’re ready, k?” he waited, “You know where to find me.”  

It was only until he started to walk away you found whatever voice you had left. 

“Sarge, we can go now.” you call out as you slowly make your way out of the hole. 

As you stand before Winters and Nixon retelling the story, your voice begins to strain fighting back anger and choking down tears.  

“Hoob had so many layers on him we couldn’t tell how bad the bleeding was, sir.” you pause and look down at your boots, “He was already gone by the time we got him to the aid station. The bullet went through the artery.” you finished. 

“It wouldn’t have made a difference if you had known.” Nixon tried to assure. 

You look at him perplexed; your face twisted up with that same rage beginning to rise in your chest. 

“With all due respect, that’s where you’re wrong, sir.” you raise your voice, still trying to maintain your customs and courtesies towards him. 

Winters, Nixon and Lipton shared wide eyed glances. 

“Y/F/N, maybe you should-” Lip began. 

“-No! This was avoidable. If Hoobler hadn’t had that Lugar, he’d be alive now!” you stated bitterly. The men were speechless as you continued 

“I hear the guys go around talking about what fucking trophies they’re going to bring home from this ‘Kraut’ or that ‘Jerry,’ and you know what, sir? It makes me sick to my stomach! Do you know Perconte hasover a dozen wrist watches from dead German soldiers he’s been collecting since Normandy!? At least!” you pause to look away, to shield the view of your tears. 

You release along sigh, “And now, because of a stupid German handgun that he considered a “trophy” is the reason that Hoobler is dead. No trophy or treasure is worth that.” you concluded shaking your head.  

You look back at the three men with your glossed over eyes, waiting for a tentative punishment for not asking for permission to speak freely before going off. 

Winters, Nixon and Lipton exchanged concerned glances. 

“Y/F/N,” Winters approached you, “I’ve been noticing for awhile that the weight of the war has been anchoring you down. It gets to all of us at some point, so it’s fine to get it off your chest. As long as you keep pushing forward and lean on the guys for support.”  

“Just make sure when you lose it that it’s only with us. I don’t think Sink would put up with that.” Nixon joked. 

You scoffed flashing a weak smile at him. 

“You’re doing good work with us. Nobody has any complaints.” Winters added. 

You nod, “Thank you, sir, that means a lot coming from you.” you replied. 

“In the meantime, go find Liebgott and stay with him until you’re smiling again. That kid always has something to say that makes the guys laugh.” Nixon said with a wink. 

“Yes, sir.” you respond with a slight grin before leaving the three men under the tarp overhang. 

~~~~~~~ 

You didn’t go to Joe, though. You went back to your foxhole to be alone. As the sun was setting, the air became chillier, and you found yourself uncontrollably shivering. You started to regret not finding Joe to get some extra warmth from him in his foxhole.

And as if he heard you thinking about him, Joe appears crouching over your foxhole. He remained quiet for a minute to see if it was safe to join you, but you keep your face buried in your folded arms covered by your wool blanket. Joe thought he heard you either whimpering or crying, but as he leaned in closer, he discovered you were actually humming a song to yourself.  

“Hey.” Joe said softly. 

You look up at him with tired blood shot eyes, red nose and peeling chapped lips. You had been crying silently in that hole all afternoon and you knew Joe would know. You attempt a weak smile then rest your chin on your knees.  

Joe hopped in and plopped down next to you. He studied you for a few seconds then nudged you with his elbow. You side eye him without any additional response. 

“I just talked to Lip-” he began.  

You looked down. 

“-He asked me if you had come to see me. Had to tell him no. He told me what happened, and that Nixon told you to come see me.” he continued. 

You remained quiet, shifting from your chin to your cheek looking away from Joe.  

Liebgott moved closer to you putting his arm across your shoulders. His closeness made you tremble. You wanted to lean into his chest to get warm, but you stayed put. 

Joe tilted his head, “Why didn’t you come to me, Gams?” he asked, almost sounding offended. 

His fingers gently gliding back and forth on your shoulder, he anxiously waits for you to answer him.  

“I-I don’t know...” you muttered as you sniffled. 

Joe reached for your shoulders to turn you towards him. You rotate entirely around as his hands guided your face to his. You finally look at him with tears cascading down your cheeks. Sensing how distraught you still were, he pulled you into him, embracing you tightly as he leaned against the dirt wall. You curl into him resting your head right over his chest. 

“I gotchyu, doll-” he reassured then kissed the top of your head. “I’m right here.” 

Joe held you, allowing you to soak his coat with your tears while you silently bawled as you wrap your arms around his torso, holding him like a lifeline. He didn’t know what else he could possibly do for you, so he occasionally planted a kiss on the side or top of your head while kneading your back or arms to give you any sort of relief. 

This lasted for awhile until you were drained of tears to shed. You shifted upward to lay your head into the crook of Joe’s neck to be as close to him as possible. 

“So,” Joe started, “did you really tell Malark that you’d shoot him?” he asked. 

For the first time all day, you laughed. Your laughter is music to Joe’s ears as he embraces you tighter then kisses your forehead. 

“I sure did.” you respond, your voice raspy and strained since you hardly said a complete sentence for hours. 

“Pretty sure you scared him out of looking for that Lugar for his nephew.” Joe stated. 

“Good.” you responded. 

He rested his chin on top of your head. 

“What were you singin’ anyway?” he asked. 

You sighed, “Tu-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral.”  

“Tu ra what?” Joe laughed trying to look at you. 

You giggle, “By Bing Crosby? From the movie ‘Going My Way?’ You don’t know it?”  

“Ah sure, I think I’ve heard it once or twice-” he responded while pulling you in closer, “-maybe you can refresh my memory?” he added. 

“I don’t know, Joe, my voice is shit right now from crying.”  

“Sing quietly then. Come on, for me?” he urged winking at you. 

You couldn’t resist the man. You obliged him with a gentle grin. 

🎶“Tu-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral-” you began subtly, “Tu-ra-loo-ra-li...”🎶  

You softly serenade Joe the Irish lullaby until you drift off to sleep in his arms. He stayed with you overnight in your foxhole. His steady heartbeat and rhythmic breathing soothed your inner turmoil, allowing you the deepest sleep you’ve had in months. 

~~~~~~~ 

You wake up sometime in the middle of the night, looking up to see Joe knocked out still holding onto you as he was before you fell asleep on him. 

You move your head up and press your lips into his neck, gently placing a kiss right over the scar left behind from the wound at crossroads. He shuddered, then woke up alarmed, looking at you with hooded droopy eyes. 

“Heeeeey now, Gams-” he cautioned flashing a half-concerned expression. “Whaddya tryin’ to do?” he said through a yawn with a nervous laugh while rubbing his neck where you had kissed him. 

“What?” you respond partially entertained by his reaction. 

He looked at you skeptically, “Come on, you know whatchyu did.” he rebuked, taking an opportunity to stretch. 

You shrug at him with a coy smirk. He smiled at you cynically.  

“You keep doing that shit and we’re going to have to find something to cover this foxhole, so nobody sees what I’d like to do you.” he stated, his voice gravelly and low.  

You gasp as you back off him, “Joseph Liebgott!”  

He chuckled, “Just giving you a fair warning, sweetheart. Don’t think I won’t.” he replied with a wink. 

You felt a wave of heat rush over your entire body as you stared at him in shock by his honesty. 

You scoffed, “Noted. I’ll be more mindful where and when I put my kisses.”  

“Mm-hm...” Joe hummed side eyeing you suspiciously. 

You feel yourself blush as you bashfully smile back at him. He pulled you back onto him. 

“Go back to sleep you little tsrus (troublemaker).” he whispered in Yiddish, then kissed your forehead.  

~~~~~~~ 

[inactivewattpadauthor]

Nightwolf x Adopted Reader: Flashback

Flashback sequel of the Windwolf one-shot I did :)

Warning: I'm gonna be vague with this one, but reader's backstory is dark. ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Somewhere underground, you followed behind in the dark passage. The cold air singed your nose as you quietly observed your surroundings, disgusted, but not surprised at the filth. It still beats being stationed at some ran down motel for at least ten hours overnight. Though, anything would beat that.

Peeking around your small group, you stopped at a metal door with two thugs with guns assigned as guards. Briefly, all of you were let in. You did your usual bidding and stood back so you weren't in anybody's way. Not like you'd want that anyway.

"Look alive a little, sweetheart. We won't be here that long." Your employer walked past, letting his hand guide your chin up. You didn't even want to look at him for more than three seconds. He only chuckles lowly at your silence before continuing on, crowding with the other men.

You let out a hollow sigh. Fading from everything in thought, you couldn't even eavesdrop to the boisterous discussion amongst the ruffians. Nothing that was ever talked about around you interests you in the slightest, unless it involved you somehow, which always gets your heart racing.

BLEEP! BLEEP! BLEEP!

Everything flashed red. You were nearly scared half to hell by the loud alarm, along with a few of the men. The guards with shades and bandanas for masked nodded at each other before sprinting out the room with their rifles readied.

"Aye, what the hell is going on?!" One of the dealers spoked with annoyance.

"Don't tell me that bastard actually came back for his precious trash." Another spoke with mockery.

Trash? Curiosity turns your head to see what they were even talking about. You could make out a box filled with somewhat old items. They look historical and from a Native American tribe. They were obviously stolen and perhaps the owner came to retrieve them, trespassing and making someone trigger the alarm.

"Let Kano and the others handle it. We have guns and explosives. But are you buying or what?"

Uneasiness aroused in you, making you stir around anxiously, wanting to leave. Then, loud gunshots and yelling were heard.

The men all looked nervously at the door, but you cowered to under a table, loathing the noise of violence distributing outside. It's like whatever danger was terrorizing the system lurked near to your location.

Whomever it is, they only just want their belongings back! They shouldn't hurt me... Or are they also bloodthirsty for revenge of their stolen things? You try thinking rationally, but panic was swallowing you up.

The door of the room was being loudly banged on and it sounded like the intruder was well armed too. You knew the door was going to falter fast, and everyone else ran around the room, preparing themself.

"For fuck sake! How did he make it past all those useless assholes?!"

"Nevermind that. Do we have any guns in here?"

"A few pistols, but some of us will just need to use anything for a weapon."

The banging on the door got louder, and you covered your ears, shutting your eyes as well. Yet, everything was too loud. Your rapid heartbeat. The shouts of the men ready to attack, but all failing to do so, letting out pained screams despite the many gunshots they fired.

It's just like a bad dream. The scary being is unstoppable.

Taking your hands off your ears, you instead covered your mouth with them. You couldn't breathe from all the terror, and you were afraid he might hear your hyperventilating, even with the alarm.

Everyone is dead, so all he could do is take his things and leave, right? You took a quick look at the blood and bodies in the distance. You can see where he stands, his boots covered with red and his jeans.

You didn't know if you were exactly heartbroken for the fallen, especially the one you call your employer. You didn't see him, nor did you want to. The resentful part of you always wish he did get hurt.

But this... You just weren't expecting it.

He was surely taking forever to grab and go, so you thought you had a chance to scramble from beneath the table and rush out the broken door, but the moment you stand, the dangerous man turns with quick reflexes, holding up two green glowing tomahawks ready to take down another.

That's when you first saw each other.

No! No! You've stumbled back, your mind playing a brief preview of your life. From the moments of the joyous little time you had with your parents, to ending up in a place that made you soon realized you weren't wanted, to befriending the employer, and then the first motel experience. All the others after was just dull.

Still, it was enough to make your eyes prickle with tears.

The man's eyes looked down to observe you fast, but his face and posture softens up upon the sight of you. He takes a few steps closer to you to observe better in the dimmed, red flashing light that was admittedly getting annoying.

"Get away from me!" You spat out, clutching your fists, backing up and pushing the table that you forgot was there only marginally.

The scene could be compared to a small, frightened kitten puffing itself up at the much larger predator, though it was useless.

"You're young... You don't belong here." His voice was surprisingly warm, making you a bit calm, but still on high alert. How did he get back a lot of men with big guns with just two small axes?

"You have nothing to fear from me, little one. Please let me free you from this hell." He softly pleas, hooking a tomahawk to his belt and offering out his hand.

Looking at his palm, you reacted hesitantly. This man... is nice. You weren't new to kindness, but you knew better that you'd end up in debt with him for it. But enough debating with yourself right now. This is a chance to be free for the moment.

---Time Skip---

After plenty of walking, far, FAR from the Black Dragon market, he finally settles down at a waiting camp in the forest. He sets aside the now retrieved artifacts and rests on a log, gesturing for you to do the to the one beside him, and you listen.

Both of you were awkwardly quiet, but it oddly makes you more settled.

"What's your name?" You curiously asked.

"I was known as Grey Cloud before being associated with the Black Dragon. Nightwolf after standing against them."

"Nightwolf?" You repeated him and he nods.

"What's yours, little one?" He looks at you with such gentleness.

"Y/n."

Again, the silence rose, and you thought about thanking him, though you were uncomfortable doing it.

"Well... what do you want me to do for you?" You forced yourself to ask. "-Now or later, of course!"

Nightwolf looks at you for a moment, confused on the question and why you don't even look like you were serious on it. When the deep realization reaches surface, he gives you a guilty frown.

"Great Spirit, please guide her," He murmurs, before speaking directly to you. "You have nothing you owe to me or anyone in that matter."

"I was just trying to figure out how to thank you." You look away with shame.

The red face painted hero looked at you with sympathy. "You don't need to. And if you did, a mere 'Thank you' would work."

But I was taught actions speak louder than words...

"Do you have a home? Any parents?" Grey Cloud questions, figuring he could help you get back to most likely worried, loving parents.

Though it wasn't intentional, the question made you frown. "No. I don't think they wanted me around." You sulk, resting your chin on your hands.

That does make things more complicated, Nightwolf thought. He sighs, looking at the pink sun that slowly travels down. "It's almost night. I do have a home with a spare room I'd need to clean, but I will not force you to temporarily stay there if you do not wish to."

You thought about the offer. Nightwolf seems like a good man.

"If you're not comfortable with that, then I will help you find a place that can take care of you."

This made you remember the orphanage, how bad it was and the loneliness and envy you suffered, watching all the good kids get chosen.

"I can just stay with you for a little. You're cool." You decided. Your compliment did bring a smile to his face.

"Very, well. Let's go, Y/n." He offers his hand again, and you took it. Together you walk to a place you could finally rest easy in. ~~~~~~~~~~~~ As you may guess, Nightwolf never looked for a care center, growing fond of you🥰

[dab1-ex]

Chapter 11

Pairings: Choso x reader (Naoyax reader)

Synopsis: You’re in an arranged marriage with Naoya he may not seem like the prince charming but maybe a your knight may come saving you, his the Samurai Choso from the Kamo clan. Will he save you from this disaster you call a marriage or will Naoya change for the better or come to his demise as the worst.

Genre: Historical Au, drama

Warnings: Angst, Fluff

Taglist: @brownskinnedgirll @sweetshawty @eleventhdoctorsangel @simplycareless @gojocumslut @abba-simp @sonanie

If you'd like to be added to the taglist let me know💕

1 , 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 12

___________________________________________

"Welcome back home" Naoya said as he continued starring at your figure in the doorway.

"What took you so long?" He said as he slowly got up from the bed moving towards you.

You watched as he walked over to you, his jaw clenched and fists made into tight balls.

"You not going to answer me?"

You were terrified to scared to say a word, until he stood infront of you. You began opening your mouth to reply.

"I was -"

Naoya banged his fist at the door frame, causing you to gasp in shock.

"Do you know, how I looked for you? Of course you do because you ran away from me" he said as he moved his face closer to yours until you were only a few centimeters from touching.

You could feel his breath on your face as he exhaled and the harsh stare that was being drilled into your skull.

"Why were you running from me (Y/N)? Things finally start getting good for us and then this!" He screamed in your face.

"I have something to tell you" you whispered quietly under your breath, hoping that he would both hear you and wouldn't.

"What'd you say (Y/N)? Come on speak up!" He demanded poking your shoulder causing it to move backwards.

"This child isn't yours" you continued to whisper.

"What?" Naoya said as his head tilted to the side, eyes blown wide with a shocked scowl on his face.

"What did you just say?!"

You had finally had enough, you were tired of his fluctuating emotions that ranged from loving to down right cruel. You didn't deserve to be treated like this by a man who claimed to be your husband. You felt your anger building until it finally snapped

"The baby isn't your Naoya!" You now screamed back at him.

He grabbed you by the shoulder pulling to the bed as he pushed you down to sit.

He grabbed your face, squishing your cheeks as he spoke to you.

"That baby is mine! I fucked it into you, you got that. I fucked that baby into you!" He said as you you looked at him with furrowed brows.

Naoya was about to lose it, this child was his. He knew it was his, it had to be his. Who else's could it be if not his, you weren't seeing anyone else; hell he was only going to through this temper tantrum then go back to being normal to make you obedient and now he was just told the child he had grown to love wasn't his.

"It's not" you said back as he continued to hold your cheeks.

Naoya squeezed them tight, you were beginning to feel the pain of his grip on your face but refused to show that he was hurting you. You didn't want to seem weak infront of him anymore.

You were done being his little housewife that he treated like dirt and only seemed to love because he thought you were carrying his child.

"How do you know that?" He said letting go of your face as he walked over to his side of the bed to pour him another glass of Sake.

"I didn't tell you the full premonition the monk said" you said as you eyed his figure pouring the liquor that your father produced into one of the white ceramic cups you had received as a wedding gift.

"Please enlighten me" he said as he took a sip, sitting back down on the bed that the two of you had shared for many months now.

"He saw two lions one with a full mane and one with a mane growing and my child only reached towards the one with the growing mane. The one you didn't represent" you spewed back at him as you gripped the silk blanket that had been placed on your bed on your wedding night.

"Is that so, then whose the person who represents the lion whose mane is growing?" He said with a cocky smile continuing to drink the sake.

"Choso" you said with a proud smile.

Naoya choked on the sake he was drinking but continued to gulp it down as he heard the name Choso leave your lips.

"You've been letting the guard fuck you, like some common whore?!" He again started shouting at you, but now you were the one with a cocky smile as you watched him start to become enraged.

"Yes and I love him and he loves me" at those words Naoya lost it. You loved him, Choso. You chose Choso over him after Naoya tried everything to gain your affections you choose him.

"And what of my love for you (Y/N)? Does that mean nothing to you now?!" He shouted as he felt the hot tears of anger start to leave his eyes.

"You never loved me" you said now standing up from your sitting position on the bed.

"I never loved you" Naoya said as he laughed hysterically.

"I never loved you (Y/N). I loved you more than I loved any human on this earth, I put my love for you above myself" he said as he joined you in standing.

"Really, well you never showed it. In fact the only thing you showed me was how badly you could treat me from ignoring me to flat out telling me how little you cared!" You screamed at his face.

You couldn't believe the things you were hearing, this man had the audacity to claim he loved you, when he barely showed it.

"Isn't that what you like though my dear wife, when men treat you cold because it was the only time you returned my affections" he screeched, he threw the jade jewelry box your mother had gifted to you before as a pre-wedding gift on the floor breaking it.

You watched as he threw it, as he destroyed the sentimental value it held to you, just as he had destroyed any happiness you tried to experience in your marriage.

"What sick man thinks treating a woman poorly will bring her closer to him" you yelled back as you grabbed at one of his yukatas that hang untidly from the side of the cupboard.

He watched as you teared the silken yukata that you had given him as a birthday gift, a gift that he had secretly treasured alot.

"You barely talk to me (Y/N)"

"You're barely here Naoya"

The two of you stood at opposite sides of the room as your yelling match continued.

"I'm barely here and you take it as a sign to go sleep with the guard, the guard whose life I saved for you!" Naoya said as he grabbed your favorite sapphire earrings that you father had given to you as a child, throwing them at you.

You dodged his attack of your earrings as you replied back to him.

"The guard who stood up for me when I was being acused to spread rumors when you couldn't. You can't even keep a promise to treat me like a wife!" you said as you grabbed a gold bracelet that was passed down from son to son, that Naobito hoped would be given to yours as you threw it at Naoya.

"Real rich coming from a woman who can't keep her legs closed! So when did you do it (Y/N)? When did you let him take you?" Naoya said and as much as he didn't want to know the answer he need to hear it, he needed to know when you were betraying him.

"You remember those evening walks my husband, those walks to the pond where magical. So magical that I'd lie on my back" you said like a little girl explaining how to catch butterflies to her father.

Naoya couldn't believe it, he couldn't believe it all this time...

"All this time, all this time... I've been getting on my knees praying that you become with child; you were sleeping with another man!" He shouted pointing a finger at you, his head was hung low as he listened to you talk.

"A man who loved me and cared for me, who gave up his honour for me, who made me feel loved and accepted; while my own husband was using me as a breeding machine" you said; Naoya now shot his head up starring at you with a burning gaze.

You tried to keep the stern look on your face just as Naoya was doing, trying to see who would crack first. Who would be the one to hurt the other the most.

And you were about to win this match to until Naoya reached for you aiko pearl necklace, and the fear of what he would do it overcame you.

"Wait!" You said as your hand reached out towards the necklace, you face dropped, your once fierce look was now that of a sad puppy.

"What?!" He said with a snarl as you watched the necklace swing in his hands.

The necklace that he had given you as his first gift towards you, you didn't wear it often in fear of losing it, but it held so much value towards you. It was the necklace your then soon to be husband gave you and your cherished it, your remember exactly the feeling you felt when your mother helped you put it on, how happy you were to be with the man who gifted it to you.

"Be careful with that"

"Why?!" Naoya said not caring as he started slowing pulling at the necklace as you watched the pearls fall to the ground one by one.

The sight finally made you realize what was going on as your heart broke, you started sobbing again. As each pearl dropped so did a tear from you.

Naoya looked stunned at you, he didn't understand your tears. You just exclaimed you didn't love him and now you were crying like he was the villain.

"You gave me that Naoya" you said through sobs.

"So what, you don't care?" He said finally throwing the necklace down to the floor.

"I did care, it was the first gift you ever gave me, and it meant so much to me" you said as you sat back down on the bed as your hands flew to your face to cover your weeping eyes.

Naoya was in shock you were actually crying over pearls, but he could not deny that the sight infront of him broke his heart, but his mind came to the realization that perhaps it was not the pearls themselves you were crying over but what they represented to you, to your marriage; and just like your marriaged he had destroyed it.

He was trying his best not to hurt you and in the process pushed you away into the arms of another man.

Naoya sat down on the opposite side of the bed with, both your backs turned towards each other. You refused to look at him and he was to disappointed in himself to look at you.

He starred at your vanity as he continued to hear your cries. He just sat silently hearing your cries, trying his best to suppress his own.

He couldn't take it anymore, he knew crying was no good for your health and neither would it be for the baby, even if it wasn't his.

"You're going to stress the baby out" Naoya said with a sigh.

"It's not like you care" you said causing you to cry harder, you must of summed up all these tears to your pregnancy as the tears just couldn't stop falling from your face this evening.

Naoya knew what he had to do and more importantly what had to be said. As much as he wanted you and this child he couldn't have it as it was never his from the beginning and neither were you his. You were just two souls that he trapped into his life. Naoya could admit to himself he wasn't a good person but he would hate himself if he turned you to be the same type of person as him. So he said what needed to be said.

"I do care (Y/N), I care enough to know that you should be with Choso" Naoya said finally having the courage to turn towards you.

Naoya did care, he might not shown it in the traditional way but he did. He wished now that he showed you he cared more, but it was to late now.

You slowly peered behind you to see Naoya already looking at you.

Naoya slowly examined your figure, how your eyes were red and puffy from crying, your lips that were swelling because of how hard you had cried and how you reverted back to a little girl who craved the comfort of someone when you cried.

"(Y/N) it's obvious you belong with each other" he said now fully facing you as you turned to fully face him.

Your face held confusion as you were unsure of whom he spoke of, or rather you knew who he spoke of but chose not to believe it. As much as you wanted this marriage to end, you were now presented with that possibility and it scared you. For nearly a year you had spent with Naoya and tended to him and a life without that you were fearful of.

Naoya knew though you were not meant to serve a man, you were meant to work alongside one, to serve each other. It was pointless trying to save your relationship when it was so clear your heart longed for another even if your mind could not comprehend it.

"Our marriage was chosen for us, you never chose to be with me. I had just forced the notion upon you and I don't wish to force it upon your child"

You looked at him red puffy eyes in confusion. Did he really say the words, was your ears deceiving you. No they weren't as Naoya pulled you into his arms.

"You can be with him (Y/N) my love, I won't hold you anymore. I admit I am a stubborn hard headed, some would even say horrible misogynistic man at times but I see now that you have somewhat changed that" Naoya said as he held you in his arms like a precious child.

You tears stopped and your eyes grew wide as you heard the words Naoya was saying. He was going to let you go, to be with Choso. Your couldn't deny the flutter in your heart at the idea of being with Choso, but you also felt the sting of leaving Naoya.

"I'll miss you Naoya-sama" you said burying your head into his chest as more tears fell from your eyes.

"Just Naoya, it's just Naoya" he said as he rubbed your head.

Naoya gently removed his hand and placed his head a top yours and let silent tears fall. He didn't want you to see him cry, it wasn't like him. He would miss you more than the rising sun missing the early morning moon. Yet he knew that this life the two of you had built was not real it was an illusion and an illusion the two of you would've carried on with your child.

Naoya held you close that night, closer than he ever did any previous night for he knew he would not have you in his arms like this ever again and he realized had he just treated you better from the start he would not of lost you to another, but he could not blame you either. Your heart chose who you loved and you had no control over that just as he had no control over his own.

Naoya didn't sleep that night he just cuddled your sleeping figure instead observing you as you slept.

He admitted to himself that he would miss this, he would miss the way your noise scrunched up in your sleep and how you unconsciously would look for his figure beside you.

Had he been a better husband perhaps you wouldn't constantly be checking if he was lying besides you even in your sleep.

When the soft rays of the sun began shining through the windows, he looked upon your sleeping form for the last few minutes knowing you'd soon be awake and be with the man you loved.

Naoya cuddled you as he laid his head on top of yours breathing in your scent as he closed his eyes.

__________________________________________

When you awoke your find Naoya sleeping as he held onto your figure.

You examined his sleeping form something you were seldom able to do, as he would frequently left your bed empty by the time you awoke.

You noted how peaceful he looked while sleeping. His hair clung to hair forehead and his lips slightly parted as you heard a soft snore. You smiled at his sleeping figure, you continued scanning over his sleeping form until you noticed the tears that lined his lashes, and you were then brought back to reality.

You would be leaving Naoya. It was a fearful thought, your husband was allowing you to leave for another man, a man he had no idea you were having relations with until last evening.

A part of you wished that this reality was not true, that you would not be hurting one man all to bring joy another, but there was no other way around this. If you chose to be with Naoya he would not accept a child that was not his and you would have to say you final goodbyes to Choso, but if you chose Choso your child with be with his father and you would be with the man you loved but you'd have to say goodbye to Naoya.

There was no possibility to have both men leaving happy.

You laid back down, not trying to steal away the last moments that Naoya would have of you.

As much as you were sad you were also relieved. You would finally be with Choso, there was no great battle he would have to enter to be with you; Naoya was allowing the two of you to be together.

When Naoya finally woke up he saw you still lying beside him.

"(Y/N)?" He called out gently to you as to not wake you if you were still sleeping.

You peaked your eyes open, turning to face him.

You now both lied facing each other. Husband and wife looking into each other's eyes in the early morning, if anyone walked in on this scene they would see a picture perfect couple enjoy each other's company before the start of the day; yet the two of you were far from that. You were going to leave him very soon and would no longer be titled as husband and wife.

If Naoya could he would steal this moment forever from you, he internally cursed himself for revoking this privilege from you as he was always one to leave to wake up alone in the mornings.

Naoya placed a hand on your cheek as the two of you continued to stare into each other's eyes.

The two of you laid like that, neither one of you speaking to scared to break the moment.

Sadly the moment would be broken, but not by the either of you rather by the knock on your door.

Naoya starred into your eyes for one last moment before he stood up to answer the door.

When Naoya opened the door he found himself starring at Fujiko, who was starring back at him.

Fujiko had never seen Naoya in such a state before. He still wore the kimono of yesterday, his hair was unkempt and his under eyes were adorned with dark circles. It looked like he had fought a battle last night and lost. Little did Fujiko know Naoya had fought an internal battle of letting you go.

"May I come in Naoya-sama?" She asked as Naoya had not moved out of the way for her to enter.

Naoya had realized his lack of reaction and moved to the side allowing her to come into the living area.

Fujiko looked about seeing that everything was still intact after the events that took place last evening; after she saw Naoya go ballistic looking for you.

She thought he would of destroyed the place but to her surprise everything looked as they were a week ago; that was until she reached your bedroom where you still lied upon.

When Fujiko entered Naoya and yours bedroom, her face fell into horror as she looked about at the broken items littered on the floor.

She quickly rushed to your side worried that you were harmed.

"My Lady (Y/N)!" Fujiko said anxiously as she gently shook you, praying you would react.

You tiredly sat up, flustered by Fujikos reaction.

Fujiko took your face in her hands not caring if she had your permission or not. She scanned your face, hoping not to find any bruises or marks and luckily she found none. She then removed one hand from your face and moved it to where your child grew. She began moving her hand about frantically as she now starred at your bump.

Fujikos prays were answered as there was no harm to your child and no sign that you were harmed either.

You sat upright on the bed confused by Fujiko's actions, but then you remembered the state of your room and realized you too would be worried if you entered someone's room and it was in such a state.

"I'm okay Fujiko" you said grabbing the hand by your womb hoping to reassure her that you were alright.

Fujiko's eyes looked back into yours and her eyes became teary at the revelation that you were okay. She grabbed you and brought you into a hug.

You hugged her back happy to have such a caring and loving lady-in-waiting. The two of you had grown from noble woman and lady in waiting to sisters.

You let out a sigh of relief, as you hugged Fujiko. It felt as if you and Fujiko were stuck in time in a never ending hug and you were enjoying every second of it with her.

You heard someone else entering the room causing the moment to be broken. When you pulled away from your hug with Fujiko you fully expected Naoya to be the one who had entered the room, but it was actually Choso.

Choso stood in the door way of your room with Naoya behind him. He carefully walked over towards your figure sitting on the bed, and when he finally reached you, you welcomed him into a hug of his own.

This hug was different to the one you had just shared with Fujiko, it didn't mean any less than the one you had with Fujiko.

Choso hugged you tightly but not tight enough to harm your child. He carefully lifted you out of your sitting position on the bed and carefully onto the floor.

You felt as the soft pads of your toes met with the hard wooden floor and you finally pulled away from the hug looking at Choso. He adorned a smile as he looked down at you.

__________________________________________

While you and Choso had your own moment in the bedroom with Choso.

Naoya called over Fujiko.

"Fujiko, could you please put all Lady (Y/N)'s belongings in her travel luggage" he said as starred at the silk yukata you had torn the previous night.

"Why?" Fujiko asked worriedly, she was panicking was something going to happen to you now. Had it something to do with Choso that he was telling her to pack up your belongs.

He sensed her worry and placed a hand on her shoulder as he gave her a rare smile.

"She's going to live with her husband"

Naoya's words caught her off guard. Was not he Lady (Y/N)'s husband. Fujiko wanted to question him further on the matter but Naoya had already left where he stood.

Fujiko quietly entered the room trying not to interrupt the scene happening on the bed of you and Choso side by side as you were in deep conversation; as Choso starred at you with so much adoration as he watched you talking, carefully playing with the ends of your hair.

Alas Fujiko's presenced had caused for you and Choso to stop your little love talk.

"Sorry my Lady" Fujiko said bowing, as she had ruined your moment with the handsome Samurai.

"No it's alright Fujiko" you said giving her toothy smile hoping it would help calm her down.

"I have somethings I must attend to, I shall leave you in the care of Lady Fujiko" Choso said as he stood up from the bed, placing a kiss on your hand.

Fujiko had heard what he said causing her cheeks start to burn, no one had ever referred to her as a lady; she was beginning to understand how you fell for such a charming man.

Fujiko began carefully packing your kimonos into perfect squares.

You watched as Fujiko folding your kimono's, you were confused by her actions and when you asked her about it all she said 'Naoya-sama instructed me to do so' and continued her ministrations.

You were about to stand up and ask him yourself why she was doing this until you heard him speaking with another.

__________________________________________

While you sat in your bedroom watching Fujiko pack your kimono's into squares; Naoya was conversing with Choso.

Before Choso could let a word out Naoya had already began talking.

"Here" he said handing Choso a letter.

"What is this?" Choso said as he carefully opened the letter.

" Its a letter from Noritoshi, you are wanted back at the Kamo Estate. The two of us had been conversing about your return since you left. Noritoshi knows his father is to stubborn to apologize about what had occurred and you losing your honour, but the old man desperately wants you back. You had kept all threats of anyone attacking the Estate at bay, without you unknown threats see the Kamo's as a welcomed target" Naoya explain to Choso before he could read the letter himself and absorb the words it held.

Choso was about to refuse going back and Naoya knew he would, knowing that Choso would never leave your side; but once again before Choso could let out one word of refusal Naoya began talking.

"(Y/N) will accompany you" Naoya said looking Choso dead in the eyes.

"And when shall I have to return her?" Choso asked placing the letter on the nearest chubdai.

"You don't ever have to" Naoya said fighting back the tears that wanted to spill from his eyes.

"Why?" Choso said finally being able to talk.

"Do you not wish to have her by your side and watch as your son grows within?" Naoya questioned him.

"Lady (Y/N) had told you"

"Of course she did, she's a good woman who loves you alot why would she keep such information from me. She wants to be with you and I have allowed it" Naoya said, he knew it wasn't because he allowed it that you were going with Choso it was because of no matter how much he could've tried to make you stay your heart would've always belong to Choso.

So to make matters easier for you, Naoya had decided that it's best the two of you leave the Zenin Estate and start a new life back at the Kamo Estate, a place Choso was familiar with a place he could comfortably raise his son. Your son.

"Thank you" Choso said bowing to show his thanks. Choso was grateful that fate had been in his favor and that you had ended up being with him in the end.

__________________________________________

Naoya walked back into the bedroom as Choso left to ready his departure from the Zenin Estate.

When he walked in the first thing he noticed was the frown on your face.

"And the frown is for what, you have received everything you heart has pleased and you still look upset?" Naoya said teasingly.

"Why is Fujiko folding my things into the traveling luggage?"

"You're going to leave this afternoon?" Naoya said as he walked over to his side of the bed to sit along side you.

"Why am I leaving?" You asked, your face in shock. You were baffled by what he was saying, was he going to kick you out because you chose Choso.

And once again like a psychic Naoya could sense your worry, just as he had sensed nearly everyone else he had conversed with thus far.

"You are going to be with Choso. Noritoshi wishes to have his cousin the Samurai back and you are to go back with him, and maybe if I am to see you again, your son will be old enough to say my name" Naoya joked hoping the news would not overwhelm you and cause you to stress.

And now you could sense his worry, and without another thought you wrapped him in a hug.

Naoya returned the hug holding you tightly as a small smile fell upon his lips.

The reality he had before him may not have been the one he wanted but he would have to accept it, he only cared for your happiness.

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No this is not the last chapter. I hope you like it 💓

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Bound Blood (Cassandra Dimitrescu/Reader, Soulmate AU) Pt. 2

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village

Rating: T+ for blood, language, nudity, and horny

Warnings: Implied pain/blood kink

Summary: Local vampire tries to give her human soulmate a bath, but the human is feral and loving it. Then it gets a lil horny, to both of their frustration.

Previous Chapters: 1: Sharing Is (Not) Caring

2: Bloodbath, Baby!

“I take it you changed your mind about the clothes? Or am I supposed to use these towels like a makeshift toga?” You asked, glancing around the bathroom, eying the ornate tub with mild interest. This certainly wasn’t where you had expected Cassandra to take you, especially not when she had somewhat promised you garments to wear. There were no pants or shirts (or even dresses) in sight, just a rack of the softest looking towels you had ever seen. It was admittedly difficult for you to resist the urge to use one to wipe the blood off of your shoulder. However, you figured that it would be best to save that for after you were given a good behavior prize. After all, it was much more fun to be a bastard if your “victim” (not that Cassandra really counted as that) knew how polite you were capable of being, and you were, under normal circumstances, very polite. Most of the time. Maybe.

“What did I say about talking?” Cassandra snapped at you, glaring at you from her perch on the counter. She was sitting on the edge, waiting for something, occasionally eying the room’s entrance.

“You told me to shut up for ‘five minutes’. It’s been eight, at the very least! I’ve been holding back, just for you, babe,” you replied, smirking as you did. For a moment your soulmate seems to consider chucking a bar of soap at your head. Eventually she thinks better of it, opting to roll her eyes at you instead. “For the record, I did count, just to be sure. Wouldn’t have wanted to make any assumptions about the passage of time, considering how fast time seems to fly when I’m with a loved one.” Unfortunately, this does not get a rise out of Cassandra, who has shifted to face away from you. Not yet willing to give up your buffoonery (and assuming that you would not, in fact, be getting a good behavior prize anytime soon), you released a loud, exaggerated sigh, before switching tactics.

Standing up with the blanket still curled around yourself, you maneuver over to the tub, eagerly climbing inside. With how large it was, laying down was fairly easy, though you weren’t entirely flat. Wanting to be as comfortable as possible, you adjust yourself and the blanket until it covers you, while letting one end go behind your head like a pillow. It’s nowhere near as nice as you had hoped. On the plus side, however, is the attention it gets from Cassandra. Before long she’s standing adjacent to the tub, staring down with an expression of exasperation.

“What the fuck are you doing?” She asked.

“Napping, obviously. Care to join me?” You answered, without hesitation. Then you gently pat the blanket, as if offering to let her sit on top of you. This only serves to make her angrier. Now she’s leaning over the basin, bracing one hand against it, her other hand reaching to grab your throat and pull you towards her. The two of you are so close that you can’t help but blush, and the feeling of her skin against yours is weirdly attractive. “I should have known you were the kinky type. Not that I mind,” you murmured, gaze wandering a little farther south than her lips. Before you know it she’s shoved you back down and let go of you. She shakes her hand a bit, like she’s just touched something gross, but you see the pink rising on her cheeks. As much as you want to tease her, the sound of approaching footsteps takes priority. Soon the door is opening, revealing a stressed servant, a pile of clothes in her arms. Suddenly you’re glad that Cassandra pushed you away, considering you don’t think she would have enjoyed having someone walk in on the two of you in that position.

“Lady Cassandra, I have what you requested. Would you like me to draw a bath for you? Or-” she pauses when she sees you, clearly unsure of what to make of your behavior. Hell, she almost drops what she’s carrying, and makes a soft ‘oh’ sound. Presumably dying inside, Cassandra quickly takes the bundle from her. Then she stands between the two of you, blocking line of sight, looking as tense as could be.

“Just get back to work, and don’t mention this to anyone,” she growled, gesturing towards the door. As soon as the maiden closes it behind her, Cassandra is turning back to you. “Get rid of that stupid fucking blanket or I’m forcing you to wear wet socks.” Understandably, you start giggling at her request, hardly able to believe that she had really just said those words out loud. “Would you prefer I cut up the soles of your feet? I’ll heal long before you do, asshole.” Now that makes you pause, trying to figure out whether or not her threat held up. Even though everyone had a basic understanding of how blood bonds worked (the less romantic, and more historic, way to refer to soulmates), the specifics were confusing for most people, including yourself. Would your aching wounds bother her? Or only the initial injury?... Somehow you had a feeling you’d figure out the answer within the next few days.

Until then, you decide to err on the side of caution, for once in your life. Still, you roll your eyes before you pull the blanket up and out of the tub. Again you spot a faint rosy tint on Cassandra’s face, and her gaze most definitely lingers on places other than your eyes. In the end you have to bite your lower lip to stop yourself from calling her out on it. Gotta get some clothes first, you think, then back to being a dick. Holding back only gets harder from there.

Wordlessly, Cassandra takes a seat by the front of the tub, where your feet are propped up on the edge. Giving you a judgemental look, she pushes them aside so she can reach the controls knobs easier. You give an exaggerated pout in response, only for her to ignore you completely, trying very hard to look anywhere but at you. It was in stark contrast to how she had looked at you a mere half an hour earlier. There were several interesting things to note about her behavior, and you found yourself almost excited to figure out the puzzle she presented. Did she care about you now? Simply because of your blood bond? Did she have a genuine soft spot for romance?... Those sorts of questions were all you could think about, even as Cassandra turned the handles, letting cold water splash into the tub.

“I’d say ‘fuck you’ but honestly, were I in your position I would likely do the same,” you said, shivering a little. Cassandra raises an eyebrow, staring at you like you were stupid, before turning the handle a bit more. Eventually you figure out what she meant by it. “What, you guys don’t have a quality water heater? This is Romania for fuck’s sake. I would have figured the water would be a hell of a lot hotter by now,” you added, only for her to splash some still very much cold water on your face. “Is this fun for you? Are you enjoying this? God, I hope you assholes have Legos somewhere in this maniac menagerie, so I can step on them while you sleep.”

“Do you always spit in the face of kindness?” Cassandra asked, moving towards the other end of the tub as she spoke. Once more you laugh, though this time it’s much more of a hollow sound, and your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. “My sister wanted to kill you, but I pulled your pathetic corpse out of the basement, now I’m letting you use my bath, and you’re mocking me. This is why I don’t bother with this shit,” she growled, even as she wets a washcloth and starts dabbing at your wounds. On one hand you understand her frustration… but on the other you couldn’t get the image of her past victims out of your head.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’d rather be clean than not,” you started to say, pausing to think for a moment. Then you reach out, putting your hand over Cassandra’s, making her freeze in place. It’s soft enough of a touch to surprise her. Which is why it’s so easy for you to snatch the towel from her hands. “You ‘don’t bother’ with this ‘shit’ because you’re a fucking sadist, who thinks all humans are beneath you, who acts like she has every right to bleed innocent people dry, who thinks she’s God’s gift to this goddamn hellhole we call Earth. Do you think this makes up for your sins? Do you-” her nails dig into your arm and she grits her teeth in pain- “think that I can forget listening to the screams of your victims? Whose graves is this castle built upon? Whose fucking bones am I standing on? Who died to keep you alive? How many other versions of me have you killed, in other timelines, in other lives, where the universe didn’t demand that we be together? I’ve seen your heart, girl, and it’s as raw as they come.”

There’s a brief second of intense, furious eye contact. Then a flash of movement, a rush of pain, tears filling the corner of your eyes. Blood pours from the new hole in your shoulder, but Cassandra is quick to lick it up. She’s groaning in between each run of her tongue across your skin, clearly feeling it every bit that you were, yet she shows no signs of stopping. If anything, her pain seems to spur her on harder. Even you can’t help but blush a little as you struggle beneath her grip. Why did vampires have to use their mouths? Why couldn’t they get blood transfusions, like the rest of society? This way, your pleasure mixes with your misery, leaving you confused, and the fact that you’re still naked is not at all helping.

“Oh fuck off, please,” you gasped, trying to push her off of you. To your surprise, she does as asked, pulling away after one last lick. When you turn to look at her, you see your blood covering her lips and dripping down her chin. “You’re a mess, Cassie. Hot water?” With that you return her favor from earlier, splashing some of the (finally above room temperature) water in her direction. Most of it misses her. A few drops, however, do manage to hit their mark. Then she’s wiping her face on her sleeve, scowling the whole time. There’s still plenty of blood on her face afterwards, but it’s nothing compared to what’s gathering on your shoulder. She eyes the wound, nostrils flaring briefly, a predator dying for one more bite. “If you bite me again, I swear to whoever that one lady y’all worship is, I will bite you. My teeth aren’t made for that shit, but I don’t care. We’ll both be miserable and that’s it, baby! That’s love! I’m threatening you with an unhealthy perception of affection, dipshit!”

This time you expect her to move away, or hit you, or do anything other than what she does. Calling your bluff, she moves around the ever-filling tub, pausing to turn the water off, before hiking the edges of her dress up and… oh. Oh. Somehow she’s in the tub with you now, legs on either side of your waist, presenting the side of her neck to you with a knowing smirk. But you are not known for your cleverness. Nor your ability to make good decisions, at that. Perhaps your blood loss was starting to affect your cognition. Whatever made you so feral, so beautifully unhinged, you embraced it with utter glee. Soon enough your teeth find themselves on Cassandra’s throat, digging in enough for you to feel your blood bond reacting. For a moment she stiffens in response. Then she relaxes, even takes in a rush of air that sounds oddly content, leaning into your touch. What the fuck? You think, almost shocked enough to let go. Almost.

“What’s the matter, pet? I thought you wanted me to know what it felt like on the other side of things?” Cassandra teased, voice quiet and low. Something about her tone sends a familiar, although unwanted, feeling to your core. Still, her words egg you on, and you find yourself biting harder, tugging at the skin a little. More tears gather in your eyes, but you fight through the pain as best as you can. You drag your teeth across her skin, wishing for sharper canines, before letting go to inspect your work. There’s a clear outline where your mouth had been, but not a single drop of blood. Frustrated, you go back in for seconds, choosing a different spot to target. Again you go through the motions, only for no crimson to stain your lips. This cycle repeats several more times, with you running your tongue along her neck in between bites, so focused that you don’t realize that she’s grinding against you until she stops.

“I need to file my teeth,” you mused, trying to forget about what you had just done. Now that it’s over, Cassandra seems to feel the same, and she quickly climbs back out of the tub. She’s refusing to meet your gaze, instead focusing on arranging the clothes the servant had brought earlier. By the time she’s facing you again her blush is almost entirely gone.

“Finish cleaning up, then bandage yourself and get dressed. I’ll have a maiden wait outside to bring you back to my room. Don’t even think about trying to run,” Cassandra said sternly. You’re too distracted by the thought of what happened to give her any snarky response. So she simply nods to herself, then leaves, slamming the door behind her. Though you had expected to be relieved by her absence, you find yourself groaning, holding your head in your hands. Why is she so attractive? This is probably illegal, you think, in at least several countries. Or it should be, at least. Now that she’s gone, there’s nothing to distract you from the price of her attention, with your shoulder and neck aching horribly. Cleaning up was going to hurt even worse. Still, you think, at least I’ll have some time to think of new insults. With that in mind, you begin to wash away the blood, thoughts entirely consumed by your newest ‘partner’.

[aminiatureworld]

Time and Chance

Characters: Albedo, Childe, Diluc, gn!reader

Word Count: 4,028

Warnings: Swearing

Premise: Confessions are tricky things. Sometimes it takes week, maybe months, maybe years of building up courage for one to happen. And sometimes life throws the oddest wrenches in our paths.

In which the reader confesses.

Author’s Note: I may or may not have decided to go full sappy this week, but I didn’t want to overwhelm you guys with my overbearing angst. Also I thought it was cute. Originally I wasn’t sure if I wanted the reader to be the one doing the confessing or whether it should be the character. I decided upon the reader on a whim essentially, with the idea that I could do the character later. We’ll see! The title today is reference to one of my favorite novels, written by Sharon Kay Penman. If anyone likes historical fiction I’d highly recommend it.

Today’s characters are Albedo, Childe, and Diluc. Tomorrow will be Kaeya, Xiao, and Zhongli. And maybe Keqing.

Like I said in my past post Happy Valentine’s Day! Although this time it’s Valentine’s Day proper.

Albedo

In your defense, who wouldn’t fall in love with Albedo?

The mysterious alchemist of Monstadt; sharp as a tack, insatiably curious, and blessed with an ethereal sort of beauty on top of it. Who wouldn’t fall in love with such a person?

And that was the problem. You’d sort of taken it for granted that everyone loved Albedo, and in that assumption you’d found a particularly distasteful discovery. That if everyone loved Albedo then you were hardly going to be the only one asking after his time. And, following that line of thought, you figured it’d be incredibly rude – not to mention supremely irritating for Albedo – for you to confess your feelings.

And it wasn’t as if you two were the closest in the world. Although you wouldn’t say you were total strangers either. You instead drifted in that odd in between; more than acquaintances, not quite friends. Or at least that’s how you interpreted it. Albedo didn’t seem to be the person with inclinations towards friendship in general, a not altogether untrue or wild assumption, so you remained content where you were, happy with the conversations you had, with the times he’d trust you with a piece of equipment or would explain to you in detail what he was working on. I mean, surely that was enough?

Absolutely not. Even in your state of perpetual irritation and fretting over your feelings, you knew that simply ignoring them was a ridiculous solution. When did that ever go well? Miscommunication was the relationship killer, no matter what type, and what could be more of a misunderstanding than this? You didn’t even know what he thought of you for Seven’s sake!

So you’d resolved yourself to telling him. Even if he’d be irritated surely he’d appreciate your honesty. And even if he didn’t you needed to tell him, for yourself if not for him.

It was with this in mind that you approached him one afternoon as he was working outside.

“Um, Albedo?” Your voice had taken on a slightly weak tone, as if you didn’t have enough air all of a sudden. It sounded weird, and you kind of wished you didn’t have to hear it. But that was par for the course when dealing something like this, although it didn’t make it any easier.

“Oh, sorry I didn’t notice you there.” Albedo turned around to look at you. You noticed that he’d swapped his regular tools for a paint set and an easel. Glancing at the painting you were struck by how he’d somehow managed to depict Cider Lake so accurately with so few brushstrokes. Never did you think about how the slight ripples that appeared in it could look a bit like circles. It was altogether impressive, and for a moment you forgot what you were doing, or perhaps you’d pushed it out of your mind.

“Was there something you wanted to ask?” Albedo’s voice pulled you out of your artistic musings. Evidently you weren’t going to be able to get out of it now. Come hell or high water, you were going to tell him.

“Well, so… you see, I… I really love you and your work!” The words came tumbling out, dropping like stones in the suddenly charged atmosphere. Almost immediately your nerves were replaced with a distinct sinking sense. “Uhm, rather. I mean –” you tried to begin again, but your voice had suddenly turned quite small, and you found yourself unable to continue.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Albedo’s voice was calm but not unkind, for a moment you felt your face grow warm. Was this actually going to happen? It’d be impressive considering how you’d botched it. “I’m so glad to hear there’s someone else interested in my work. I find that unfortunately a great many people take the world around them for granted. That you do not is commendable.”

You found you weren’t really sure what to say; admittedly the only thing going through your mind at the time was something along the lines of Holy shit. Holy shit I fucking blew it.

Okay, so maybe that was an absolute train wreck. Still, you’d gotten that far, and at this point you felt like it’d be harder to stop and deal with the memory of your botched pseudo-confession than to try again. So you steeled your courage and after a week or so you found yourself ready.

This time you tried for as he arrived at work. Originally you were going to wait for afterwards, but you found the anticipation was tearing you apart, and so decided for before. The anticipation, combined with your slight exhaustion, was nearly unbearable; and a not so small part of you kept telling yourself that this was a terrible idea, but you were too far gone.

“Fancy meeting you here at this time.” There was certainly surprise in Albedo’s voice, but he was smiling, and didn’t seem to mind at all when you stammered out that you wanted to ask him about something. He simply nodded, before unlocking his lab and gesturing for you to go in first.

You loved Albedo’s lab. Various pieces of equipment gleamed in the early morning light, everything properly labeled and put away; a stark contrast to the clutter of Albedo’s desk, filled with papers and the odd sample. The whole room was surprisingly nice in general, floors made of wood, painted over with a type of resin as to keep it from being properly damaged, multiple windows keeping the space surprisingly airy, and the smell of various herbs filling the air, though not so much as to be overpowering. You’d once mentioned to Albedo that the space seemed much to homey to be a proper lab. He’d merely laughed, replying that all homes should be comfortable, no matter how out of the ordinary.

Now you used said comfort and familiarity to ground yourself. This time you’d do it. This time for sure.

“So, um about my question?”

“Yes?” Albedo replied, dropping a few things on his desk. You took a breath, steadying yourself before pushing on ahead.

“Well… you know when I told you I liked you and your work?”

“Of course. I was very happy to hear it.” Albedo’s tone remained opaque, you had no idea how your words were registering.

“Well, you see, I wasn’t being completely clear. What I meant was more… well… well I like you, more than your work.” Seeing the look of confusion on his face you sped up slightly. “Not that I don’t like your work of course! It’s just, it’s just…” you were foundering again, feeling stupidly embarrassed. Becoming more and more frustrated with yourself you shook your head. “What I mean is I like you. Personally. And I like you a lot, more than just as acquaintances or as maybe friends. And I know that this is kind of out of the blue and kind of intrusive, and I’m sure there are a lot of people who like you. But I just wanted to tell you because, well I don’t know, just because.”

You took a deep breath, feeling as if you’d said altogether too many words. Glancing towards Albedo you saw a look of slight shock on his face. A feeling of dread was creeping up on you. Maybe it would’ve been better to say nothing.

“Well, I’m certainly flattered,” Albedo began, all your hopes beginning to sink. Urging yourself not to look away your nevertheless started picking at your fingernails, praying that at least the rejection would be over soon. “though I’m not really sure what you see in me. I’m hardly the ideal sort of person. And there certainly don’t seem to be many people who like me.” Albedo paused then; staring at him you found yourself in slight disbelief, sure that the sudden blush painting his cheeks was a figment of your imagination. “That being said, I cannot say that I don’t reciprocate your feelings. In truth I feel quite foolish now, only for assuming you were uninterested and refusing to try my hand at my own confession.”

“Really?” You didn’t mean for the tone of your voice to come out as so utterly disbelieving, but you couldn’t help yourself. Slightly light-headed you took a step forward, closing the space between you and the suddenly bashful alchemist in front of you. “You like me too?”

“Yes.” Albedo nodded slightly. “And, well, since you like me as well, might we…”

“Might we?”

“Might you do me the honor of becoming my partner?”

You found yourself giggling hysterically, half from the sudden release of nerves half from how ludicrous the situation had turned out to be. Seeing Albedo, looking for the first time uncertain and nervous, you stopped. Your face burst into a smile and you nodded.

“This is quite dramatic. But of course, of course I will.”

“I’m glad. But, might I say something?”

“Yes?”

“I wish you’d told me after work. If only because I’ll never be able to concentrate now.”

 Childe

If you had to describe your crush on Childe in one word it would be: idiotic. If you had to describe it in a sentence it’d be; incredibly irritating but also impossible to ignore.

You liked Childe, you liked him a lot. And you couldn’t blame yourself. Childe was the ideal sort of partner; charismatic, athletic, with eyes that could make your heart skip a beat and hair that was asking for you to run your hands through it. Childe was attentive too, full of words that would make anyone swoon a bit, and always ready to listen, agreeing with you on every point and reacting just as you wished.

But that was the problem. Childe was a façade, his personality had been honed to be as sharp and as deadly as a knife. Of course he was understanding and charismatic and a perfect person to hold a conversation with, what else could one expect of a member of the Fatui?

At first you’d desperately tried to ignore your feelings, as if they were somehow embarrassing. You felt vaguely guilty for carrying a flame for Childe, as if you’d managed to fall into a trap you’d seen a ways away. It was an unpleasant feeling to be sure, and you tried to bury it as much as possible, sure it’d go away.

But it didn’t go away, instead your feelings somehow seemed to become more and more stubborn, as if insisting on leading you down the path that many fools who interacted with the Fatui had fallen down before. Childe was at the forefront of your mind.

You noticed when he passed by you, shooting you a blinding smile which always turned into a self-confident sort of smirk, no doubt a result of your inevitable blush. You noticed the way he always seemed to ask after your interests, but never failed to avoid more personal topics that might make you uncomfortable. You noticed how he laughed at your odd half-jokes and the way that his hand brushed your once, causing you to withdraw your own as if burned, stammering out a “nothing” when he asked what was wrong.

But still you refused to tell him. Surely that was what he wanted, another person who could be called upon to give information to the Fatui, or perhaps assist in their dirty work. That wouldn’t be you, that would never be you.

It was snowing on your way home, blocking out the normal sounds and casting the world in an eerie sort of beauty. You wished that it wasn’t so late, cursing yourself for once more forgetting how early the sun set. It didn’t help that it was blindingly cold, and that you were dressed for weather that was at least ten degrees warmer. Hurrying along you were thinking about the meal that you were going to have, unaware of the slick patch of ice lying in front of you.

“Whoah, be careful!” You were yanked out of your thoughts with alarm. Glancing around you quickened your pace, shoes slipping immediately on the ice. However instead of a hard fall on the street you found a pair of arms wrapped under yours. Glancing up you found your face only centimeters away from Childe’s.

“Sorry for causing that.” Childe’s voice was clear as a bell, marking the contrast between the two of you in your mind. Lifting you up he chuckled slightly. “I should’ve realized that a random voice yelling at you would be alarming. Nothing bruised I hope?”

“N-no.” You managed, face burning. You’d never gotten this close to Childe before, not really, and the experience was going straight to your head, as if you’d suddenly gotten very, very drunk. Shaking your head you shifted your glanced towards the ground. “Thank you.” You managed, although your voice was soft enough to be inaudible. You were still trying to process what was happening. One question kept replaying itself in your mind, why had he called out, why had he noticed you?

“I’m glad!” Childe’s voice was a beautiful thing, and you found you couldn’t really think when listening to it. “I was a bit worried I wasn’t in time.”

“Yeah…” you replied. Suddenly the situation dawned on you completely, and you found yourself looking at him with no little suspicion. “Why do you pay so much attention to me?” You blurted out.

“What do you mean?” The expression on Childe’s face was one of perfect confusion, but you could tell that he’d been somehow caught. The tone of his voice was suddenly muddied, as if you were hearing his uncertainty for the first time. This gave you courage to press forward.

“I mean it. Why, why do I always see you? I mean, why do you even pay attention to me? I’m not the kind of person to forget who you are, the fact that you’re a member of the Fatui. I won’t be roped into your schemes, no matter how much I like you.” Shit. That last part was supposed to be only in your head. For a moment you weren’t sure if you hadn’t actually hit your head somehow.

Childe looked frozen, his expression blank, filled with disbelief as well as… bashfulness? If that’s what it was it certainly didn’t fit the normal vision of Childe, still you found yourself somehow compelled by it. This was a part of the real Childe.

“I… didn’t realize you’d notice. Now I feel found out!” He chuckled again, but this time it was distinctly nervous, and he turned to the side slightly. Suddenly he paused, and his eyes snapped towards yours. “Wait, rewind. You like me?”

“…Yeah.” I mean what were you supposed to say?

“I can’t believe this.” The widest grin spread across Childe’s face, and he started bouncing on his toes slightly, it was very cute you could give him that.

“You’re ignoring the rest of my words. Personal feelings or not I still hate the Fatui, and I still don’t know why you’d target me anyways.”

“It’s cause I like you, can’t you tell?” Childe’s words rammed into you, utterly unexpected; seeing you shake your head he once more closed the space between you two. “No, I mean it. I like you. I just can’t believe that you like me back.” He let out another huff of laughter. “I can’t believe I’m this lucky, I’ve never been this lucky. Well, I’m sorry that I came off like I was some Fatui creep, I promise my occupation doesn’t include systematic wooing of civilians.”

“How can I trust you?” You were trying to stand your ground, but in reality you’d already fallen. The situation was too much, and what little resistance you’d managed to hold on in the past weeks was tearing to shreds before your own eyes.

“Because I wouldn’t lie about this.” Childe was suddenly still, his expression deadly serious. “I promise I wouldn’t lie about something like this. The fact is I like you, I like you a lot. I know my job is… unconventional to say the least; I also know that it’s entirely fair if you don’t want to associate with me because of it. But at least trust in my feelings being real, okay?”

What could you do? You nodded, a short “I trust you” falling from your lips. The feeling of happiness was surprisingly sedate, mixed with nerves, yet also somehow filled with contentment. It felt so good, it felt so good just to let go and accept what had happened. You liked Childe, you liked him so much, and he like you too. What more was there to say?

“May I ask you something?” Childe asked, voice slightly husky. Your faces were once more barely apart, and you found that you could stay like this for ages and ages.

“Yes?”

“May I hold your hand?”

You let out a laugh, smiling brightly as you slid your hand into his.

 Diluc

You weren’t even sure how this one happened.

It wasn’t that Diluc wasn’t the perfect kind of guy, I mean if he wasn’t you probably wouldn’t be falling madly into one sided love with him. It was just that you two didn’t actually have much of a chance to interact with one another, what with him being the manager and part time bartender of a surprisingly vast winery, and with you being an adventurer and someone not likely to get plastered any time soon.

But the few times that you had interacted with him, usually something to do with guarding the alcohol he was exporting, had been enough to cement an intense infatuation in your mind. There was just something about him; whether it was his voice, his polite yet intense form of speech; his mannerisms, always perfectly on time with what he needed, something which helped you and the Guild immensely; or his general charm, okay look he had great hair; you’d simply gone mad for him.

And mad indeed you were. Though you weren’t about to become a stalker – besides being incredibly creepy on principle since when did that land a person in anything but jail – you’d taken to trying to find out a least a little more about him. Because if you were going to be infatuated with someone it should at least be for more than his organizational skills and the fact his hair would look great in a high ponytail.

And what you’d found out only built upon your crush. The fact that he found the Knights of Favonius lacking, though perhaps a bit unconventional, was ultimately reasonable, or at least justifiable. You liked also that he refrained from drinking, and not just because the idea of ending the night sick in the bathroom was something that haunted you a bit. The more you learned the more you wished that you were in a situation where your feelings could be reciprocated, or at least where you could become friends of some degree. Really you just wanted him to notice your existence, sure he could pick you out in the endless sea of adventurers.

So you planned on introducing yourself at some point, at least as his almost designated wine protector. The only problem was when. Diluc seemed to be busier and busier these days, and when he was around he seemed muted, as if he was carrying something. You couldn’t bring yourself to add to his burden your own baggage. So you said nothing, and as your crush grew so did your dejection.

It was a lovely summer evening and, seeing as your apartment had becoming stifling in the daytime, you’d taken a walk, snaking through the streets of Monstadt before exiting via the back gate, glad to see there were no guards around. Walking down towards the banks of the lake you slipped off your shoes and dipped your feet into the water. Letting out a sigh you sat down and tilted your head back, enjoying the slightly breeze on your face, trying to take your mind off of the past months of agony. The world faded into background noise, and you found yourself in a state of pseudo peace, glad to have it, if only for a moment.

“Watch out!” A familiar voice broke through your reverie. Turning your head towards the source of your disruption you saw a masked figure as well as a cryo abyss mage. The mage, having correctly decided you were going to be easier to deal with than the actively armed person, suddenly appeared right in front of you. Acting on instinct you pushed your hand in front of you, letting electricity bloom from your fingertips.

As the abyss mage lay stunned your felt an arm wrap around your waist, dragging you a ways away. “Wait here.” The person carrying you said, before running back to fight. Finally getting a good look at your savior it was all you could do not to gasp. Despite being the cold hard truth you still found it hard to believe, and for a second you wondered if you hadn’t passed out somewhere and were having a particularly fantastic dream.

Finally the fighting was over, lifting yourself up you jogged over to the man who could only be the Darknight Hero.

“Master Diluc?” The words flew out of your mouth.

“Just Diluc please.” Diluc shook his head. “Forgive me for being a bit rough. Cryo abyss mages and electro users rarely work well together.”

“It’s perfectly fine!” You replied eagerly. “Really, thank you!”

Diluc offered a smile in reply, one that immediately made your heart seize up. Suddenly you remembered who the person in front of you was. Seized at first with something akin to embarrassment you also came to a sudden realization. This might be the only chance.

“Diluc?”

“Yes?”

“Well, can I say something?”

“Of course you may.” Diluc relaxed his stance, leaning slightly forward. Your face was burning, you really weren’t expecting something like this to happen, but it was now or never.

“I realize this will be quite sudden, but I… I like you.” You felt the urge to add on something, some explanation or apology, but unfortunately, or perhaps thankfully, you found you couldn’t say anything more. Running your fingers through your hair you lowered your head slightly, not wanting to see the expression on his face.

“Can I say something?” Diluc’s voice was gentle, and you couldn’t help but look up at him. Though you wouldn’t say his stance had changed very much, he somehow seemed more relaxed, something you weren’t expecting.

“Of course! I realize what I said must really be a shock, I’m really sorry.” You let out a pathetic sort of laugh.

“Don’t be sorry. I realize what I’m about to say must be equally as shocking. But, the fact of the matter is I like you as well.”

“I didn’t realize you knew I existed!” You replied, still not ready to drop your defense mechanisms. Diluc stared at you, a perplexed expression on his face.

“I’m quite surprised by that, I thought that my request for you to be the guild member in charge of the Winery would’ve been an indicator. Forgive me, I didn’t realize that you were unaware.”

“I thought that was a decision by the Guild to make things easier.” You admitted. “Although I guess I just didn’t want to admit that you might be aware of my existence.”

“Why?”

“Because that would’ve been scary! I mean, what if you didn’t like me, not in that way, just… in general.”

“Well I like you a lot.” Diluc’s voice was soft and warm.

“I like you two.” You replied, voice barely above a whisper.

As he escorted you back to your home the two of you spoke about a myriad of things, some important and some quite mundane. You found that having your feeling reciprocated had truly opened up something in you. Suddenly everything seemed so much realer, made manifest by Diluc’s presence. You couldn’t believe it really. What had failed with months of planning had succeeded in a matter of moments.

And all because of an unsuspecting abyss mage.

[valhallanrose]

The Red Plague

The art above was created by Nix Hydra, and can be found in the Minor Arcana Art Book (or where I got it - off the fandom wiki page, because who’s going to stop me)

Much of Zelda’s story in the non-apprentice timeline delves into the plague before, during, and in the aftermath of Vesuvia, and I wanted to compile my lore and headcanons for it in one place before I delve into her story fully. I will incorporate as much canon as possible, but given that that isn’t a large amount of info, a lot of this is based off research and personal worldbuilding. 

CWs for discussions of disease, death, body horror, I guess spoilers but I’m surprised if it is for anyone considering how the info is everywhere in game in all routes. This is also, again, personal headcanon and I don’t expect it to fall in line with everyone’s thoughts on the plague.

The Timeline

I’m going to go with a comprehensive timeline first, and this part is all based on canon information. I’ll try and provide as many sources as I can as well, but some of this is pulled from multiple books and I might forget exactly where something came from. 

As we learn in the Lucio tale, Dawn of the Grub, Lucio strikes up a deal with the wyrm of pestilence (Vlastomil) - his parents’ hearts in exchange for a disease that will allow Lucio to kill them both. The Lucio brought the disease back to the tribe, which weakened his father enough for Lucio to kill him. His mother Morga, however, fights off the disease, referring to it as a ‘summer cold’, and Lucio flees the tribe and joins a traveling mercenary band which allows the plague to spread. 

I don’t have a particular reason why Morga would have survived the plague. Her sprites in the game never show any sign of the plague that are generally acknowledged - no red sclera, no veins, no signs of weakness, so on and so forth. The best theory I can posit is that Morga either genuinely had a summer cold, or that the plague only took hold in Lutz rather than them both. Either way, unsatisfying, but we’re going to call Morga the exception and not the rule. 

Because Lucio did not fulfill his end of the bargain with Vlastomil, the plague continued to spread, following Lucio as he traveled the continent. This is also the point where the beetles appear - more on them later. 

The implication in the game is that the disease reached other countries and areas, but the next canon mention of the Red Plague’s spread occurs in Portia’s route, book X - Wheel of Fortune. A map is discussed where dates, places, and sightings of the plague are noted by Julian in his study of the plague - the Painted Fields, Blue Mountain Ridge, and Annyala Gate are all names that arise. 

Nasmira recognizes the name of Annyala Gate and points out that Nazali was at that battle, in which a band of mercenaries was sighted - and their leader needed an arm amputated, which is confirmed to be Lucio. Nadia states that Lucio came to Vesuvia not long after that battle, and the next time the Plague was seen was in Vesuvia. 

It is never seen again outside Vesuvia, and this brings us to the three years before the game, where Lucio’s ‘death’ heralds the end of the plague, and it is never seen actively again in the Arcana world. 

The headcanons I have are to help establish a solid timeline. Dawn of the Grub tells us the deal is made on Lucio’s 18th birthday, and I personally believe that Lucio’s death occurred on his 40th birthday, giving us about 22 years of time for us to work with for the spread of the plague. 

Some more headcanons mixed with canon:

Lucio is newly titled Count in the tale Travel at Night. Based on personal age headcanons, this tale probably occurs at minimum 17 to 18 years pre-canon, putting Asra at (at most) 10/11, Muriel at 14/15, and Lucio at a startling 22/23. It could occur later, as art style can influence perspective on age, but Muriel and Asra really don’t feel like they could be much older than that. 

During his mercenary days (sometime between the ages of 18 and 22/23) Lucio was contracted by the former Count of Vesuvia, Count Spada. This battle occurs at Annyala, mentioned above, and is the battle where Lucio 

At a certain point, Lucio was contracted by the Count of Vesuvia at the time, Count Spada, for a battle where he "made a name for himself." Story implications indicate that this was the battle during which he lost his left arm. It was amputated by Julian to prevent his death from blood loss. After he won the battle for Count Spada, he became friends with the Count and privy to secrets about Vesuvia and the Palace. Spada would eventually name Lucio his heir, and upon his death, Lucio earned rulership of Vesuvia. 

The plague eventually appears and ravages Vesuvia’s population

Plague patients are sent to the Lazaret away from the city and cremated, then scattered on the beach. 

Lucio contracts the plague and defies the average lifespan of those who contracted it by lasting a few months rather than 3-10 days.

Lucio dies on his birthday, not of the plague but as a result of the ritual he was attempting to gain a new body.

I tried to map most of that out here, and wow, what a sad little diagram. Nix Hydra, y’all are cowards for not going hard on this. I, however, am not, and I am about to go more apeshit than I already have. 

The Spread

Cracking my knuckles on the history degree, baby, I’m borrowing some real life inspiration from across multiple time periods to tie all this together. 

I personally think the whole “Oh, the plague arrives wherever Lucio goes and disappears when he leaves” thing is a copout, and we’re drop kicking that out a window. 

I do believe, as canon states, that the plague follows Lucio. It spreads obviously to regions he visits, but I don’t think it just disappears when he leaves. I really, really want to believe someone would have been smart enough to see the connection if the plague suddenly appeared and was later yoinked out of existence as soon as Lucio left town every single time it cropped up somewhere way sooner than it was noticed in canon. 

I don’t think the plague was as isolated as the game implies, and when it was in Vesuvia, it was probably also elsewhere. The epicenter was Lucio, of course, so Vesuvia faced the worst of it, but I think there would have been pockets with much smaller numbers in other parts of the world. 

Earlier I mentioned a few locations cited in Portia’s route as to where the plague had been before Vesuvia - the Painted Fields, Blue Mountain Ridge, and Annyala Gate. I think once these areas were hit with the plague, it would have continued to spread even after Lucio left. Across multiple routes, it’s made clear that the only ‘cure’ to the plague is Lucio’s death, which is why Julian had intended to kill Lucio after making his deal with the Hanged Man. The lack of Lucio’s presence would have kept the plague from continuing to escalate, but in these regions, it probably would have spread when the region’s people attempted to relocate, or ceased when the population died out. 

Annyala Gate, or the Great Gate, is a location I can dive a little deeper into. It’s the last location the plague was sighted before Vesuvia, and because it ties into my OC Zelda’s storyline, I have many a thought. 

Lucio is in Annyala sometime between year 1 and year 4/5, though I believe it’s on the later end of that spectrum, so let’s say year 4 to clearly predate his title as heir to Vesuvia. For reference, here is a map of the Great Gate as provided by the art book: 

Jeebus. Terrible photo quality. Ah, well, on we go. 

The Great Gate is situated between the Sea of Persephia (left) and the Salty Sea (right), and as the map currently stands, is the only point on land that gives access to the southern part of the world map. In this area in particular, I feel like a number of factors would have kept the plague alive long after Lucio left. 

Narrowest point on the world map for transport of goods between ports and seas, which would be a more efficient route than traveling around the continent to reach the same point

As previously stated, this is the only known access point to the south, and travelers heading through this area could possibly be carriers of the plague or catch the plague from the area 

The only way for the plague to stop would be with the death of Lucio, so once it was inflicted upon this area, it continued to spread and infect the population in adjoining areas 

The game repeatedly has emphasized the proximity of the Red Beetles (known harbingers of the plague) to water, such as the Nopali village in Asra’s route and the red stains attributed to them in Julian’s route, and we receive further confirmation in Portia’s route that the water supplies are contaminated during the period of the disease

Fun bit of trivia from Nadia’s route - in the Strength book, Nadia mentions that she remembers the beetles, and that once they had been used as part of a pigment used to dye fabric crimson, which was all the rage in Vesuvia. Should this trend have continued, people wearing fabrics dyed with this beetle pigment most likely would become infected, and thus, the cycle continued. 

I will also point out here that pigments have been used in makeup across history, and I’m sure applying some beetle-laden makeup would have really fucked some people up. Eyeshadows, blushes, lipsticks...contact with any of these areas, particularly the eyes and mouth, indicate a possibility of infection. 

This does, however, leave a fifteen year (ish) period where the plague would have been active in this region until Lucio’s death. Historically, diseases can last such broad swathes of time. For the sake of displaying precedent, I will point out some examples here:

The Black Death, lasting 1346-1353

The third cholera pandemic, lasting 1846-1860

The third plague pandemic, a major bubonic plague like the Black Death, lasting 1855-1960

The HIV/AIDS pandemic, which has been ongoing since 1981 in the US

However, some of the most devastating plagues have lasted only a few years, which I will touch on later when I discuss Vesuvia’s case of the plague. All of the diseases listed above are additionally categorized with death tolls over a million people.

(On a side note, if you would like to contribute to programs searching for a cure for HIV/AIDS, I will suggest donating to organizations like amfAR, the Black AIDS Institute, or the Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation, all of which are linked accordingly and deserve your support if you are capable of making a  contribution)

Remaining question: if the last place the plague was seen was in Annyala, more than fifteen years before it was seen in Vesuvia, what the fuck happened during that time beforehand?

Vesuvia - Before the Plague

Here’s the thing. The timeline given by the devs is a fucking mess. So, what I’m going to propose here is almost entirely theory, and I ask that you keep that in mind. 

Lucio ascends to the title of Count by the time he’s about 22 or 23. Spada dies, presumably, and there’s no noticeable mention of his death via plague or the establishment of the court. 

For some fascinating lore on how the government in Vesuvia works, I’m going to point you to this post by @sunrisenfool​, who has one of the biggest brains and is gracious enough to allow me to reference their work a little for this one. 

I don’t think the court as we know it existed when Lucio became Count. I agree with sunrisenfool here that Valdemar has been the Palace’s cockroach for a while - which was actually also confirmed in the Star book of Portia’s route, in which we see Count Prospero (founder of Vesuvia) summon Valdemar and ask for their aid in creating a city that will never die. The remaining courtiers would be gradually established as time continued on, all demons who struck bargains with the Devil in one form or another placed into positions of power alongside Lucio. We also cannot forget Valerius, who made his own deal with the Devil, and played his own role in this scenario.

We know that Lucio was also a pawn, later on, in the Devil’s agenda to bridge the gap between the main world and the Arcane realms. The ritual discussed in Portia’s Star book is described as a vessel to do just that - 

“...every 777 years, the physical and magical world will collide...the laws of magic will no longer be immutable, and the world will bend to our will...So long as the Countship and canals remain whole, so shall the power to reshape the world. You need only await the conjunction. Perform the ritual and lead the city to glory heretofore unknown. I, Count Prospero, first of my line, declare the founding of Vesuvia. The city eternal. My legacy.” - Count Prospero

It’s confirmed after this scene that the ritual, using the canals as a conduit, opened a ‘door’ so to speak to the Arcane realms. It’s also said there is a three year window to perform this ritual, and that at the time of game canon, we are at the end of that three year window. 

So. Borderline conspiracy time. 

Circling back to the lovely sunrisenfool’s work, I’m going to pull a particular excerpt here:

...the Consul of Vesuvia is the second most important/powerful political figure in Vesuvia, directly after the Count/ess. Aside of the political and civic duties I have already explained, the Consul acts as a “protector” of Vesuvia, albeit not in a paternalistic politically-conservative way (which is how paternalistic policies would be understood in our world). Instead, the Consul is meant to rule the City if the Count is absent or incapacitated, therefore being the subsidiary depositary of the secret of the foundation of Vesuvia, and the importance of it’s Canals.

Lucio makes it pretty clear he doesn’t know much of anything about the ritual during Portia’s Star book, but he was told about it by Spada before his death as it was a secret kept close to the court. That gave him something of leverage, even if he wasn’t aware of it, 

My thought as to why the plague did not spread in Vesuvia sooner is that Lucio had knowledge of this ritual, however minimal, and the Devil needed him alive to eventually use the ritual for himself. So, as Vlastomil (the wyrm of pestilence who granted this curse) was established in Vesuvia as Praetor, the plague was kept at bay for the time being while the city came under the full control of the Devil’s demons. 

I cannot imagine the only person who knows about the ritual is the Count, because that feels like a woefully flawed plan, so I do believe the Consul would have also been privy to such a secret in case the Count was in a position they could not share it due to absence or incapacitation. Basically, a rehash of sunrisenfool’s point, but I digress. 

As the window drew nearer for the completion of the ritual and it became clearer that Lucio knew next to nothing about the ritual and how it worked, the Devil decided to take a different approach. The plague was unleashed once again by Vlastomil, with the goal that Lucio become infected and eventually die, and that Valerius take over the Countship. Lucio no longer was useful to the Devil, and should he be removed from power, someone like Valerius - who knew the purpose of the ritual, who was under the Devil’s bargain by this point - would be an ideal candidate to finish the task at hand. Leverage, it works wonders. 

I don’t think the ritual performed to gain a new body could have been mere chance. I think Lucio knew more than he let on about the canals and the magic in Vesuvia from Spada. Yes, I know the first three were written before Portia, but come on, the timing is insane. He’s no magician, and performing something that complex and magically charged right at the beginning of the three year window when the ritual is supposed to be performed feels far from coincidental. Fight me. 

But, on to what happens in Vesuvia once the plague is free to spread again.

Vesuvia - During the Plague

The first sighting of the plague is in year 20, and I personally believe the plague lasted about two years or 24 months. The period is divided into three ‘waves’ - the first six months, the year leading up to Lucio’s death, and the six months following Lucio’s death. 

The First Wave

The first wave begins when the first known case of the Red Plague is confirmed, and in this period, the spread is rather slow.  

Here is the introduction of the Lazaret, which I do believe is a building that existed before the plague - this is personal thoughts, but the odds of this being the first major disease Vesuvia experienced feel pretty slim, and I do think this was a previously established quarantine that was renovated/expanded for the Red Plague outbreak. In an effort to get ahead of the disease, the space was designated a quarantine, largely staffed by volunteers when the palace seemed to not acknowledge the growing situation. It would slowly begin to increase until the plague boomed at the six month mark, heralding the beginning of the second wave. 

The Second Wave

This is the ‘bad period’ of the plague. I say that loosely, because it’s all bad, but I digress. 

I headcanon that the apprentice dies in the beginning of the second wave, when spread of the red plague rapidly begins to increase and the call goes out for researchers to search for a cure. We know how that story goes, so moving on to the details of this wave. 

There were two groups at this point in the plague - those assigned to research, working out of Valdemar’s dungeon/lab/carnival of horrors studying the plague, and those assigned to the Lazaret, caring for the sick and dying and maintaining the facility. 

I’m going to focus more on the Lazaret for this, as the research aspect is pretty well covered throughout Julian’s route and conversations with him in other routes, and this post is already getting long. 

The Lazaret was home to the dying, where they would be cared for in their final days and eventually cremated. My thought is that the remains of the patients were carefully catalogued in the beginning, returned to families willing to claim them, and those left unclaimed were scattered on the beach at the Lazaret. Later on, as more and more people died, less remains were claimed, leading to the black beaches that still mark the shores of the Lazaret in canon. Often the staff here were a mix of healers, doctors, apothecaries, anyone willing to try anything to ease the pain of such a disease. 

The staff at the Lazaret began wearing layered masks - the plague mask with its herb-stuffed beak, another facial covering beneath for an added layer of protection, and a head covering that sealed the gaps between the mask and the face. They were also required to wear gloves, tight-fitted sleeves tucked inside, and their pants tucked into their boots to reduce the risk of infection through contact. Their days would start in locker rooms on one end of the facility, removed from the patients, and suit up for the day while leaving belongings in the lockers. The end of the shift consisted of showers and disposal of garments to be sterilized, they’d return home in the clothes they came in, and by the time they returned a new uniform would be waiting for them. 

Lucio caught the plague during this period, most likely halfway through. He lasted several months, but the exact length is unknown, aside from he ‘lasted longer than most victims of the plague’ who died between 3-10 days.

I don’t think the averages are entirely accurate. There were most likely some who were asymptomatic until the plague was in very late stages, or those who presented symptoms very early on and survived for long stretches of time. All would die bearing the red sclera, veins, and other symptoms depicted above. Basically, this disease is claimed to be unpredictable, and I think that would also stretch to the duration at which each patient had it. Those who were physically frail likely would have died sooner than those who had been in oprtimal health before the plague, making the times vary rather drastically. I’d suggest perhaps a month at the longest, a few days at the shortest. 

Policy wise - during this period, the ports would have closed, and Vesuvia would have shut down. Nobody in, nobody out, not without rigorous inspection and quarantine before exiting to the city to avoid further spread. Often the only people allowed into the city were doctors from other regions affected by the plague called to help research, but during this year, I would estimate Vesuvia lost easily 30% of its population to the Red Plague. 

The Third Wave

This wave is the period that occurs after Lucio’s death at the Masquerade, three years pregame. I’ll touch a tiny bit more more on this in the next section, but this is where we see the gradual end of the spread of the plague, and the last cases shown in Vesuvia. It’s the end of the plague period, and I give this about six months for the official ‘all clear’ to have been given by those tracking case counts. 

The Lazaret is eventually decommissioned and now sits abandoned, a shadow on the horizon to remind those who survived what had been lost. The city mourned, the gates slowly opened, and gradually, we reach the point of comparative normalcy we see in the game set three years later. 

Vesuvia - The Aftermath

Lucio’s death would, ultimately, mean the end of the plague. Rather than immediately disappearing and all those suffering from it be cured, however, I would be inclined to say that the spread came to a halt. 

The last wave of the plague, in the six months after Lucio’s death, would have been a decrease in new cases until there were no new ones being reported, and the last of the patients who had been infected finally passed. 

The final duties of the doctors at the Lazaret, after all remains are cremated, would have been the incineration of all materials that could not be sterilized. Linens, spare uniforms, unclaimed personal affects, so on and so forth until the time came to return home. I do not remember the exact location, but I am fairly confident of a mention of the MC remembering barrels burning doctor’s uniforms and masks in the days after the end of the plague. It was, for a lack of better words, a purge - an attempt to erase the last physical memories of what the city had endured. 

Events like this are traumatic for all involved. They are painful wounds, and for the rate of death I imagine occurred in Vesuvia, the odds that someone lost no one are slim. There was likely a long period of mourning, and as noted in the present of the game, rarely is the plague spoken of outside of the context of the investigation in the primary routes. 

Many of those medical staff members who survived were those assigned to research at the Palace. The proximity of the staff to the ill at the Lazaret quarantine likely would have made the rate of infection far higher for the caretakers, meaning that often the staff would end up caring for colleagues in their final days. 

Even three years removed, the time of the plague is a raw wound for those in Vesuvia - but I do think the period is fascinating and I love exploring the different facets of it in my own world building. And, well, shameless self promo, but I am eager to write it myself when I get into Zelda’s backstory.

If you made it this far, thank you. Go drink some water or something, idk, wellbeing checkpoint bc what a long ass post

[chanluster]

non ducor duco | {m}

oneshot | historical! au | gang! au | 15.2k words 

“The most notorious gang leader in Victorian London can gouge out the eyes of men, steal from the corrupted rich, and terrify an entire city, but cannot figure out a few complicated feelings with you.”

s u m m a r y >> the leader of the sons of seoul, the wanted criminal mastermind, christopher bang, has the courage to commit any deed save for confronting you, his most trusted accomplice, about his feelings. however, when opportunity arises, in the shape of an invitation to a grand seasonal ball, to take down his fated enemy, he takes you to the heart of a lavish estate, both of you unaware of actions that occur inside, and after the mission.

w a r n i n g s >> gonna be using chris instead of chan cause it’s set in 1860s london, chan is a dom of course, jisung and changbin are dumb and dumber, are also massive cockblockers, some cliché scenes cause i’m a sucker for them, sexual! tension!, gore, foul language, making out, dirty talk, aggressiveness, semi-public fingering, unprotected sex (stay safe homies!!), oral (f. receiving), multiple orgasms, chan has a thing for being called his korean name, whack spelling for ‘cum’ as ‘come’ cause technically that word didn’t exist in 1860s, there is a plot so there will be build up

a / n > > so i went way over the 10k originally planned lmfaoooo but i hope y’all enjoy this oneshot! i worked my ass off on it and hopefully y’all can appreciate gang leader chan in 1860s london cause honestly i’m a 100% whore for that concept

back to masterlist

IT WAS A UNIVERSAL LAW THAT ONE MUST NEVER FUCK WITH CHRISTOPHER BANG. EVER.

Whatever charge you may have against him, it must be withdrawn. Whatever he had done to you — robbed you, murdered your son, destroyed your entire existence — it did not matter. There were always limits, and trying to challenge this specific criminal would only result in your undoing.

It seemed the target, cornered before you and the very man himself, did not fully understand this order.

Chris Bang, in all his midnight suited glory, took a step towards the cowering man, the ends of his longcoat trailing him in the air. His gloved hands locked behind his back, a grave curve of his lips as he addressed his next victim. “Mr. Shaw, we know you have the documents.”

This said Mr Shaw hastily shook his head, raising his hands in immediate surrender. “Please, Mr. Bang,” he whimpered. “I have no inkling of what you speak of!”

“Don’t you dare lie!” You interjected, sliding out your knife, pointing it towards him. “We received reports of you. Don’t you dare forget the monthly checks we’ve sent for its safekeeping!”

“I was taking care of it, Miss!” He backed further, until the wall of his office stopped his escape. “They came to the office though.”

“Who did?!” You demanded, but the way Chris’s hand fisted in irritancy answered your question.

The Mayor had taken their shares. Once again, the tyrant had robbed them off their fortune. 

“Mr. Shaw,” the man beside you started. The raw, dark matter in his voice had the owner’s eyes widening in pure fear. “Who was it specifically?”

“A really large man, about seven foot for sure…God, he had cuts all over his face, slight stubble,” he answered, knees slightly shaking. “Please, Mr. Bang, I have a family, children who have not grown—”

“Why is it that whenever man is at his weakest he mentions his loved ones?” A few stray locks escaped from Chris’ raked hair, caressing the ragged scar from his brow down to his cheek. “Why do you think that I’ll suddenly take pity because you have others who will mourn your existence?”

These questions had the man collapsing, leaning completely against the wall for support. You stole a glance at Chris, wondering if he was now capable of extracting the very souls from men. “Do not keep toying with me, Shaw,” he warned, leaning in slightly. “I know you have information.”

A soft, helpless whine escaped from the owner of the building. “Then-they'll kill me,” he mumbled, looking up at the criminal with desperation. It was a shame that never worked on a man with no sympathy.

“I can kill you too,” Chris countered, and in a flash a sleek, pocket knife appeared in his gloved hand, and hovered it right under Shaw’s chin. “So how about you tell me what you know, and I can prolong your imminent end, hmm? Does that seem fair enough?”

You almost felt sorry for the man. “H-his men…” tears formed in his eyes. “His men kept calling him Carter.”

“Brilliant,” you muttered. ‘Scar’ Carter, the Mayor’s link to the crime world, the dirty dealings of London. Carter, the lapdog of the socialites. The most irritating, disgusting son of a bitch you had ever encountered.

“I see.” The knife stayed, caressing the manager’s skin. “Now I know they’re to sell the documents. The bastard is greedy.

“Question is, Shaw, where is the transaction going to take place?”

Dear God, the man looked as if he was about to piss his trousers. “The ball.” He tried to gulp, but felt the curve of the blade. “The Mayor’s brother is holding a masquerade ball in a few days, and Carter already had a client. They’re going to do the dealing there, I swear on my children!”

A harsh scoff emitted from the criminal. “You better hope for the sake of your sons that you aren’t lying.” 

“Did you get the invitations?” You asked, eyes darting around the dirtied room, the messy desks and chairs lopsided from your searching. 

“Yes, yes!” He pointed to a set of drawers. “There are two in there!”

You walked towards the destination, opening the drawers and sure enough, finding the gold-edged enveloped, addressed to Shaw and his wife. “Are your names inside too?”

“No, just the envelope, but that is not important! I promise!”

You pocketed the invitations inside your coat pocket, joining your leader’s side again. Chris, after a minute of heart-wrenching silence, stood up, freeing Shaw’s neck from the knife, sliding it within his belt.

“That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” His eyes were still upon the man when he said, “Let us return.”

The both of you were ready to leave when you heard Shaw’s sudden protests.

“The Sons of Seoul, everybody!” He declared, almost hysterically. “Coming in, fucking everything up, and leaving as if nothing had ever happened!”

Chris paused in his tracks, a quiet stillness passing over his whole figure. 

“What are you going to do now, Mr. Bang?” He hissed, slowly sliding up. “Are you going to infiltrate the biggest ball of the season? Create a bloodbath on the dance floor? It’s what you love to do so ardently, no?”

You heard the harsh spit smack on the office floor. “Stop meddling with the business of the British socialites. Go back to the gutter you crawled out of.” The next words overflowed with hatred. “Go back to where you really came from, you slit-eyed prick.”

Your eyes flashed in shock, swerving around to see the raging expression on Shaw’s beady little face. Fisting your hands, you were ready to knock him out when you felt the man beside you move.

Chris whirled around, eyes promising a horrifying future as he pounced upon the manager.

A yelp was heard as Chris’ fingers dug at the corner of Shaw's eyes, and relished the cries of terror as with a roar of his own, he squeezed with his thumb and forefinger, swelling the balls of vision from their sockets. With a loud pop! the two eyes tore from their origins, gooey residue trailing down his face as Christopher Bang palmed the two organs in his hands.

He observed his victim bellowing in pain as he fell to his knees, hands covering his bloodied sockets. A ghostly smirk accompanied his lips. "Better slit-eyes than none at all."

You had to suppress the severe shivers that threatened to break your stance. 

Shaw broke the universal law. His undoing was inevitable.

He flung the eyes upon the owner, and turned on his heel, eerily cool as he walked out of the office, blood and goo still on his black gloves. Not a hair ruffled upon his pretty head. 

You spared a look at the victim, crying out in infinite pain, hands on his sockets still. “Do not fuck with Christopher Bang,” was all you said, before following the devil out of the building.

The afternoon London heat hit you as you exited the offices, Chris waiting as he examined the filthy streets surrounding you. People of all classes strolled by, beggars on the street asking for two-pence, children selling newspapers down the corners, and carriages riding away on the wide roads. The man still did not clean his gloves from the mess, and you pointed this out as you arrived at his side.

“It does not bother me,” he waved you off, but you brought out your leather skin.

“Bring your hands out,” you ordered. 

Chris scowled. “I said I’m alright,___.” He began walking forwards, towards your humble abode, not far away from your starting point. “Besides, whoever strolls past us, they’ll second guess their evil intentions against us.” You glanced over the strange looking fellows, scattered across the roads. “Shows I am not afraid to get my hands dirty.”

“Whatever,” you mumbled. “Dirty pig.”

You felt daggers glaring into you. “What did you say?”

“You heard me,” you said, turning a corner, already catching sight of the docks. “I expect this behaviour from Jisung. Perhaps even Changbin, but not from you.”

“Enough with this,” the man ordered, irritancy clear in his voice. Grumbling, you walked beside him in silence, the Thames entering your vision. You wished it would have radiated a rich, clear blue body of water, but from the stench which even reached your nose, it would be impossible. The river, a dump for the sewers, the rubbish disposed daily, was a toxic mass of water, and the cause of thousands dying from drinking its contents. When you first joined the Sons you nearly drank from the river, being saved only by Chris’ rough hand slapping the cup away. You remembered you received a harsh scolding from him that day, immediately providing you with clean water after to quench your thirst. 

A small smile curved onto your lips at the memory.

“Hand it over.”

You perked your head up to see his filthy, gloved hands out. “What is it?” You asked. 

“The water.”An irritated sigh escaped him. “I’ll clean the bloody gloves.” 

Your smile grew as you handed him the leather skin. “But only because I don’t ever want to be associated with Jisung and Changbin,” he added, and you only laughed, watching the man rub the mess off his attire as you both arrived at the docks.

The first sounds heard were not of the boats bellowing at port, nor the waves lapping in underneath the stilts. 

No, all you were welcomed with was a string of curses, spat by Seo Changbin.

“You fucking bastard, how dare you—”

“Here we go again,” you caught Chris muttering, who quickened his pace, thundering to where the two of his sidemen fought, caught in a scrap.

Han Jisung’s whines were carried through the river air, burning into your eardrums. “Bin, no, I said I’m sorry—!”

When you caught up to Chris, he opened his mouth, exasperation clear in his voice. “Boys!” He exclaimed.

Immediately the fighting ceased. The boys addressed, Changbin atop Jisung, ready to throw the final punch, turned back to see his leader scowling. Jisung let out a yelp, throwing the former from him and scrambling to his feet. Changbin followed suit, a little more slowly after rubbing his side in agony.

“Why the fuck,” Chris started, pointer finger darting between his two men, “Are you both fighting again?”

Changbin, fixing his ruined locks with his hand, shot his best friend a glare. “He took my fucking scones again.” He groaned, much too loud. “God, I specifically stored them in a place where no one would find them, but this greedy pig still managed to snuff them out!”

Jisung, a slender and more comical figure, crossed his arms, raising his chin in stubbornness. “I did not see a bloody name on them! Tell me Bin,” he matched his opponent’s stare. “Did you write down your name with blood-red ink across the scones? Because I certainly did not see the words Seo Changbin scrawled on the surface!”

“Argh!” The elder of the two turned his raging gaze towards the leader, who was watching his subordinates with slight distaste. “Chris, permission to cut off his tongue for being the bane of my existence?!”

Chris only stepped past them, heading for the big wooden table situated near the gang’s warehouse. The sounds of ships sailing in the dirty waters thrummed to the port, shouting heard all around over new, imported goods. “Another time, Changbin,” he only said, bringing out a chair and sitting down, propping an ankle over a knee. “I have encountered enough organ slicing for the day.”

Jisung’s face twisted in awed curiosity, settling himself down beside Chris. “Without me?” he let out a disappointed whine, turning to you. “I trusted you, at least!”

“I was surprised myself, Ji,” you argued, raising a hand towards the aloof man as you sat opposite your friend. “I didn’t know Chris gouged out Shaw’s eyes until they were in his hand!”

“You truly are a selfish man,” Changbin complained, plopping himself on the last seat. “Alway keeping the fun for yourself and ____.”

You did not really know why your face flushed a little at his charge, but you made sure to whack Changbin in the gut, earning a pained groan from the boy.

Chris locked his hands upon the table. “Well, gentlemen, then it is time for you to join in on the entertainment.”

The two boys exchanged confused glances. On cue, you brought out the pair of invitations within your coat pocket, tossing them to the table. “The Mayor’s brother is holding a ball,” you explained, rolling your eyes at the boys tearing open the envelopes, yanking out the oblong, cartridge paper, details inked with a precise hand. “Since it does not have names, anyone can enter the estate.”

Jisung let out an excited yell, grabbing onto Changbin’s arm. “Binnie, we can actually have some fun!”

“Not so fast, boys,” Chris said, tightening his gloves. “The invitations are not yours.”

Changbin’s face immediately fell. “Are you fucking kidding me—”

The elder held out a finger, silencing the complaints, but not the quiet grumbling of his members. “As I was saying,” he continued, hands interlocking once more, “____ and I will use the invitations to get inside, with the two of you as our bodyguards.”

“Marvellous!” Jisung exclaimed, sarcasm practically dripping on his words. “Absolutely fan-fucking-tastic!”

“Jisung,” Chris warned, “How about you clean the shit off the docks instead?”

“Chan,” you murmured, causing him to glance at you. His sour expression almost softened at the word, the name which only few have ever said to him. You pondered at the time the two boys, sat to your right, tried teasing him with this name, and nearly earned an ass-beating. You, on the other hand, rather liked the way the name sounded on your tongue. 

Perhaps, you wished dearly, he liked the way it sounded on your tongue too.

The man, after a pause, averted his eyes from you, focusing them on his comrades. “You both can still enjoy the festivities, but you have to keep a low profile, because while ____ and I are socialising and distracting the guests, you both need to find Carter.”

“Is he at the party too?” Changbin propped his elbows on the table. “Lord above, I’ve been wanting to kick his arse for a while.”

“So you both just frivol away, then?” Jisung whined. “I want to drink and dance!”

“And you both will,” Chris persisted. “We all will keep a lookout for Carter and his dealings, and if any of us find him first, you report to me. At my signal, you and Changbin will break through their trade. I will be behind you as long as I slip away without anyone discovering our motives.”

You look to your leader. “There’s another problem.”

The three all turned to you. “If we are to go to the most lavish ball of the season, we certainly need to dress for it.” Suddenly, you sounded like a little girl when you pointed out, “I do not have a gown to wear for the evening.”

An eyebrow raised upon Chan’s face, while Changbin and Jisung snickered, puckering their lips. “Aww, poor little ____ has no lace to woo the rich men!”

You made to slap the pair’s arms and narrowly missed, glaring. “As if you animals have any decent attire to wear for the ball! When was the last time you wore a proper tailcoat?”

That was enough for their teasing to cease, but Changbin was adamant. “Don’t throw me in with Jisung! He doesn't even bother to shower!”

“Oi, you bastard!”

The pair were ready to fight once more when Chris cleared his throat.

“You’re right,____.”

A glance at the man who said it. “I have only seen you in stealth gear and rags, the first time I met you.” He leaned back in his creaking chair. “Perhaps it is time to flower you up a little.”

Jisung and Changbin were about to chuckle once again when you shot them a dirty look.

“I will order evening attire tomorrow,” Chris decided. “They will arrive on the day of the ball, which is adequate enough timing. 

“Now,” he declared, standing. “Are we all aware of what we have to do?”

The two boys turned sheepishly to you, who sighed and addressed the leader. “You and I attend the ball with these two fools as our bodyguards—”

“Hey!”

“____!”

“We maintain a believable facade and enjoy ourselves while also looking out for Carter and the documents. Once we find out where he is, Changbin and Jisung take him away, and we slip out of the party unnoticed.”

Chris, after a pause, nodded, a ghost of a smile upon his lips. “Good girl.”

And just like that, he left the table, your eyes a little wide and heart a little raced. 

When Chris retreated into the warehouse, the two boys turned their malicious gazes towards you, smirking much too wide for your liking.

“Do not,” you snapped, cheeks burning deeper, earning a smattering of laughter from the bastards.

“Whatever you say, good girl,” Changbin simpered, Jisung repeating the damned endearment until you hastily stood from your chair.

You rewarded them both with your middle finger before storming back into another warehouse, Chris’ words still engraved in your mind.

Just as Christopher Bang had predicted, the new attire arrived on the day of the ball. 

More planning had been explained, more additions to the grand scheme of the evening which was mere hours away. The gang was ready, but you can never be perfectly anticipated for any ideas gone amiss.

You even taught Jisung and Changbin to dance, ranging from the Polka to the Viennese Waltz, which was popular amongst high society in the growing years of Queen Victoria’s reign. They were terrible at the start, both of them always falling on each other, but with hard effort they learned quickly, almost perfecting the art of leading your partner on the ballroom floor.

You had not bothered asking the other if he wished to learn. There was something about him which made you think that he could do anything. Not once had he ever doubted your theory.

It was as if there was nothing in the world he could not know like the back of his gloved hand.

Thoughts like these were what filled you with such awe for him. Such deep-rooted pride that you worked under this man. Those thoughts did, however, curve into darker corners — when his midnight-lined eyes and raven figure haunted you in restless nights. 

You aggressively shook your head, swinging your legs over the dock. Sitting upon the wood, you watched the sun descend slowly, the stark yellows and whites of the sky beginning to darken. Ships docked and stayed, men with their filthy language and filthier intentions flocked outside, and strange women with too-tight corsets and lips too rosey, smirking at the newcomers, carrying out their own ways of living.

Sometimes, you’d watch this run-down life move on in this exact same spot, thanking the lucky stars for not being one of the boys with the weights on their backs, nor the girls with the untied top corsets. You thanked the same man, who brought you out of that hell, giving you the chance to fight all this wrong embedded in London. 

You also thanked him, especially that day, for calling you that endearment. 

God. The man was a criminal, yet you were the one being imprisoned. 

“____!”

You turned, heaving to your feet when you see Jisung running to you, packages in his hands. “Your gown’s inside!” He exclaimed, gummy smile lighting up his entire face. 

Throwing you the box, you caught it just before it flew into the Thames, shooting the boy a wary glare. “Careful,” you said, looking over the silk ribbon tied into a perfect bow upon the middle. Although there were greater happinesses in life, small ones such as new dresses had you in near giggles.

“I’ve got my very own tailcoat now,” Jisung yelled, ripping open the packaging, about to whip out his new clothing when you waved him to stop.

“Do it inside, Ji, or you’ll ruin your outfit!”

“Trust him to fuck up a perfectly new suit before trying it on,” Changbin’s voice drawled through the dock, who held a box of his own. “Also, the boss is saying to quit dallying and start dressing!”

You obliged, holding onto your box tenderly as you entered a little building beside the main warehouse, consisting of everyone’s rooms and privies. Your eyes glanced to Chris’ bedroom door before pushing open the door to yours, stepping inside to the small, yet decorated space, filled with a board of knives and bows displayed upon one wall and an erratic strokes of paint brushed along the textured surfaces, courtesy of Jisung and Changbin’s lack of motivation to finish your room. An undone bed was tucked into the corner, and a large mirror stood on its curled railing in the other corner, revealing yourself, hands underneath the package.

The sun fell further, sky being painted with dark oranges and purple and pinks, staining your bedroom the colours of soft autumn as you put your package on the bed, untying the ribbon and unboxing the whole treat. 

The first glance of the dress had you smiling in pure incitement.

You brought the dress out of its box, letting it trail free right down to your toes, holding it to arm’s length to examine the details : it was a mysterious, dark red, a colour which instantly attracted attention within the golds of the ballroom. The neck line was low, dipping just enough to tempt until it swelled over for the openings for the arms, black ruffles on the fabric to accentuate off shoulders. The intricate, midnight detail was stitched to perfection, creating a network of swirls upon the bodice before flaring out into the wider skirts. Dear God, you had never seen such an exquisite dress on any noble lady in this damned city.

Your smile grew a little wider. Christopher Bang, once again, has not disappointed. 

You turned it on it’s back, mouth parting in surprise at the silk lacing, undone and trailing down the dress, waiting to be tied and admired. Realising that we’re you to wear this, the entire ball would see your back half-exposed. Even the man you’re to be escorted with.

The thought alone made your insides sing. 

Chris had ordered this dress. He knew what he was acquiring for you, what he asked you to dare. 

Well, you were happy to oblige. Something within you wished to see his eyes blaze at you in the gown.

Closing the curtains of your room, you quickly lit up a metallic lamp, orange light leaking onto your dresser and walls.  Setting the source upon a stool, you began shedding your coat, tossing it on the bed before going to the dresser.

You spent about ten minutes on your hair, lifting locks upward and curling them into a messy bun. You brought out clips of pearls, attaching them at the back of your hair, letting the few stray curls bounce along your ears and neck.

After finishing your hair you began shedding your clothing, excitement rushing in your gut at the thought of wearing the ballgown. When you were adorned in nothing but your underthings, you grabbed onto the arms of the new dress, entering one leg into the opening before sliding the other. You raised the gown, fitting the bodice upon yourself and the short sleeves cuffing just under your shoulders. 

Looking over your shoulder at the back, it was bare before the mirror, saving your rear only with a small dip which was edged with more black lace. The laces for tightening the back still hung uselessly, begging to be entangled with their partners.

And you tried to oblige. You truly did, straining your hands behind your back and trying your hardest to tie the laces with the opposites, of creating a pattern adequate enough for the ball and announce your preparation. Unfortunately for you, your fingers refused to assist you that moment in the evening. 

Letting out an irritated sigh, you called for your friends.

“Jisung!” you shouted, hands endeavouring still. “Changbin!”

Your back still to the door, you waited for the two fools to arrive, but no one came. Again, you called their names, but to no avail, only silence answering you.

“I swear to the Lord,” you muttered, arms now starting to hurt from the stretching. You were about to bring the warehouse down with your roar when you heard the door quietly creak open, the sound of boots emitting against the floor. 

“Ah, finally,” you began as you turned around, hands clutching the bodice of the dress, ready to be irritated by your comrades when all words abandoned your tongue.

There, standing by the door, in all his midnight-tainted glory, was Chris Bang.

You hated how your eyes widened at the sight of him. 

The man always took care of his appearance, but that evening he had truly outdone himself - His infamous woollen longcoat was hung over his arm, exposing his black tailcoat, shining slightly in the flickering lamp light. His waistcoat underneath fit snug, and his white cravat tie peaked just above the lapels, caressing his Adam’s apple. His raven locks were slicked back, a few stray flyaways drooping over his forehead. The gloves were worn still, skin never exposed.

You caught his eyes flicker, something within stirring at seeing you, holding onto your dress in case it fell to the floor. The prolonging silence was shattered when you forced yourself to speak.

“Chris,” you said, because his name was the first thing, the only thing you could comprehend.

He, too, inhaled, slowly. “Jisung and Changbin...they’re outside, so they could not hear.”

“Oh.” 

Another round of silence. God, you wished you could just say something to him, anything which wasn’t a single syllable—

“____.”

You snapped into focus. “Yes?”

“Why did you call them?”

Blinking, you stumbled, “I, I just needed help with…” your hand gestured to your back. “...with the laces.”

There was an indecipherable undertone in his next words. “You could have called me.”

“You’re here now.”

Again. The world-heavy pause upon the both of you. 

A few more seconds ticked by when Chris set his coat upon the dresser chair. His eyes never left yours.

“Turn around.”

You dragged your gaze away from his as you complied, baring your back before him, laces dangling. His footsteps sounded from behind you, and his presence was felt, large and magnetic.

Leather sliding from skin, you sensed his eyes on you, taking in your illuminated skin. You had the greatest urge to shiver, but suppressed it, waiting for his next move.

A small breath hitched in your throat when Chris grabbed onto the first pair of laces and tugged them back, pulling you to him. 

Almost too conveniently, your rear backed against his crotch, and a minute noise escaped you before putting some distance between you two again. You instantly regretted the action, already missing the mere caress of what lay underneath his trousers.

“Stop fidgeting,____,” he ordered, and you immediately stilled, the tug still adamant at your back. Almost disgraceful how quickly you listened to him.

Slowly, he tied the first bow, right to the small of your back. When he started on the second, though, the first touch of his fingers against your back threw you off guard.

You should have expected this. You should have known from the start of his task that his fingers would graze your skin but each caress was like a lick of fire, threatening to singe the skin. Your breath caught in your throat, each time Chris touched you.

Those damned fingers skirted upwards, tying up the laces with such delicacy it nearly softened your stance, if only you didn’t notice his growing warmth. You realised with no small amount of pleasure that he, too, was possibly flustered.

Christopher Bang. Flustered over a girl.

You almost gasped when his hands brought a few stray curls over your shoulder, the dip of your neck exposed as he began the final bow of your gown. The process was excruciatingly slow, each little caress enough for you to turn around and—

And what?

How you desperately wanted to find out. 

Sensing the ribbon curling upon your neck, you understood. 

“It is done,” he whispered, and you shifted at the sigh which kissed your skin. God, he was so close, you were scared that if you turned around his lips—

You did not need to worry when you felt strong hands grip your shoulders, whirling you around in a sudden fashion. Your eyes widened at the close proximity of his face, his beautiful fucking face, and the warm, slender hands on your naked shoulders.

“Chan,” you let yourself say, and you swore the criminal’s eyes darkened. His grip on you tightened.

Perhaps he would have closed the distance, saved you from desperation when someone knocked on the goddamn door.

“___?!”

“Hurry up, the carriage is waiting!”

“Women, honestly—!”

You yelped at the sound of your friends bellowing behind the door. Even Chris looked a little surprised, a slight tick in his jaw as the noise grew louder.

Grabbing onto your skirts, you thundered towards the door, furrowing your brows as you twisted the knob, opening to see the same two idiots, shooting you irritated glares. 

“Is Miss Fancy-Shmancy finally ready?” Changbin drawled, propping a hand upon his hip, tails of his coat dangling behind him.

“Madame certainly took her time,” Jisung went on, sauntering into your bedroom without a care. “Might as well not attend the ball at all—”

His incessant rambling was instantly ceased when he saw Chris standing before you, putting on his gloves. His face was impassive as ever, save for the jaw still tightened.

“Oh, Chris,” he said, and started backing away to the door. “The carriage is outside.”

“Let us go, then,” he only replied as he grabbed his longcoat, strolling out of your bedroom, leaving your skin tingling and heart confused.

Changbin watched Chris exit the building, turning to you with a raised brow. “What was the Mr. Thorns-up-his-arse doing in your room?”

You scoffed at the nickname, picking up the invitations from the dresser. “He was just helping me.”

Jisung’s lips curved into a smirk. “Helping you…?”

“Stop it!” You demanded, but both of the boys could see the blush on your cheeks, even from the dim lamp light. 

“Come on, now,____,” Changbin said, holding out an arm, and hitting Jisung’s arm to do the same. “Let us follow Chris before he shouts at us for keeping you here.”

“Don’t say such things,” you cooed, looping your arms with the two boys. “He will kill you outright instead.”

Laughter emitted from the two, leading you out of the room, down the halls and soon the building.

The carriage was waiting at the entrance of the dock, horses neighing softly at your arrival. Jisung opened the carriage door, letting you climb inside. Chris, inside already, held out a hand, you taking it as he had you sit beside him. His hard figure brushed against your shoulders, reminding you of his fingers on your back not too long ago.

Just like that, you slumped against the seating. That man was truly going to be the death of you.

When the two boys scrambled inside, Chris’ hand thudded against the roof, indicating it to start riding. The carriage obliged to his command. 

The small, interwoven streets widened as the carriage rode upon the main roads, going faster with each signal of Chris’ hand. The inside was alive with Jisung gloating shamelessly over his checkered waistcoat, with Changbin giving reassurances for his “ugly face ruining the clothing.” You laughed at every jab the two threw at each other, but would tense at the erratic touches Chris’ knee would send with every shake of the vehicle. Although the many layers of skirts cushioned these brushes, the blood rushing to your cheeks was evidence enough - everything he did made you so unhinged.

Soon, the big roads led from filthy, back-to-back housing to larger homes, the further the dirty central city strayed from you. A few touches of countryside teased your view when you saw mansions, estates the size of neighbourhoods gracing the surroundings. The carriage began to slow down, as more people adorned in fine attire entered your window view, no doubt going to the same destination as the gang.

The most illuminated estate welcomed you as the carriage stopped right before its vast, colourful gardens, smattering of couples taking intimate walks along the hedges. Chris, noticing the destination, opened the door, Changbin following suit. As the former got out he held out his hand to you. Surprised by his sudden manners, you took his hand, stepping down from the carriage, careful of your skirts as they brushed against the pavement. Jisung and Changbin were right beside you, uttering the driver to come back within a couple of hours.

“Now,” Chris began, bringing your hand to his arm. “You both stay behind me and ____. You wouldn’t need invitations if you both act like our bodyguards.”

“Right behind you, boss,” Jisung chanted, counting his knives inside his coat pockets. Changbin took one of the weapons from him, sliding it up his trouser sleeve, securing it with a leather ankle strap. 

“Right.” the gang all looked at each other, silent understanding passing between all of you.

“Let’s ruffle some rich feathers.”

With your hand still on his arm, the leader of the Sons of Seoul led his gang inside of the massive estate. 

Guards at the entrance shot you grave looks as they stopped you. “Invitations,” they said. You obliged, bringing out the golden paper. They looked over, convinced, and gave them back to you.

You and Chris were about to enter when Jisung and Changbin were stopped behind you. “Protection,” Chris said, but the guards were unconvinced. 

“They need invitations too,” was their answer.

Dread, slight yet present, began to fill your stomach. Has the mission failed before it could even begin?

“I suggest you let them in, too,” Chris only said, black eyes piercing the two men with a glare. “Or my friend hosting this party will hear of this inconvenience.”

That seemed to stir the guards, for they said nothing more, letting your friends enter the estate. Jisung and Changbin made sure to smirk at the men before sauntering inside behind you.

Your eyes, upon stepping inside the main hall, were welcomed with paradise. 

Gold. gold upon gold was painted, lined, moulded everywhere, upon the walls, on the floor, on the painted ceiling, hypnotising you with its kaleidoscopic pattern. Swirls of white and silver journeyed along the walls, and the floor bore solid treasures, sculpted into the ground and shining exquisitely from the chandelier lighting. Hundreds of lords and ladies, businessmen and escorts populated the manor, either being moved by the orchestral band, dancing, helping themselves to food from the lines of dishes or simply mingling among others.

It was the chaos of the rich. A place you didn’t quite fit in.

You stole a glance at the man beside you. Even though he looked contained as ever, you felt his arm tightening all over. Perhaps he knew he did not belong in this world either.

The grim understanding was cut off when Changbin’s shrill gulp sounded from behind you.

“Scones!”

The man immediately dashed towards the food section, earning blatant laughter from his friends as Jisung stepped beside Chris. “Once he’s done stuffing himself, we’ll get into positions.” He skirted his eyes over the buzzing crowd. “I have already spotted some of Carter’s men in different corners of the hall, so we can see where they’re going to go.”

“Any signs of Carter?” you asked, already feeling suggestive eyes on your body, the dark red curves of your figure. 

“He’ll show himself soon,” Chris promised, beginning to take a step forward. “The bastard thrives in attention.” He turned to Jisung. “Make yourself scarce.”

He then saw Changbin making himself much too comfortable with the jam scones rapidly declining in his wake. “And for God’s sake, control Changbin.”

Jisung shook his head, mocking a salute before strolling to his friend. You and him were left to your own activities, and soon you felt the tug of his body, leading you further into the hall.

You looked up to see him scouring the room. His brows furrowed slightly, that stiffness felt underneath your fingertips. “Chris,” you called to him, and were answered with an uncertain stare.

“I’m alright,” he said, walking along the lines of the dance floor, looking away when he gave you the false assurance. 

You did not know what was going on. In other missions his composure would never falter — this was what he was so notorious for, being calm despite the anarchy around him. Never before had you seen him so tense.

“Stop it.”

You blinked back into reality. “What?”

“You’re doing it again,” he hissed, raking his hand through his hair. “Looking at me that way. Like I’m about to snap.”

A pout formed on your lips, looking up at him underneath your lashes. “I can sense you’re distressed.” You squeezed his arm in comfort. “I cannot help if I worry for you, Chris.” 

With small surprise, you found him soften, only slightly. “I just…” he sighed in exasperation. “I hate parties.”

You understood the connotations. Wealthy parties. The men and women who throw them. 

“And I, too,” you agreed, earning a soft snort from the man. Your heart warmed a little at the sound, and thankfully the tension faded between the two of you, not necessarily from each other but from the socialites around you.

Your heart, however, received no such rest, beating much too loud for your liking. 

The two of you took another turn of the room before a low, arrogant drawl paused you both in your tracks.

“Mr Christopher Bang.”

You and your leader both sighed simultaneously. 

Turning, you tilted your head upwards to none other than ‘Scar’ Carter, smirking ridiculously down at the the two of you. He was something out of a children’s book, the grotesque villains with wanned skin and beady looks, ready to pounce and make you disappear without you ever realising. Although young, he looked to be in his mid-forties, unkept locks and curled moustache, being played by his fingers. 

He held out his other hand, extending the smile to the man beside you. “Always a goddamned blessing to see you.”

Chris assessed his hand for a moment before he let go of your grip on his arm, slipping off his gloves. His own olive coloured hands were roughened, no doubt from years of manual labour. He took Carter’s hand, shaking the greeting in place, and the latter turned his enemy’s hold, looking over at the new image inked upon the hand.

“What is this, Chrissy?” He mused, the nickname causing the said-man’s lips to twitch. “Some flowery poetry?”

Your eyes strayed to what he meant; just under his thumb, where the joint began, was a tattoo, inked deeply in a cursive hand. It was a phrase you had never knew the meaning of, nor had you asked, but the Latin was beautiful on his textured skin.

NON DUCOR DUCO.

“Not poetry, Carter,” he only said, tracing his sole tattoo with a finger. “But something I live by.”

Despite Carter towering over the man, Chris Bang pinned him with a piercing glare. His signature phantom smile appeared on his lips. 

“I am not led. I lead.”

The giant’s shit-eating grin faltered. You could not help but let a small chuckle escape at his reaction. 

And maybe you shouldn’t have shown amusement, because when he focused his animalistic gaze upon you, you had the sudden urge to hold onto the man beside you again.

“Ah, Miss ____,” he jeered, mocking a deep bow which you did not return. “Chris’ little...protégée.”

He then held out his hand to you, and you knew it was not to shake the gnarled fingers. “Would you do me the honour of dancing with you?”

You scoffed, anger bubbling within your veins. How dare he even ask you, after all the trouble he had caused for the gang? Smirking as if it was all a little game.

Your mouth parted, ready to reject him outright when a warm hand settled on your back. 

Chris’ fingers stroked the exposed skin, skirting over the lacing, and despite the heavenly feeling, you knew what this signal really meant. 

Distraction. This would be the perfect opportunity to divert Carter’s attention while Chris joined in the other’s search. Listening to the instrumental, you realised that would spare them another five minutes.

Reigning in your fury, you offered the bastard a thin-lipped smile before taking his hand, already missing the mere touch of another seconds before.

Carter led you to the dance floor among the other dancers, you hardly radiating the same enthusiasm as the others accompanying you. The man’s other hand, one still holding yours, snaked around your waist, and you hated how it felt against your back, pure distaste staining your features as he tried to impersonate the idle lace curling that Chris did.

As if it physically hurt, you propped a hand upon his shoulder, and when the music began, the game started.

The giant kept ogling at you as the sly grin appeared on his lips. “I must say, I am very envious of Chris.”

You matched his stare. “Of course you would,” you only said, trying your best to sound like your leader, who was an embodiment of calmness. “You can never be the man Chris is.”

“Oh, I did not mean by what he is, my lady,” he corrected. “I meant by what he has.”

He pulled you to him, much to close, and you hissed as the fingers behind you played on your back. “He is much too lucky to possess a creature like you, Miss ____.”

Good God. If he endeavoured to make you as uncomfortable as possible, then he was doing a splendid job. You regretted ever listening to Chris, but for the plan, you will do what is necessary.

As if on cue, you felt dark, piercing eyes on you. By the little hairs which stood at the back of your neck, there was no doubt who watched over you, murmuring progress with Jisung as he sipped wine on a tightly held flute. 

“Tell me, sweet,” he began once more, making you lose your thoughts, turning about the room as the music went on. “Why do you work for a man like him?”

You sighed at the question. Truly this man did not know how to initiate small talk. “Why is that any of your concern?”

“Because I’ve seen you in action,” he answered, and you could not mistake the awe that threatened to expose in his voice. “You have incredible potential, my lady, and it pains me that Chris does not use you properly. You waste your efforts in a silly gang.”

His condescending speech made you dig his nails in his hand. “Careful, Carter,” you seethed, watching his face crumple in pain from your action. “The silly gang you speak of will not hesitate to obliterate your entire organisation. And neither will I.”

Rage flashed in his eyes as he grinned at your claim. “I doubt the esteemed Christopher Bang would even let you participate,” he drawled, grazing his fingers against your back. “You being his whore is enough for him.”

You parted your mouth in slight shock. The reaction quickly evaporated with pure, unadulterated fury. A lot of people speculate your true relationship with Chris, but your own demeaning always struck deep. How dare people think that you only have the power you have because you slept with the greatest criminal in the city? 

With your head raging, you sent your low heel down upon Carter’s boot, a yelp escaping the man as his dancing faltered, grip on you loosening. Fortunately for you, the orchestra smoothed their music to a close, and small applause rang around the room, you joining as you smiled at Carter’s slight groaning.

When the giant looked at you again, all his arrogance was gone, instead a face of wrath. “You bitch-”

You were sure he was going to strike, despite hundreds in the ballroom. Even your smug demeanour dampened when you saw his bear-like hand raise when its journey was paused.

Ceased completely as Chris’ hand wrapped around Carter’s wrists.

Your leader’s smile was sharp, like a decorated dagger. “Are you already creating a scene, just when you finished the first dance?”

Carter, dumbfounded by his enemy’s sudden presence, waved off the foreign grip on his hand. “You are never going to find the documents,” he crowed, glaring at the two of you.

Chris, the magnificent bastard, only kept his magnetic smirk as he took your hand, enveloping his fingers with yours. “We shall see about that,” he promised, and dipped his head in adieu, turning on his heel and taking you with him. 

You felt your heart flutter when his grip on you stayed, even when Carter stomped off into the crowd. “Bastard,” you hissed. A hum of agreement followed. 

Soon, music began to play a sensual tune, and you looked to the couples joining in the main circle of the floor. You made to leave that area when you felt the man refused to be led. 

You looked back, noticing an uncertain emotion swirling in his eyes. “The dance is about to begin.”

“So?” he merely said, hands still clasping yours. The people around you began to take positions. 

“Chris,” you got out. “You do not dance.”

A small smile enveloped his mouth at the claim. He answered in wrapping a hand around you, making you suck in a breath. You caught sight of the tattoo inked on his skin as he raised his hold on. NON DUCOR DUCO.

I am not led. I lead.

“You’re right,” he admitted. As the first tune of the violin settled in the ballroom, the man took a step. “But I let it slide on special occasions.”

You did not reply, only staring at him as you happily let him turn you about the dance floor.

Your assumptions were correct - Chris Bang was a wonderful dancer. The man already possessed a natural smoothness in his usual movement, but the way he led you across the room gave fluidity another meaning entirely. His hand on your back was an anchor to reality, keeping you from dreaming away in the skies above, and his fingers, interlocked with yours, were a silent promise that he was never letting you go. 

You were so caught up in your fantasies that you did not hear what Chris said until he called your name. 

“____.”

You perked up, raising your brows. “Yes?

“Did Carter say anything to you?” His fingers on your exposed skin began to caress you, and it took a lot within you to stay calm. “You were seething while you both danced.”

Oh, so he was watching you. The information didn’t help your nerves. “He was being his usual, charming self,” you drawled, careful of your feet. 

He paused a bit at your unhelpful answer. “I see,” he got out, index curling with the ribbon of your back. You let out a shuddered breath, not going unnoticed by the man. 

You changed the subject, focusing on the mission. “Are Jisung and Changbin still searching for the documents?”

Chris, on the note, twirled you delicately, and brought you back into his arms. “They have discovered the hideout, and have taken down half the men,” he informed, and you sighed in relief. “They’ll find what we’re looking for soon.”

“I hope so, too,” you murmured, listening to the music ascend in its pitch. 

So much finery radiated in this room. As your eyes drifted to the surroundings once more, you became slightly envious of the family fortunate enough to reside in this estate, and drink in the liquid gold splattered everywhere in the vast hall. Complaints were heard from a rather nasty woman, who screamed at a young servant for spilling wine on her oh so expensive dress, and the jewellery which glittered upon necks and ears. 

This. you hated this. Despised the wealth which accumulated in this ball, this entire neighbourhood. Not months ago you were about to die from the lack of food in your stomach. No doubt these people simply relished another one of these many balls, occurring every season.

It was the only reason the Sons of Seoul existed in the first place. To battle the ranks of the rich, and establish a sense of justice which had long faded from London.

Perhaps Chris sensed your growing disgust at the environment, for he sighed. “I hate these people.”

You nearly smiled at how similar you both think.

His touches still had you nearing closer to him as he continued, “I hate how everyone here can simply enjoy themselves without a care in the world. I hate the Mayor for letting this chaos happen as he sits back on his arse, corruption spiking under his office.”

His anger grew. “I hate that pig-headed prick Carter and all the trouble he’s brought me. I hate that he stole those documents and constantly fucks with me as if we two had not crawled out of the same hellhole.

“And God,” he snapped, pure venom now lacing his tongue, “I hate how he was touching you as if you were no one but his.”

Your eyes widened at the confession.

He groaned out in frustration, fingers tightening on your hand. “I hate how Jisung and Changbin walked in on us this evening. Despise that the moment I was about to close the distance they burst through the door, leaving me helpless. And I hate feeling helpless.”

You did not know what to say, what words to comfort him with. Not when you were thinking the exact same thing, and felt the exact same agitation, particularly at your core.

The man leaned in, eyes heavy lidded. “You know what I hate the most, ____?”

Gulping, you let out a little, “What?” afraid of what he was going to reveal.

His tongue ran along his bottom lip, fingers continuing their teasing.

“I-” he seethed, gripping your back tightly. “Fuck, I hate how ravishing you look in that dress.”

You parted your mouth in shock, blushing the colour of roses. “Why do you hate that?” you only asked, breath almost lost in your lungs as your blood began to thrum beneath your skin.

His eyes lost all dreamy light when a small curve enveloped his lips. “Because, my dear ____,” he muttered hoarsely, each breath ragged, “It makes me think of all the things I want to do to you.”

The strong hand on his back was felt much more, fingers playing with the laces of your dress. You nearly cried out in front of a hundred people over their idle play, and his bold, bold statement.

Chris relished in your whimpering reaction. “Aren’t you going to ask me?” he whispered, leaning in till his mouth hovered near your ear. “Do you not want to know what I wish to do to you?”

“What,” you rasped out, grip tightening over his neck. “What are you going to do?”

His husky chuckling nearly sent you over the edge. “I’ll find a nice little space, away from Carter and all these people,” he began, breath caressing your skin. “Then I’ll kiss you slowly, like so.” he pressed a chaste kiss underneath your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “These hands of mine will roam all over, but they will gladly trail up your legs, ____.

“And God, when my hands stop at your sopping cunt, I’ll make it cry with my fingers.” He drummed his fingers on your back. “One.” Tap. “Two.” Tap. “Three of them.” Tap. “Perhaps you’d like more.”

You whined into his shoulder, feet stumbling as you clung onto him tighter. “M-more,” you pleaded quietly, so careful to keep dancing, move along to the music. 

“Of course you would,” he only cooed in your ear, and you were scared you would collapse over his words. “Luckily for you, I wouldn’t be finished with you either.”

Your hand, clasped in his his, squeezed at his words. “Chris, please—”

“Yes, just like that,” the man mused, whirling you on the dance floor. “Just like that, you’ll beg me to send you over the edge, but I won’t let you be satisfied so easily.” 

On God and all his subjects, if he did not cease his filth you were going to come onto the floor by his mere words. You could tell Chris noticed, almost reading your mind as the ghost of a smirk widened. “Already afraid, love?”

Love. 

Dear, fucking God.

“You see, ____,” he muttered, leading you to the final round of the song, the steps of the dance going faster. “I won’t let you be satiated with just my fingers.”

And as he broke his hold on you, twirling you with his tattooed hand, he pulled you to him, one last time, crushing you against his granite chest. 

His eyes bore into yours when the last string of the violin wailed around the hall. All you could see was pure, unadulterated desire.

“I will have you writhing with my cock.”

Your eyes never left Chris’ as the music finally came to a close, gaze blurring at the dark promise. Applause scattered around the ballroom, yet your hands stayed upon his arm, the other enveloped in his.

You caught the words once more under his thumb. NON DUCOR DUCO.

Indeed you do.

“Chris,” you breathed out, waiting for him to let you go. He did no such thing.

Feeling a few suspicious eyes on you, your feet backed away from the man, hands escaping the feeling he emitted underneath your touch. 

A whine threatened to escape you when you saw his desire had not dampened. His hands shook, only slightly, and your stomach erupted into a million butterflies, journeying lower and lower. 

You wanted him. You wanted him so badly you feared you would faint on the dance floor. 

Excusing yourself, you hastened your footsteps, sending a few smiles to passerbys as you picked up a flute of champagne, hurrying down long hallways, catching a few couples leaning towards each other. When you found a grand wooden cabinet beside another door, no doubt a guest room, you slumped next to it, breathing loud and ragged, too affected by a certain man’s eyes and the hidden intentions underneath. You drank the entire champagne in one gulp, propping the flute on a servant’s tray as he rushed by.

“____!”

Gasping, you turned to the source of the voice. The voice which filled you with such unexplainable hunger you had to clench your thighs as it drew nearer.

Footsteps thudded against the carpet, and you squirmed at the sight of Chris Bang, storming towards you with a ferocity which had your knees near buckling.

“Where,” he began, voice an octave lower as he stood not a foot from you, smacking his hands against the wall, caging you with his presence. “Were you trying to lead me?”

“Somewhere where they cannot see us,” you responded, excitement clear in your voice. The ballroom chatter was still within your range, so technically, anyone could wonder down these halls, look over the cabinet and catch you both. 

The throbbing inside you didn’t particularly care. 

“And what do you want me to do,____,” he murmured, and his voice was glazed with pure lust,  “Which the world cannot see?”

“I…” slight shame tried to course through your body but the overflowing desire was too strong. Not when your tongue was not afraid to voice what was in your heart the moment you first saw him. “I want you to do all those things you said. I want you to ruin me.”

And perhaps that was all he needed, when Christopher Bang pressed his lips against yours and answered your prayers.

He was instantly rewarded with your surprised whine, drowned out by the movement of his mouth as his hands left the wall, holding onto your face. His thumbs caressed your cheeks as he led the fiery kiss, opening your mouth to let the little noises escape.

“Chris,” you tried to rasp out, but his lips refused once more as he tilted your head, gaining full access and truly discovering the sheer pleasure oozing from the swell of your lips. God, he had gone through every experience which gave him a sense of thrill, but the kiss he shared with you brought him a new, foreign high — as if he tried the drugs he had seen on the streets for the first time, and becoming addicted on the first dose. 

You broke the kiss, gasping for air as the two of you shared a carnal gaze, chests rising at an unsteady rhythm. Chris was ruthless, only sparing you for a few seconds before pouncing back in on your mouth, this time tongue playing along, asking to be let inside and slide along the inner workings. You would have been a fool to refuse him.

The moment you opened your lips for him his tongue slithered inside, sliding it along the roof of your mouth, while his hands left your face and instead gripped onto your waist, driving you further against the wall, snuffing out any distance which dared come between you and him.

A slightly moan bubbled within your throat when he began to roughen your lips, capturing your tongue before closing the seam of your mouth within his own, repeating the action until you didn’t know whether you were sane or absolutely fucking crazy.

You were sure straight after when one of his hands began sliding down. Down. He hurriedly broke the kiss, letting out an angry groan at the never ending skirts which met with his fingers. “Fuck this dress,” he cursed as he descended a little, peppering kisses upon the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your neck, trailing until he found the hem of your skirts.

Bunching them up with his one hand, he lifted the fabric, baring your legs to the dimmed chandelier light from the main hall. His hand trailed right up to your core, a single layer hiding it from Chris’ fingers. The poor, soaked fabric could not ever compete, when the criminal, with a single finger as he scattered kisses upon your face, hooked under the lacey underwear, sliding it down your thighs. So much desperation lurked he did not even bother to slide it down to your ankles,  a chuckle rasping out of him as his fingers skimmed your upper thighs to find them dripping with the suppressed arousal.

“My poor, poor, darling,” he whispered in a menacing tone, the other hand caressing your face, “Couldn’t contain yourself for me?”

“Ch-chan,” you heard yourself say, because at this point your soul was not present, probably lurking in seventh heaven where this man was taking you. 

Hearing his name on your slurred mouth only had him plunging the first finger inside you. 

You let out an obscenely loud moan, which was immediately followed by hushing. “Don’t make a sound,” he demanded, smiling slyly at your whimpering, “Or else I stop. Understand?”

You could not nod fast enough, and he huffed out a laugh before sliding the second finger in, rubbing against your slit, drawing circles upon your throbbing skin, testing the rather sticky waters of you and your fucked out state. 

Satisfied, he delved the two fingers in deeper, pulsating against your walls until they hit a certain spot which had you crying out in pleasure. Chris’ heavy lidded warning flashed in his eyes.

You nearly cried when he began to slide his fingers out over your moaning, your hand immediately stopping him from pulling out further. “Ch-Chan,” you pleaded, pleaded like the whores you heard on the docks, but you didn’t care, did not give a single fuck when those fingers needed to be inside you again. “Chan, please, I’m sorry—”

“One more fuck up, ____, and these—” his fingers plunged back into you once more, hitching you upwards with the sheer force, “—will be back out.”

Nodding hastily, you left your hand on his wrist. Chris continued to work so deliciously inside you that it took every ounce of strength left in you not to bring the manor down with your moaning. The whimpering could not be contained, but the criminal let that slide, finding great contentment every time you begged for more.

He curled his slender fingers, acquainting himself with that same bloody spot which had you seeing stars. Your hands gripped onto his neck for stability, nails digging into his shirt. How you wanted it off, along with all the damned layers he adorned.

The way he played with your sweet spot had you feeling heavy, a pleasured ball of pain forming at your lower back. You knew you were being led to an edge, an edge you could not, did not want to escape, and when you pulled away from Chris, looking into his eyes, he instantly understood.

“Oh my, love,” he simpered, his free hand thumbing your cheek. “Does someone want to get fucked against the wall? When I’m not even finished with them yet?”

Tears lined your eyes, cunt throbbing almost painfully around his fingers. “Chan, I’m going to—ah!” you cut off, closing your eyes as you barely held on to your last grips of sanity. “Chan.”

Your weakened, fucked out demeanour had the most dangerous man in London fearing for his own senses. He wished nothing more than you screaming his name for the whole city to hear, and with you, looking at him like that…

Oh, he was definitely going to drive you over the edge.

Christopher Bang nearly carried out his promise when a shrill call interrupted you two. 

“CHRIS! ____!”

“WHERE ARE YOU—?”

Your lust-glazed stare cracked as you blinked. “Chan,” you said his name, but the man let out an enraged roar. You felt the hollow emptiness when those golden fingers were pulled out of you, sticky residue coating his skin. The footsteps grew closer, the volume of the shouting increasing. 

Chris brought out a white handkerchief, cleaning your mess on his fingers rather aggressively. “I’m going to fucking kill them,” he guttered out, making your legs tremble. To your utmost misery you felt the orgasm, so close before, fading from existence, and you made a silent vow to break Jisung and Changbin’s legs the moment all of this was over.

Speaking of the Devil, the two hastened, opening all doors and closing them till the two stumbled upon the both of you, infuriated and worryingly turned on.

Changbin looked at the deflated expression on both of yours faces. “Chris? ____?” His eyes narrowed, trying to work out the reasons for the slight electric atmosphere he suddenly entered in. “Are you both...alright?”

“Perfectly,” the man answered in a ragged hiss, sliding on his gloves again, smoothing over his raven locks. “Now why the fuck are you both here?”

The two boys did not understand their leader’s anger. Choosing to let the snipe slide, Jisung said, “We’ve caught Carter.”

That seemed to send you and Chris back in reality. Well, not really, when your core still throbbed, the pleasure fading with each passing second.

“Where is he?” Chris flattened out his coat. “Where are the documents?”

Changbin brought out a small file from inside his waistcoat, holding it out for the former. “Right here.”

Chris took the file, skimming through the contents. His previously angered expression relaxed, just a fraction, and he held onto it as he set his powerful gaze on you all. 

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

The four of you managed to slip away easily, you trying your hardest to fix yourself after the whole fiasco in the hallway. Your heart was still running a mile per minute, refusing to calm as your mind relived the events. The original carriage which you all arrived in was now accompanied with another one, with a dark figure hunched over from the window’s view.

“We threw the giant fucker in another carriage,” Changbin said, laughing as he recalled the takedown with Jisung. “Man could not believe he was failing!”

Chris ignored his story, turning to you all as he stood before Carter’s carriage. “You three, take the free one,” he ordered, his eyes rooted on you. “I will journey home with him.”

“But Chris,” you began, taking a step towards him, “Let me come with you.”

You caught a glimpse of the desire which swirled in his eyes, not long ago, and perhaps that was why he held your arm in his now gloved hand. 

“Go,” he only said. “I have a few things to say to him alone.”

After letting you go, nodding at the boys behind you, Chris Bang stepped inside the first carriage, slamming the door shut. The metal wheels screeched as the whole thing began to move, accelerating away.

You watched the carriage fade from view, Jisung and Changbin stepping beside you.

“What happened, ____?” the former asked, the other trying to comfort you with his gaze. 

Silence was their only answer, as you turned on your heel, climbing inside your designated ride and watched the stars twinkle from the window.

The two members of the gang really tried their best.

As you all journeyed home without your leader, the pair told their tale of how they took down Carter and his men, Jisung adding exaggerated gasps as Changbin demonstrated each kill he thrust upon his victims. You offered them a few laughs, giving them your attention, but really your mind was somewhere else, specifically a midnight-tainted criminal who nearly brought you your undoing.

You were insane. Insane as you thought of him, insane as you remembered how wonderfully he had you writhing over him, just by his fingers. The mindless pondering alone had your cunt pulsating, and you deserved an award for how unaffected you acted with your friends. 

Soon, the carriage slowed to a stop, and you perked up, not realising you had already arrived home. 

You waited for the boys to exit before you stepped out of the carriage, the only light on the docks emitting from lamps and the night sky, reflected on the surface of the river. The first carriage was already there when your feet met the concrete floor, and when you turned to the man who reigned in your mind he had his signature expression, an aloof distaste as he walked over to his gang. 

“Jisung, Changbin,” he called, and the boys responded. “Lock the carriage door,” he ordered, jerking his chin towards his transport. “We will bring him out in the morning.”

“Chris, should we not throw him in the cellar?” Changbin glared at Carter’s direction. “Bastard might escape.”

He only slid his hands in his pockets, you catching the dried blood on his gloves. “Oh, don’t worry about that,” he said, striking a step towards the building. “He’s not going to disturb us tonight. I can promise you that.”

Jisung cursed low along with you, only watching the man walk back to the bedrooms. Bidding goodnight to your friends, you followed Chris’ trail, opening the door and stepping inside the hallway.

You saw him before his bedroom door, bringing out a rusted key. His eyes slid to you as your feet brought you to your entrance. You looked back, waiting as Chris unlocked his room and began to enter.

He turned back, something dark and twisted still lurking in his eyes.

You waited, so patiently at the words you wished to hear, of him finally ruining you.

Instead, you received something else entirely.

“Goodnight, ____.”

And closed the door behind him.

Your heart dropped. 

Fell to the floor, and shattered under the criminal’s bloodied boots. 

The light of the hallway flickered as you stood rooted to the doorway, eyes staring at Chris’ door as if looking at it hard enough would get him to change his mind.

What did you know. The man is not led by exterior forces. Only by his own will.

When you gathered up the strength to the slam the door shut, you slumped against the wood, hating yourself for the tears which threatened to break the lines of your eyes. This was pathetic — utterly disgusting that you were about to cry over his decision.

But you could not help it. You were so enraptured by him. Hell, you were ready to throw yourself in the fires of damnation for him, as he whispered filth all the while rutting against you. Why had that suddenly changed?

“Argh!” You screamed, stomping over to the lamp, light now long extinguished. You relit it’s spark, illuminating the room once more, and set it on the stool before recklessly plucking out the pearls in your hair, a few tears daring to trail down your cheeks. 

Fuck him. Fuck him for making you so rattled. Fuck him for having that effect on you.

You looked into your mirror and cursing yourself for the disheveled appearance. Again, the consequences for letting yourself fall for him.

“To hell with you Bang Chan,” you cursed. 

You were about to untie your dress when your bedroom door was nearly ripped off its hinges. 

Flinching, you grabbed the dagger on your dresser, raised to cut down whoever stupid enough to barge in on an assassin at midnight.

You were met with Christopher Bang. 

And the disorder he brought with him.

Chaos reigned in his figure; his tousled locks, his star-struck expression, his rolled-up sleeves and his pandemonic eyes, all working together and against each other to create the man you had never seen in your life. 

Good God. What had happened to him?

“Chan?” You got out, dagger now brought down. He said not a single word in response as he slammed the door shut, hard enough for the entirety of London to hear. 

Instead, he imprisoned you with his stare, almost giving you his chaos. The chaos you had always shared with him since the moment he picked you off the streets.

No, he said not one word — only took the steps needed to march towards you. You could only watch with widening eyes when he grabbed your face in his rugged hands and collided his lips against yours. 

You did not even hesitate to comply, hands grabbing onto his shirt, pulling him as close as you possibly could, so afraid that he would disappear from your grip if you dared let go. With the way he moved his mouth along yours, however, already opening up the familiar workings, you had a feeling he was not going to abandon you now.

When he broke away, breathing already erratic, his hands slid down to your neck, thumbs caressing the length of your throat. “I couldn’t,” he started, and he was sprinkling kisses all over your face. “I couldn’t leave.”

“I was scared, Chan,” you confessed, fisting the material harder. “I thought you truly did.”

His eyes focused on you. Within the turmoil, there was a promise. “Never,” he whispered, leaning in. “Never again.”

And suddenly his lips were on you, and the desperation was so rooted he nearly stole the very breath from your lungs. The sheer intensity, the longing implied broke your heart to the point you attached yourself to him, wrapping your arms around him and refusing to ever let him go.

The rather soft kiss began to heat up, as Chris broke the seam of your lips, swirling your tongue in his, already receiving incoherent praise from deep down your throat, making the man smile against his lips as he continued. 

His hands slid further down, right to the small of your back, where he began to untie all the little bows he created for you at the dawn of the evening, the little touches of fire singeing you still. It was fascinating how effortlessly he loosened all the laces, fingers sliding through the patterns until one by one they fluttered down, until the dark red dress slackened around your chest. 

A small gasp escaped you as Chris, while creating a trail of kisses down your jaw, right down to your neck, grabs the dress from your sides, hitching it down until it falls to the floor. Leaving you practically naked save for the scraps covering your dangerously soiled underwear. 

Chris paused from his ravishing, taking a much too long look at your skin, glowing from the lamp light, and before he could stare any longer you brought your arms to your chest, suddenly becoming a little too embarassed to let him see you at your most vulnerable. 

The supposedly unfeeling criminal, however, nearly broke into a smile at your flustered nature, and grabbed onto your wrists, opening the lock to your breasts, peaked by his actions, and the thought of what was to come.

The soiled underwear was about to drip at this point.

“You’re exquisite,” was all he said, making you almost burst into tears at the praise. You pressed a long, heart shattering kiss upon his mouth, and he responded perfectly, hands sliding to your naked waist, each drum of his fingers like a tug towards a dangerous edge. 

Things began to take a turn, open mouthed kisses being plastered on the skin of your throat as the man pushed you back, further and further until the back of your knees hit the bed, stopping you in his tracks. His grip on your waist directed downwards, planting you on the mattress as his mouth descended to your collarbone, down and down until he licked your peaked nipple in a way that had you moaning obscenely loud. His husky chuckle resonated along your skin, still not pausing his trail until he hit the end of the dip of your cunt, barricaded by the fabric. 

The moment he looked up at you, that alone made you nearly undo yourself. By the increasing volume of your breathing, Chris seemed to realise so too.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he got out, watching you whimper at each touch caressing your hips. “Already about to come when I haven’t even done anything?”

“Ch-Chan,” you pleaded, wishing for those damned fingers of his to plunge inside of you. The son of a bitch was taking his time, making you wait knowing it pained you to stay like this. “Chan—”

His name on your tongue had him gritting his teeth, hands on each of your side grabbing onto your lace, and sliding your underwear down, all the way till it fell free from your legs and threw it across the room, forgotten when Chris parted his mouth at the moistened treasure between your legs. 

Those roughened hands steeled their grip on your thighs, pulling you closer till you sat right on the edge of the bed, cunt mere inches from his face. You could not even comprehend the insanity of this situation, that the hidden fantasies you dreamed of shamelessly were morphing into reality right before your eyes.

“So, so pretty,” he murmured, blowing a little air on your slick folds, earning himself a sucked in breath from his truly. “So pretty and wet, and all because of me.”

You let out a ragged breath, words of filth sounding so foreign on his tongue. It was not like he didn’t talk like the sailors living near you on the docks, but these dirty words and dirtier intentions, now all directed at you, made you feel so flustered, in a wondrous way you could not possibly describe. All you wanted was for him to keep singing this filth till you blacked out.

Chris, with the force of his hands, spread your thighs a little wider, and without warning broke his tongue from the seam of his lips, planting it upon your slit and moving it slowly over the surface.

That alone made you cry out in ecstasy.

But that was only a test, a taking on of foreign surroundings before truly welcoming himself, and by God, did he welcome himself in as more than a guest, when that tongue slid deeper and performed strokes which had you seeing all the stars in the universe. 

What was first slow teasing then became a starved hunt, tongue relishing in the sweet arousal you emitted, lapping it up brazenly as if he had been wanting to do this for a long, long time. Your blubbering grew louder with every lick, fisting the sheets behind you with such ferocity you were sure they’d tear. 

And if that wasn’t painstakingly enough, the man spread your legs a little wider, his tattooed hand, two fingers out, sliding straight inside you, making you mewl at the way they tightened they walls they journeyed in. Curling, just like they did earlier in the evening, they took their time finding the certain little spot which had you bringing the house down with your cries. 

“Ch-Chan, please, please, I’m going to—AH!” You rasped out, when the said-criminal found the sweet little undoing of yours and stroked your fingers along the sensitive spot, making that bundle of pleasure resonating in your back appear once more, like a low throbbing begging to be released.

His tongue had not given you any breaks, still working ruthlessly along your clit and you cried for him to give you that sweet release, to just let you come but he had not let you be satisfied this easily. No, he wanted you writhing underneath him, wanted the final ruination to be from underneath his trousers, angered as it outlined against his leather.

You craned your head back, screaming out his name because you knew all else had abandoned you. “Chan!” Looking down, his mouth very much occupied with your cunt. Your orgasm was reaching, was on the very edge, and if he kept working on you like this he was on his way to taste the consequences of his actions.

Something about that image made you want it as a reality with a worryingly strong intensity. 

“Chan, I’m going to—” you were about to warn but were interrupted by a squeeze of your thigh, done by yours truly as if he knew. And as if he knew, the two fingers began pumping much faster, harmonising along with his tongue, and the two actions at once, fucking you with that rapidity was so pleasurable that, with the first earth-shattering cry of the night, you were driven over the edge, releasing your orgasm straight into the criminal’s face.

You felt the work of his fingers slow down, along with his tongue, that with one, final lick, he retreated from your cunt, fingers still inside you as they comforted your aching core with slow, soothing strokes. 

When he looked up at you, though, with your residue mostly upon his mouth, scattered on his cheeks, and basically a bit of everywhere, that sight alone nearly caused you to come all over again. 

Perhaps that was his intentions. 

Because when he licked his lips clean of your mess, ever so slowly, as if enjoying your orgasm like a man starved, you instantly saw in his eyes that this night was not over yet. 

“Already so good, so wonderful,” he mused, slipping his fingers out, both hands now resting on your thighs. “Coming so quick even though I had been saving for the last.”

You knew exactly what he meant, but still had the nerve to ask, “The last?”

He raised a groomed brow, and that gesture was so breathtaking, more so when he raised himself slightly, so he knelt eye-level to you. “Don’t act oblivious, love,” he mused, leaving your thighs to your disappointment, but quickly diminishing when his fingers worked on the buttons of his shirt, slowly popping upon, each patch of skin being revealed like a show of your own. “We both know this isn’t how it’s going to end.”

Shivers crawled down your spine, but you only watched as the man finished undoing his shirt, peeling it off of him and throwing it amongst the other clothing. You nearly let spit trail down your chin at the sheer finery of his muscle alone, sharpened at his arms, his chest all the way down to his v-line, which dipped dangerously low. With no small amount of pride, you also noticed the large, angry outline of Chris’ cock, begging to be set free. 

The man caught you blatantly staring, and a shit-eating grin twisted his glistening lips. “You may do the honours if you’re so keen.”

Blushing, you mumbled a shut up, but was captured by Chris’ lips, tasting your own arousal on his tongue, as his grip on you led you further into the bed, while you fumbled on the buttons of his trousers, popping them open one by one when you broke from the kiss, your turn to shower him with more along the veiny expanse of his neck as you pulled his trousers down, tossing them among the pile.

When you saw the slight-stained underwear of his, you felt the familiar throbbing again, so affected by how you affected him. Noticing your apparent pride, he pressed his lips upon you in a searing kiss, peeling off any last scrap of clothing and forgetting that too among the other clothing.

And by God, when Chris Bang’s cock escaped from his underthings your mouth actually watered at the sheer size it bore. Husky laughter resonated in your ears, and you flushed the colour of blood when he caught you staring much too audaciously than he would have imagined. 

“Already fantasising about my cock?” He slurred, the tattooed hand curling stray hairs from your sweat-slick, flushed face. The way you scrunched your nose, clearly flustered by his comment, melted his stone cold heart, as he caressed your cheeks with his fingers. 

You did not answer him, only whispering his name along his skin, waiting and waiting for the man to drive that force home inside you. “Chan,” you murmured, and the name you kept saying like a religious chant, like it was the only word that mattered, was what brought him to grip his cock, directing it against your entrance, the still slick folds which grew more wet every time the tip caressed the sensitive skin. “Chan, please—”

“Please what?” He demanded, demanded because he needed to hear you precisely want you wanted. The words he practically prayed would be on your tongue the moment he kissed you for the first time this evening.

Obliging him was like second nature. “Please fuck me, Chan,” you breathed out, holding onto his shoulders, knowing you were going to need a hell of a good grip for what was about to arrive. “Please, just ruin me with your cock.”

A malicious smile curled upon his lips. “Good, good girl,” he purred, and began the descend which you dreamed of the very first night you realised you were ridiculously attracted to him.

His cock slid inside you, and with a soul-wrenching whine, was perfectly snug as the journey went on, and on, and on, until you were certain you could not take anymore, despite the man retaining a few inches. He was slow at first, making sure you were not going to be pained by this action. Although your nails dug into the granite muscle of his shoulders, you only egged him on. “M-more,” you only said, and he readily obliged, until you felt him all around you in your body, as if he had filled you up to the brim. 

“Ready?” He asked, and when you nodded, he rested his forehead against yours as gently, he began to pull out. 

You nearly whined at the lack of inches filling you up, but then he brought his cock back in, creating this hypnotic rhythm which was so unimaginably ethereal you felt yourself float amongst the clouds. Each thrust out and thrust in was a drive in and out of reality, with Chris Bang holding the tether of your survival, pulling you in and out of his mercy. 

Gradually, he began to fasten, panting as his drove into you with more force, and when the momentum hardened, you felt your soul leave your body. His cock created wonders for you, having you scream in unimaginable pleasure, and driving your nails into his back was not enough, your lewd moaning not enough given to his sheer skill, his pure simplicity in bringing his cock back and front which had you seeing stars. Hell, Christopher Bang showed you undiscovered universes, leading you across galaxies and unfamiliar cosmos, each thrust in a different vision, and when he lifted your leg a little higher for more access, you feared that you would wake the whole docks with your groaning, for this criminal, this heartless criminal provided you with the whole universe with the simple strokes of his cock inside you, and all you could offer him were screams. 

Even your reactions were pure Beethoven to his ears, relishing in your fucked out state as he gave you all he asked, driving you to the edge of the world. You, finally, clashed your lips against his, offering him sloppy, open mouthed kisses all over his face and neck, and that alone had him greeting his teeth, knowing his own release was near. You were going to die if he was not given the same pleasure as you, so you reacted with each of his touches, each of his thrusts, him practically pistoning you upon this bed which very much would break. 

“Ch...Chan…” you grated out, eyes blurring, vision completely fucked, “I’m...I-I—”

“I—fuck,” he too got out, for your last love mark painted onto to the curve of his neck nearly had him ruined. “I’m going to come, too, love—”

“Chan!” You whined, because the throbbing was there, and was so close that if the man did not send that last thrust home then it was all for nothing, everything that had ever happened will all be for nothing.

But he listened. The man who did not listen to anyone or anything listened, and pounded his cock so hard in approval that it had you crying out to the cosmos as you finally let go, orgasm spilling out from whatever space the residue could find between his cock. Your own release had Chris groaning louder than he had even done this entire time, praising you unconditionally, until the filth was cut off by a low curse, with his own release barrelling into you, some joining your spilled mess upon the sheets.

Chris let out a shuddering breath, slowly crossing his movement inside you. Carefully, when you stopped digging your nails into his shoulders, he pulled out, reaching for the blanket untouched and bringing it over you and him before collapsing beside you. Both of you breathed as if you had held your oxygen for a thousand years, chests rising unevenly. 

A silence hung over you two, heavy yet not uncomfortable, lingering in your bedroom. Chris sat up a little, using your pillows behind him as comfort as he raked his hair back, sweat-slick all over, much like you. You held the blanket right up to your chest, hair in disarray, much like your heart. The poor organ threatened to collapse at the events.

Sneakily, you caught a glance at the greatest criminal in London, staring off at the distance, mouth set in a concentrated line. He looked dashing even in his post-sex state, the lines of his chest still stark against his sweat. You truly had never seen a man this beautiful in your life. 

He turned his head to you, catching your staring, and when you tried to look away he captured his chin with his fingers, making you meet his fierce stare. Although dark, the lust had satiated, and instead held passive affection. Well, you hoped it did.

“Why do you still look away?” He demanded in a low, tired voice.

You tried to slide your gaze to the lamp, but was too bewitched by his midnight eyes. “Because you’re beautiful, Chan,” you answered, feeling the blood rush to your face. 

He cocked his head, damp curls sticking to his face. “You say that as if you are not,” he countered. 

You did not say anything then. Even so, he received your answer. 

“____,” he said in a low tone. The grip on your chin loosened, and the hand went to your cheeks, cupping your face. “You are truly flawless. Don’t make me have to make you believe that.”

A small smile hinted at your lips. “And what if I still don’t?”

His answering smirk sent butterflies tumbling once again. After a moment, as if hesitating, he then snaked his arm around you, pulling you closer to him. You were surprised when his one hand fully encircled you, while the other hand, the tattooed hand, rested upon your head, stroking your hair with his slender fingers. You did not pull away, was never going to, only wrapping your arm across his chest. 

It was the first time you had ever seen Christopher Bang hug someone in his life.

“Chan?” You asked.

“Hmm?”

“Why did you get that tattoo?”

He paused for a minute, never ceasing his fingers intertwined in your locks. After a small sigh, which you felt beneath your own fingertips, he said, “It is simply something I live by. 

“Non ducor duco. No one will lead me, love. Only myself.”

You pondered over the roots of this phrase, of the significance for the man you lay with. 

“Good,” you said after a while. “I wouldn’t want anyone leading you either.”

With that, you gave into the soothing movement of Chris’ fingers, working lazily in your hair. And while you dozed off to sleep, the criminal mastermind of the biggest city in the world pondered some more, specifically over his motto.

NON DUCOR DUCO. A phrase which had stayed true for so long no one could ever change it.

But after tonight, as you slowly dozed off under Chris’ caresses, he wondered whether there isn’t one person he wouldn’t mind being led by. 

And as he stole a soft glance at the specific person beside him, he knew. 

He knew that although he will be led by no man, there is one woman who he would, to his own shock, happily be led for. 

So, with that new, and slightly terrifying revelation, Christopher Bang went to sleep, knowing that someone had fucked with him and gotten away. 

And he was willingly going to let it happen. 

[silhouetteofacedar]

Fox Mulder, Closet Romantic Ch.3: Jesus Is A Pisces

Previous Chapter - AO3 - MSR, rated E

Mulder has forgotten Scully’s birthday every year but one. Actually, make that two now, since this year he’s determined to make the day special for her somehow. He’d asked her casually what her plans were, and she admitted that outside of a lunch with her mother and some church friends on Sunday the 22nd, she didn’t really have any intention to celebrate.

“It’s been a rough couple months,” she’d explained softly, and that’s all he needed to hear.  She’d gained and then buried a daughter within a few days’ time over Christmas, for fuck’s sake. He didn’t know how she managed to stay sane after that, and if he thought about it for too long the waves of powerlessness and guilt that rolled over him were debilitating.

So instead he focused on what he could do.

“You wanna do something after work on Monday? I promise to be as un-festive as possible,” he offered.

She looked uncertain, licked her lip. “Just us?” she asked.

“Just you and me,” Mulder assured her, the words giving him a tiny, shameful thrill.

She was quiet for a moment. “Sure,” she said finally.

Come Monday, February 23rd, it’s business as usual in the basement office. They finalize their reports from the previous week’s case, wrangle their receipts, argue over who broke the stapler (It was him, she insists; while he claims she jammed the staples in and made it impossible to use properly).

At three minutes to five o’clock, she clears her throat softly as she gathers her things, and he can feel her preparing to speak.

“Yeah, Scully?” he murmurs.

“We still on for tonight?” she asks, sounding almost cautious, and his heart fractures.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” he confirms, leafing through a file. “Be sure to bundle up.” He looks up at her and gives her a reassuring grin.

She looks happy and… relieved? Huh.

“Well, I’ll see you then,” she says, shrugging on her coat as she leaves.

Mulder smiles at the door as it clicks shut behind her. He’s unusually giddy about what he has planned for the evening.

Over the weekend he had gone to the grocery store since his refrigerator was barren, then camped out in his building’s laundry room all day Sunday washing every blanket he owned. He even stopped at the little bakery around the corner from his apartment, purchasing a single chocolate cupcake and a loaf of rye bread.

After work he packs his car with a cooler, a duffel bag, a large thermos of coffee, and a pile of blankets.

He’s surprised to see that she’s waiting for him on the steps of her apartment, wearing a heavy jacket and thick turtleneck sweater.

“I got too hot wearing all this inside,” she explains, climbing into the passenger seat. She seems almost excited, and he strangely wants to cry. God, he’s so fucking glad he had the balls to invite her out again.

“Where are we going, Mulder?” Scully asks.

“It’s a surprise,” he replies.

Seven minutes and three wrong turns later, he reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out the map, handing it to her. “Rock Creek Park, please, Navigator,” he says.

“Aha! I thought the route we were taking seemed… circuitous,” Scully says with a smirk, unfolding the map.

“Just tell me where to go; I don’t need a running commentary,” he gripes, secretly relishing her needling.

In about twenty minutes, they arrive at the park’s nature center. Mulder pulls into the lot next to the field across the road and cuts the engine.

“We’re here?” Scully asks, looking around. “It’s deserted. Mulder, please don’t tell me we’re ghost hunting,”

“Ghosts? No,” he says, climbing out of the car and going around to the trunk. “Help me with some stuff?”

Scully comes around to the back of the car, where Mulder hands her the cooler and thermos. He slings the duffel bag over his shoulder and gathers up the pile of blankets. “Close the trunk, will you, Scully?” he says, walking towards the field. “My arms are full.”

They trudge out to the middle of the field, cold winter air biting their cheeks. Mulder stops abruptly and drops the blankets onto the ground in a heap.

“We’re here,” he announces, setting down the duffel bag. He picks up a heavy wool blanket and spreads it out on the grass.

Scully sits down on the blanket, cooler and thermos beside her. “What exactly are we doing out here, Mulder?” she asks.

“Well first, we eat,” he replies, reaching for the cooler. He opens it and pulls out two waxed-paper parcels, handing one to her. “Pastrami on rye,” he announces. “I went a little crazy with the mustard on one of them, we can trade if you want.”

“You made these?” she asks, unwrapping the sandwich and taking a bite. “Oh my god,” she groans. “Mulder, you’ve been holding out on me. This is delicious.”

The satisfaction in her voice makes him flush. “It’s pretty hard to mess up pastrami.”

“True,” she agrees, “but I was starting to doubt you could even make food. Your refrigerator is usually pretty sparse.”

Mulder shrugs, opening the thermos of coffee and pouring her a cup. “Cooking for one doesn’t hold much appeal,” he explains.

“Mm,” she agrees around a mouthful of sandwich, taking the proffered cup. “So Mulder, tell me; is there a reason we’re having a picnic in the dark?” She eyes the duffel bag beside him suspiciously.

“I’m glad you asked,” he replies, unzipping the bag and pulling out a tripod. “You know anything about constellations, Scully?”

It’s a rhetorical question, of course. He already knows.

“A thing or two,” she replies casually, clearly attempting to hide the smile sneaking across her mouth as she eats.

“Well that’s good, seeing as I lugged this telescope and a star map all the way out here,” he says, pulling the telescope case out of the bag.

Scully is enraptured, and Mulder thinks this might be the best thing he’s ever done for anyone.

“I haven’t done this in years,” she says, peering through the eyepiece as she adjusts the telescope’s position. “Not since…”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, but she doesn’t have to. He remembers her telling him once, on a long car ride to some anonymous, unremarkable town, about stargazing with her father when she was a child. Captain Ahab and his Starbuck, navigating the night skies by way of celestial markers.

The temperature’s dropping, and Mulder drapes the ratty tribal weave blanket from his couch around her shoulders as she searches the heavens.

“You want a turn?” she asks, drawing back from the telescope for a moment.

He shakes his head, plops down on the blanket and gazes at her instead.

They could be astronauts together, sailors of the stars. Dropping anchor in pools of the Milky Way, swimming through constellations and running their fingers through glittering strands of nebulae.

“I’m good,” he replies softly.

“Mulder?” Scully says from under a pile of blankets.

They’re lying on their backs now, side by side, eyes on the sky. Waiting for a meteor, or a passing satellite, or for God to wave hello.

“Yeah, Scully?”

“Do you give any credence to astrology, or is that too close to religion for you?”

“I appreciate its historical and cultural significance,” he replies. “Beyond that, I can’t say I have much of an opinion on it. Aren’t you a Pisces?” he asks, as though he doesn’t already know that she is, and that he’s a Libra, and that the shitty magazine he picked up in the dentist’s office says they’d be a tumultuous but passionate match. Not that he gives horoscopes any weight.

Passionate, though…

“I am. And I’m inclined to agree with you, though astrology’s link with early Christianity is fascinating. For example, did you know that Jesus is linked to Pisces? His birth coincides with the dawning of the astrological Age of Pisces, which spans from 1 AD to the year 2150. There are many scriptural references to fishermen, and early Christians used the fish symbol as a sign of their faith.”

“Huh,” he says, tucking a blanket more tightly around his shoulders.

“I don’t believe that the stars dictate my temperament, by the way,” Scully continues. “But there’s something beautiful about having a constellation in the sky that corresponds with your own birth. Missy knew more about this stuff,” she say wistfully. “She’d read me my horoscope every morning before school while we brushed our hair or whatever, in the bathroom where Mom couldn’t hear. It was fun,” she says with a sigh.

“Do you think she’s out there, in the stars?” Mulder asks and immediately regrets it. He didn’t mean the question to sound flippant.

Scully takes it in stride. “Is it crazy if I say maybe? There’s… there’s things I’ve seen and heard, Mulder, that I can’t explain. Who am I to say how God operates? Maybe He’s laid the stars out like a map for us to read. That’s probably wishful thinking, but life would be a hell of a lot simpler if everything was dictated by heavenly bodies.”

“Better that than by governing bodies,” Mulder agrees.

Their eyes drift along the razor-sharp curves of the crescent moon.

“My mom wants to set me up with one of her church friends’ sons,” Scully says without preamble.

“Huh,” Mulder replies, tracing Orion with his eyes. “Let me guess; he’s a dentist.”

“Emergency physician, actually,” she replies. “He’s nice.”

Mulder suddenly feels the weight of gravity pressing him down to earth. He can feel the rotation of the planet under his back, spinning him at a thousand miles an hour. “You’ve met him?” he asks.

“Yesterday, at lunch,” Scully replies. “He’s a widower, with a six-year-old daughter. I think… I think my mom thinks we could help each other.”

Mulder’s stomach churns, a facsimile of seasickness rolling through his body. “What do you think?” he asks, voice oddly hoarse. “Do you… agree with her?”

Scully pulls the blanket higher under her chin and sighs. “I don’t know, Mulder. I’m thirty-four today, and my career runs my life. I’m not sure how many chances at a family will come my way in the future. It’s not ideal, but maybe I’m past the point of getting to choose.” She pauses. “I’m sorry, I’m being fatalistic.”

Despite the near-freezing temperature, he’s got a cold sweat forming on his back. “You can always choose, Scully. As far as I see it. It’s-it’s important to me that you know that.”

She rolls onto her side, snaking a hand out of the blanket to prop herself up on her elbow beside him. “Mulder, I know you blame yourself for the things that have happened to me. But they’re not your fault.” He opens his mouth and she interrupts him before he can speak. “Don’t argue with me. It’s my birthday.”

He’s grateful for a change of subject. “That reminds me,” he says, sitting up and reaching over to open the cooler.

He pulls out a small pink bakery box and opens it to remove a single chocolate cupcake with a candle stuck in the middle. He digs a lighter out of his coat pocket and gives it a flick, igniting the candle.

“Happy birthday, Scully,” he says sheepishly, holding out the cupcake.

The single flame shimmers in her eyes as she takes the dessert. “Mulder,” she says softly, in a tone that makes his heart turn to liquid. “I don’t… I don’t know what to say.”

“Just make a wish and blow the candle out before the wind does it for you,” he replies. There’s only a bit of a breeze but he’s not taking any chances. She deserves a wish.

Her eyes fall closed, and she sighs contentedly, no doubt formulating her request. Suddenly she opens her eyes and locks her gaze with his over the flickering candle, and Mulder feels a thousand words rumbling in him like an approaching avalanche.

Before he can say anything she purses her lips and extinguishes the lone flame with a breath.

She pulls the candle out of the cupcake and pops the end into her mouth, licking off chocolate frosting, and Mulder thinks he might die right there on a blanket in Rock Creek Park. He’s been so good, keeping his feelings to himself, but in this moment his only thoughts are that he loves her and wants her; no, needs her. He needs to touch her, taste the icing on her lips, map the constellations of freckles hiding beneath her sweater. Shake the winter chill out of his bones, letting the flames of her red hair lick across his skin and light his whole body on fire.

She’s saying something to him, biting into the cupcake, chocolate crumbs falling onto the blanket.

“Hm?” he asks, returning to terra firma.

“I asked if you wanted a bite,” she reiterates.

Yes, his body responds. Please please please-

“It’s yours,” he says as a declination.

“Therefore it’s mine to share,” she declares. She holds it out to him, and his stomach flutters as he leans in and takes a bite. He thinks of his parents’ faded wedding photos, of them feeding each other cake in black and white.

Don’t date the doctor guy, he pleads silently as he chews. Stay with me. Show me galaxies.

She falls asleep on the car ride home with one of his blankets tucked around her, the car’s heater cranked all the way up. When he parks in front of her building she stirs, likely awoken by the sudden cessation of warm air on her feet.

“Scully,” Mulder says softly, “We’re home.”

“Mmm,” she responds. “What time is it?”

“Almost eleven,” he answers, glancing at his watch. “Can you walk or should I carry you up?” The question feels faintly suggestive, and he’s only being so bold because she’s drowsy and likely not registering the subtext.

“I can walk,” she says, sitting up and removing the blanket. Her hair is a fuzzy red halo in the glow of the streetlights.

“I’ll go with you,” he says, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Make sure you don’t pass out on your way up.”

“Thanks,” she yawns. “I don’t know why car rides make me so drowsy,” she says. “It’s like I’m five years old again.”

“Or it’s hypothermia,” Mulder suggests jokingly. “It got pretty damn cold out there.”

“Winter night picnics aren’t the most practical, it’s true,” she says. “But the blankets and coffee were a good idea.”

When they reach Scully’s apartment door she turns to face him. “Thank you for this,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t realize how much I needed it.”

He smiles softly at her. “Happy birthday,” he replies.

He’s mentally debating giving her a hug when she reaches out and pulls him in gently, arms looped around his waist. He wraps his arms around her and drops a light kiss to the crown of her head.

It’s over way too soon.

“Goodnight,” she says. “See you tomorrow.”

If he says anything else to her before she slips into the apartment and closes the door, he doesn’t remember it. His feet are firmly on the ground, carrying him out of her apartment building and back to his car, but his head is far above the atmosphere, adrift in space.

He’s so in love he feels as though he’s running out of air.

[normal-thoughts-official]

I would have loved to see more interactions with the seelies- people who can’t lie but are crafty and secretive sounds fascinating. Think of the dialog! Alec going to magnus for advice since he has centuries of experience talking to them, Alec playing mental chess while trying to maintain peace. Would have loved getting more- but let’s be real, Cassaundra and the show writers weren’t clever enough to actually make any conversations like that of value.

SAME!!!!! honestly i would have loved to see so much more of the seelies. like bro do you understand that their culture predates the VERY EXISTENCE OF HUMANITY??? they are the ONLY kind of downworlders whose culture is completely detached from any human culture, not only because of predating it, but also because of the relative isolationism - which means human culture barely had any influence on their culture and history AS it developed

so like you can literally go fucking bonkers??????????? you can make ANYTHING. they have a whole ass society that doesn't have to have ANY ties to mundane concepts or history AT ALL. complete creative freedom. you could do ANYTHING! and don't get me started on the potential this has, within storytelling, to contextualize a lot of stuff modern western culture sees as natural or timeless as actually pretty fucking specific - like monogamy, cisheteropatriarchy, the gender binary, racism. all immortals have that potential of course since they can come from an array of different cultural and historical backgrounds but seelies in particular have SO much potential that is NEVER! FUCKING! USED! it all goes to waste and they are just a generic vaguely monarchic society that behaves literally exactly as modern western cultural standards. WHY. i'll never stop being salty, especially within sh where all this potential was there and instead they just villainized the seelies like no tomorrow for nO FUCKING REASON, and included a whole plotline about their ruler being a terrible power-hungry person and then proceeded to act as if that would have no influence on the seelies under her rule? thanks for nothing

like i know the seelie queen was so badly written that her own motivations even as a power-hungry wacko didn't make sense or were consistent (like why give simon the mark of cain for example, and for god's sake what kind of power-hungry crazy bitch gives their main enemy the power to literally kill her and destroy everything she has at the blink of an eye, like??? she literally tried to assist in her own genocide, it makes no fucking sense, i fucking hate it here) but if they are going to make her Terrible the least they could do was show how that impacted the people under her rule, especially if they are going to have meliorn be fucking tortured and either forced to display the marks of said torture or choosing to display them themself, like? please give your plotlines one singular thought

but of course it's easier to villainize seelies and reduce them to their obviously tyrannical ruler so they can go back to focusing on the shadowhunters and their issues. nevermind the fact that seelies are obviously equivalent to native ppls/third world countries resisting colonialism/imperialism in sh's stupid ass racial metaphor, which makes making their ruler a big bad unequivocally evil villain that is ruining everything A Choice. and a particularly choicy Choice considering they cast a middle-eastern man to play the most important seelie character. but if they are going to do that they could at least address how the people under her rule suffer and how that's a direct consequence of shadowhunter colonialism and interference, but why would we fkcnig thdo that!!!! when we can have love triangle drama or whatever

and tHEN there is the whole aspect of being unable to lie which is bound to have such an impact on their culture and history since they have to rely on other forms of communication to protect themselves - and considering the whole "tyrannical rule" plotline, to further the queen's agenda in the first place. and how telling the truth without preamble would probably be considered a huge display of trust in a society that has culturally developed so many ways of talking around things. like again the potential of the cultural and historic background for that society! it makes me go insane!!!

anyway all of that to say #JusticeForSeelies and #SeeliePlotlinesNow 2021 and forever. and YES i would have loved to see more interactions between them and other characters, particularly magnus because 1- admittedly i'm a hoe; and 2- magnus was clearly the one that had the most experience talking to seelies and that others relied on for that communication. he also seemed to be the most comfortable with them, which indicates there is either some sort of history there, or magnus just happens to feel relatively at home with the workings of their culture. which makes sense, because magnus also had to develop pretty similar defense mechanisms due to his, A- work as a warlock representative who has to interact with shadowhunters on the regular; B- history with having to deal with asmodeus, which required him to be very smart about what he disclosed and how, especially considering that he had to have been planning banishing asmodeus for a long time before he got to do it; and C- just history with abuse in general. we've seen the way he closed his heart off to new people; but at the same time, magnus is obviously an extrovert and likes to be around people in general. this meant that, in order to be able to both be in the kind of environment where he thrives and protect himself/his heart/his feelings, he had to learn how to interact with people while putting on a convincing façade, which requires pretty much the same sorts of wordplay and defense mechanisms that seelies use

magnus is good at wordplay, he's good at using talking to his benefit; we've seen that. he is also good at hiding and deflecting. he is notably not good at directly lying - every time he directly said A Lie such as "i am perfectly fine and not bothered by this at all :)" it was way less convincing than it was a clear display that he wouldn't budge. even alec, who has difficulty with social cues, noticed the lying and seemed concerned about it. so like. clearly his defense mechanisms were less lying and more dancing around subjects, directing conversation to safe topics, and guiding people to making certain assumptions and seeing sides of his that were safer and he preferred

so in that way it makes sense that magnus is somewhat in his element when dealing with seelies. i think "comfortable" is a strong word because this whole song and dance takes a huge toll on anyone's mental health and energy (which i think is something that could be very interestingly explored in seelies, their collective psyche, and their culture, the way they build relationships, etc. let meliorn have partners they feel 100% comfortable talking without preamble with 2k21), but it's something he is used to and a dynamic he can fall into without as much effort as others who would be second guessing themselves more and going slower, which clearly gives the seelies, who are used to it, an advantage

and like i know that i'm implying a confrontation or sort of situation where they are on opposing sides to seelies here, which i kind of am because i am thinking mostly about magnus' interactions with the seelie queen specifically, since she was the seelie he had the most meaningful interactions with. his interactions with meliorn were very few and almost never relevant, i barely remember them happening outside of generic downworld cabinet interactions tbh. but i don't just mean that because again, stop villainizing seelies 2k21

i also mean just generally that magnus would be in a more comfortable position talking to seelie strangers and slowly working into building a relationship and mutual trust. and just generally understanding them and the workings of their culture because he can empathize with the way they have built their social defense mechanisms. no one is 100% truthful to strangers, but seelies always seem kind of- analytical. and the cultural difference + anti-seelie racism makes them seem untrustworthy to most people, but magnus Gets It, so the potential for friendships! and the mutual understanding and the relative comfort around each other! and both parts understanding the enormity that is letting their walls down gradually and being more direct as time goes by. like.... aaaaaa

and yes magnus becomes a sort of reference on talking to seelies, mostly because he is good at "playing their game", but also making it a point to humanize seelies and making the other parts understand where they are coming from and how they feel :) and just improving their relations, particularly with other downworlders

im not going to get into alec because 1- the relationship between shadowhunters and seelies is already filled with oppression and a lot of complications, and particularly now that the seelie realm is politically fragile due to the loss of their ruler (however terrible she might have been), it would play into either white savior narratives or just straight up colonialism, especially given how alec as a leader already has a history of trying to build tutelage over downworlders (i don't care what his intentions were, it's still true, and although he's learning... well. he's learning, continuous action); 2- that would be more a relationship of opposition and i'm not that interested in that. but i would love to see seelies rebuilding themselves and their relationships and alliances with other downworlders particularly, and all the better if magnus is playing a part in that :)

in short:

more seelies

more magnus with seelies, especially friendships

more focus on the politics of seelies now that the seelie queen is gone

more seelies

more seelies

more seelies

[theshedding]

Lil Nas X: Country Music, Christianity & Reclaiming HELL

I don’t typically bother myself to follow what Lil Nas X is doing from day to day, or even month to month but I do know that his “Old Town Road” hit became one of the biggest selling/streamed records in Country Music Business history (by a Black Country & Queer artist). “Black” is key because for 75+ years Country music has unsuspiciously evolved into a solidly White-identified genre (despite mixed and Indian & Black roots). Regrettably, Country music is also widely known for anti-black, misogynoir, reliably homophobic (Trans isn’t really a conversation yet), Christian and Hard Right sentiments on the political spectrum. Some other day I will venture into more; there is a whole analysis dying to be done on this exclusive practice in the music industry with its implications on ‘access’ to equity and opportunity for both Black/POC’s and Whites artists/songwriters alike. More commentary on this rigid homogeneous field is needed and how it prohibits certain talent(s) for the sake of perpetuating homogeneity (e.g. “social determinants” of diversity & viable artistic careers). I’ll refrain from discussing that fully here, though suffice it to say that for those reasons X’s “Old Town Road” was monumental and vindicating. 

As for Lil Nas X, I’m not particularly a big fan of his music; but I see him, what he’s doing, his impact on music + culture and I celebrate him using these moments to affirm his Black, Queer self, and lifting up others. Believe it or not, even in the 2020′s, being “out” in the music business is still a costly choice. As an artist it remains much easier to just “play straight”. And despite appearances, the business (particularly Country) has been dragged kicking and screaming into developing, promoting and advancing openly-affirming LGBTQ 🏳️‍🌈 artists in the board room or on-stage. Though things are ‘better’ we have not yet arrived at a place of equity or opportunity for queer artists; for the road of music biz history is littered with stunted careers, bodies and limitations on artists who had no option but to follow conventional ways, fail or never be heard of in the first place. With few exceptions, record labels, radio and press/media have successfully used fear, intimidation, innuendo and coercion to dilute, downplay or erase any hint of queer identity from its performers. This was true even for obvious talents like Little Richard.

(Note: I’m particularly speaking of artists in this regard, not so much the hairstylists, make-up artists, PA’s, etc.)

_____

Which is why...in regard to Lil Nas X, whether you like, hate or love his music, the young brother is a trailblazer. His very existence protests (at least) decades of inequity, oppression and erasure. X aptly critiques a Neo-Christian Fascist Heteropatriarchy; not just in American society but throughout the Music Business and with Black people. That is no small deal. His unapologetic outness holds a mirror up to Christianity at-large, as an institution, theology and practice. The problem is they just don’t like what they see in that mirror.

In actuality, “Call Me By Your Name”, Lil Nas X’s new video, is a twist on classic mythology and religious memes that are less reprehensible or vulgar than the Biblical narratives most of us grew up on vís-a-vís indoctrinating smiles of Sunday school teachers and family prior to the “age of reason”. Think about the narratives blithely describing Satan’s friendly wager with God regarding Job (42:1-6); the horrific “prophecies” in St. John’s Book of Revelation (i.e. skies will rain fire, angels will spit swords, mankind will be forced to retreat into caves for shelter, and we will be harassed by at least three terrifying dragons and beasts. Angels will sound seven trumpets of warning, and later on, seven plagues will be dumped on the world), or Jesus’s own clarifying words of violent intent in Matthew (re: “Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.” 10:34). Whether literal or metaphor, these age old stories pale in comparison to a three minute allegorical rap video. Conservatives: say what you will, I’m pretty confident X doesn’t take himself as seriously as “The true and living God” from the book of Job.

A little known fact as it is, people have debunked the story and evolution of Satan and already offered compelling research showing [he] is more of a literary device than an actual entity or “spirit” (Spoiler: In the Bible, Satan does not take shape as an actual “bad” person until the New Testament). In fact, modern Christianity’s impression of the “Devil” is shaped by conflating Hellenized mythology with a literary tradition rooted in Dante’s Inferno and accompanying spooks and superstitions going back thousands of years. Whether Catholic, Protestant, Mormon, Scientologist, Atheist or Agnostic, we’ve spent a lifetime with these predominant icons and clichés. (Resource: Prof. Bart D. Erhman, “Heaven & Hell”).

So Here’s THE PROBLEM: The current level of fear and outrage is: 

(1) Unjust, imposing and irrational. 

(2) Disproportionate when taken into account a lifetime of harmful Christian propaganda, anti-gay preaching and political advocacy.

(3) Historically inaccurate concerning the existence of “Hell” and who should be scared of going there. 

Think I’m overreacting? 

Examples: 

Institutionalized Homophobia (rhetoric + policy)

Anti-Gay Ministers In Life And Death: Bishop Eddie Long And Rev. Bernice King

Black, gay and Christian, Marylanders struggle with Conflicts

Harlem pastor: 'Obama has released the homo demons on the black man'

Joel Olsteen: Homosexuality is “Not God’s Best”

Bishop Brandon Porter: Gays “Perverted & Lost...The Church of God in Christ Convocation appears like a ‘coming out party’ for members of the gay community.”

Kim Burrell: “That perverted homosexual spirit is a spirit of delusion & confusion and has deceived many men & women, and it has caused a strain on the body of Christ”

Falwell Suggests Gays to Blame for 9-11 Attacks

Pope Francis Blames The Devil For Sexual Abuse By Catholic Church

Pope Francis: Gay People Not Welcome in Clergy

Pope Francis Blames The Devil For Sexual Abuse By Catholic Church

The Pope and Gay People: Nothing’s Changed

The Catholic church silently lobbied against a suicide prevention hotline in the US because it included LGBT resources

Mormon church prohibits Children of LGBT parents to be baptized

Catholic Charity Ends Adoptions Rather Than Place Kid With Same-Sex Couple

I Was a Religious Zealot That Hurt People-Coming Out as Gay: A Former Conversion Therapy Leader Is Apologizing to the LGBTQ Community

The above short list chronicles a consistent, literal, demonization of LGBTQ people, contempt for their gender presentation, objectification of their bodies/sexuality and a coordinated pollution of media and culture over the last 50+ years by clergy since integration and Civil Rights legislation. Basically terrorism. Popes, Bishops, Pastors, Evangelists, Politicians, Television hosts, US Presidents, Camp Leaders, Teachers, Singers & Entertainers, Coaches, Athletes and Christians of all types all around the world have confused and confounded these issues, suppressed dissent, and confidently lied about LGBT people-including fellow Queer Christians with impunity for generations (i.e. “thou shall not bear false witness against they neighbor” Ex. 23:1-3). Christian majority viewpoints about “laws” and “nature” have run the table in discussions about LGBTQ people in society-so much that we collectively must first consider their religious views in all discussions and the specter of Christian approval -at best or Christian condescension -at worst. That is Christian (and straight) privilege. People are tired of this undue deference to religious opinions. 

That is what is so deliciously bothersome about Lil Nas X being loud, proud and “in your face” about his sexuality. If for just a moment, he not only disrupts the American hetero-patriarchy but specifically the Black hetero-patriarchy, the so-called “Black Church Industrial Complex”, Neo-Christian Fascism and a mostly uneducated (and/or miseducated) public concerning Ancient Near East and European history, superstitions-and (by extension) White Supremacy. To round up: people are losing their minds because the victim decided to speak out against his victimizer. 

Additionally, on some level I believe people are mad at him being just twenty years old, out and FREE as a self-assured, affirming & affirmed QUEER Black male entertainer with money and fame in the PRIME of his life. We’ve never, or rarely, seen that before in a Black man in the music business and popular culture. But that’s just too bad for them. With my own eyes I’ve watched straight people, friends, Christians, enjoy their sexuality from their elementary youth to adolescence, up and through college and later marriages, often times independently of their spouses (repeatedly). Meanwhile Queer/Gay/SGL/LGBTQ people are expected to put their lives on hold while the ‘blessed’ straight people run around exploring premarital/post-marital/extra-marital sex, love and affection, unbound & un-convicted by their “sin” or God...only to proudly rebrand themselves later in life as a good, moral “wholesome Christian” via the ‘sacred’ institution of marriage with no questions asked. 

Inequality defined.

For Lil Nas X, everything about the society we've created for him in the last 100+ years (re: links above) has explicitly been designed for his life not to be his own. According to these and other Christians (see above), his identity is essentially supposed to be an endless rat fuck of internal confusion, suicide-ideation, depression, long-suffering, faux masculinity, heterosexism, groveling towards heaven, respectability politics, failed prayer and supplication to a heteronormative earthly and celestial hierarchy unbothered in affording LGBT people like him a healthy, sane human development. It’s almost as if the Conservative establishment (Black included) needs Lil Nas X to be like others before him: “private”, mysteriously single, suicidal, suspiciously straight or worse, dead of HIV/AIDS ...anything but driving down the street enjoying his youth as a Black Queer artist and man. So they mad about that?

Well those days are over.  

-Rogiérs is a writer, international recording artist, performer and indie label manager with 25+ years in the music industry. He also directs Black Nonbelievers of DC, a non-profit org affiliated with the AHA supporting Black skeptics, Atheists, Agnostics & Humanists. He holds a B.A. in Music Business & Mgmt and a M.A. in Global Entertainment & Music Business from Berklee College of Music and Berklee Valencia, Spain. www.FibbyMusic.net Twitter/IG: @Rogiers1

[basicjetsetter]

The Fall of Deus

♡ Pairing: Mob!Peter Parker x BlackFemale!Reader

♧ Setting: The Terrace Room in The Plaza Hotel, New York

♤ Warnings: Heavy Suspense, Language, Adult Themes, Violence, Gambling, Drinking

♢ Word Count: 6.5k

☆ A/N: No joke, this took me about two years to conceptualize. Two freaking years. But I can 100% say it was worth it to write every word. This is by far one of my most creative works and I love that I get to finally share it with you all. Please hit like if you enjoy it, leave me a lil’ comment and a reblog if you love it. Happy reading!

You couldn’t help but notice and admire how pretty the sky appeared when it was tinged in the auroral haze of an autumn morning and backdropped by the twinkling glass panes of New York’s notorious skyscrapers. Though autumn’s end isn’t for a couple of weeks, the lukewarm season allowed Manhattan a preview of winter’s frigid air. The city's constant roar hummed down to a distant lullaby as you walked up the steps and in through the doors of the Metropolitan Detention Center.

It’s an impressively modern building, one you’ve become intimately familiar with in the past couple of years. Everything inside screams order, from the plain white, bleach-scented linoleum floors to the rows upon rows of caged boxes containing a range of one-time offenders, serial criminals, and constant jailbirds. The first time you ever entered the establishment, it struck you just how much the atmosphere felt devoid and depraved, almost as if hope and happiness got stopped, frisked, and turned away at the door. You never liked staying more than necessary.

None of the four guards stationed along the main lobby walls paid you any attention as you marched up to the reception desk. Their inattention didn’t spawn out of contempt but out of fear. They knew who you were here for.

The receptionist, on the other hand, wouldn’t care if the Queen of England herself hop-scotched through the front entrance, bowed, and bestowed him the coveted Royal Crown on a jewel-encrusted platter.

He certainly never took an interest in your frequent visits. The first time you set foot into this building, a bright-eyed attorney anxious to speak with her first client, the oaf of a man merely grunted at your carefully constructed introductions and waved you off like a pesky fly. On a typical day, your exchange of words consisted of him curtly asking you to state your business while he half-listened to your response and stabbed at his keyboard with blunt fingers. Detaching his gaze from the monitor might have required exhaustion of his half-assed energy.

Today wasn’t unlike any other day. Phillips told you your client's location, even though you both knew the area by heart. Third floor. Cell Block E. Number 7. Always Number 7. Lucky Number 7.

Most of your ordinary clients got shipped to this facility and locked up with the rest of the inmates until you picked up their case. Unlike this particular client you planned on springing today, those other men lacked the say-so to determine their cell. None of them came close to his status. They didn’t have the power nor the money to hire a personal attorney, and none of their crimes could ever match those of the calculated, cunning man who controlled all New York's avenues and boulevards.

In the streets, he’s known as Deus. Depending on how close you are in his circle, he's either Parker or Pete. The name in the system is Peter Benjamin Parker. Your fiancé.

| Last Evening  |

“Stop fidgeting with your collar, Peter.”

“This fucking bowtie keeps… shit… it keeps choking me.” He growled out his frustration. “I’m going to fire that damn stylist.”

You threw him an exasperated glare as he ripped off the accessory. “Maybe if you hadn’t told him to pick any old bowtie, you wouldn’t be whining so much.”

“Remind me again why you're forcing me to wear this, anyway?” He paused for effect, placing his hand under his chin like Rodin’s The Thinker, and then snapped his fingers in dramatic realization. “Oh, right! Because Stark is a pretentious asshole, who thinks tuxedos are mandatory at all events thrown in his honor.”

Peter may hate the idea of wearing a formal tuxedo for the whole night, but you were going to enjoy every last minute of him in that attire, mainly because he resembles a model who stepped right off the page of a GQ cover. The low-lighting in this limousine certainly did its best to heighten your mood, highlighting the sharp angles of Peter’s clenched jaw. You’d have to remember to send Pepper a Thank You basket for planning the event as Black Tie.

“Can you at least pretend to get along with Tony tonight?” To see if his jaw could tighten any further, you coyly add, “He is the new Governor of New York, after all.”

Mission accomplished. Peter leaned his head back against the headrest and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands, the light that glinted off of his platinum Rolex creating a scattered array of lights against the black leather seats. You pried your eyes off the extension of his neck as he spoke. “Great,” he huffed. “That’s exactly what I need right now. A gloating Stark who’s now legally duty-bound to hound my ass. One more thing to think about.”

As the limo pulled up to a slow halt in front of the Plaza Hotel, you grabbed one of Peter’s hands and held it until his eyes met yours. You gave him a reassuring smile and said, “Everything’s going to be alright, baby.”

The driver opened the door before Peter could speak and held out his gloved hand for you. You’ve been to the Plaza Hotel on many occasions, mostly business, and yet the sight of the château-styled building at night, with its myriad of lit windows and its luxurious lobby never ceased to leave you breathless. The view effectually took your gaze away from Peter’s tux, but not for long. The moment he stepped out of the limo, bathed in the golden light of the building, you felt transfixed all over again.

Peter discreetly tipped the driver and then turned to face you, clearly not as impressed with the Plaza Hotel as you were. He placed his warm hands on the swells of your hips and pulled you in front of him. His eyes appraised you, from your stiletto heels to your tight-fitted, off the shoulder evening dress, traveling up to your chunky Senegalese twists elegantly laid over your shoulder. He let out a low whistle and said, “If looks could kill…”

You straightened his collar and opened up the top button of his gingham dress shirt for both your sakes, then swiftly leaned in and planted a chaste kiss on his lips. “You’re not too shabby yourself, Mr. Parker.”

He wolfishly grinned as you quickly detached yourself from his borderline caressing hold. You knew he’d want more than a short kiss, but you couldn’t afford to get sidetracked tonight.

“Behave,” you chided.

“And if I don’t, future Mrs. Parker?” he prodded, a huskiness in his tone that sent a delicious shiver through you. His steps slowly brought him closer and closer to where you stood, and you weren’t sure if you’d have the will power to move away again. One proper kiss wouldn’t hurt…

A disembodied voice groaned in your ear. “Book a room!”

Peter chuckled unabashedly. “Sorry, Ned.” Though he tried to appear unaffected, Peter made an effort to clear his throat and tugged at his collar. “You ready on your end?”

“Yeah. Mic’s clear. Computer’s up and running. I’m all set. Can’t say the same for you two.”

You glance accusingly at Peter, who waggled his eyebrows at you. “We’re ready. Sorry about that. You know how Peter gets when I wear twists.”

Ned verbally shuddered. “Don’t remind me. I still refuse to sit on my couch, by the way, even after washing it four times! You owe me a new couch, dude. For my trauma.”

Peter half-heartedly grinned at the ground and said, “Dude, if we pull this off, I’ll buy you a whole new furniture set.” The one half of his grin faded away, replaced with a grim line of determination and sobriety. “Where’s he at?”

A few clicks rang through your ear-piece, then Ned replied, “Not far. About twenty minutes away, on Queens Boulevard in Elmhurst. Might be a while before he reaches the Plaza, though. There’s a jam on the bridge.”

“Cool, thanks. Keep us updated.” Peter didn’t want you to catch his expression, but you didn’t need to directly see it to realize he’s in business mode, cold and calculated, little to no warmth or playfulness left in his brown eyes.

Copying your move, he took your hand and held it until you both stared at each other. Briefly, with your eyes locked in place, he searched for any sliver of doubt, giving you one last option to ditch and save face while he executes the plan solo. You did not doubt that he and Ned could somehow pull it off without so much as a hiccup. Odds always work in Peter’s favor. For the past three years that you’ve known him, he’s never lost a gamble. Tonight, though, the gamble must include you, a new piece to his complicated game—a variable. If anything were to head south, the last thing Peter would want is to implicate you.

You understood the risks: the potential loss of your career, your squeaky clean record, and possibly your life. You wouldn’t be here, with him of all people, if you didn’t trust the plan. So you didn’t sway, letting your eyes confirm where you stood on the matter. I’m sticking with you. This exchange passed in absolute silence, ending with a small nod and a lingering kiss to your palm.

It’s always surprising to see Peter without a trace of humor or good-nature in his eyes. It took you a while to acclimate to his night and day demeanor and even longer to trust which emotions were real and which served a purpose. As he slides a cocky smile back onto his face, one that graces every part of his features, and holds out his arm for you, you knew. He’s in his element.

The game’s begun.

♢ ♤ ♡ ♧

Not even five seconds into the Terrace Room and your jaw hit the floor. Pepper sure knows how to out-do herself.

The room displayed the same historic French charm as the outside façade, but much more grand, decorated with multiple crystalline chandeliers, large stone semicircular archways, and classical art adorning the ceilings. Somehow, Pepper’s touch of cream-colored table cloths, bouquets of immaculate white peonies, golden napkins, and floating candle holders added the perfect ambiance for Tony’s celebration.

True to his fashion.

The Man of the Hour is currently giving his speech at the head table as the Maître D’ checks your reservation and prompts a server to escort you and Peter to your table. It’s located not too far away from Tony's, near a stone wall and a divider separating the other tables. You weren’t entirely familiar with the three people who were already seated, but they graciously offered quiet nods of welcome. Peter grabbed your chair for you and smoothly pushed you in before taking his seat next to you while you strained to catch the last bits of Tony’s speech.

“… and I can truly say that without you, my amazing colleagues, friends, and organizers present tonight, this win would not have been possible. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. And um, yeah. Thank you, all.” Tony lifted his champagne flute into the air with a flourish and a winning grin. Peter rolled his eyes. “Here’s to an awesome four years as New York’s new Governor.”

Everyone stood up to give him a round of applause, Peter’s claps more grudging than encouraging, but you were glad he put in some effort. When he looked your way, you flashed him a loving smile and mouthed Thank you. He rolled his eyes again, playfully this time, and quirked his mouth up in an amused grin.

Live music picked up as soon as Tony took his seat, soft jazz that blended well with the onslaught of muffled chatter and clinks of silverware against glass plates. Servers incrementally brought out the main course of roasted beef filet dressed in tomato tarragon sauce and a side of arugula salad. Peter stifled a chuckle as he heard your stomach growl when a server placed the plate of food in front of you.

As another server leaned in to pour you a glass of wine, you held out a hand and gave him a polite smile. “No, thank you. May I just have some water, please?”

The young man nodded, but Peter piped up before he could head off. “Got anything stronger back there? Bacardi? Whiskey? Rum?”

“We have Vodka, sir,” the server stuttered out.

“Excellent. I’ll take a whole bottle of that,” Peter grinned and pressed a couple of $100 bills into the man’s palm. Peter’s effect on people never got tiring to witness. He and the server appear to be around the same age, somewhere near the 25-year mark, yet Peter's vibe reduced the server to stutters. You’d say the tux assisted with his air of importance, but you’ve seen Peter have that same effect on businessmen while wearing a shirt that read “I lost an electron. Are you positive?” and plaid pajama bottoms.

The server vigorously nodded. “Right away, sir.”

“Don’t drink too much,” you cautioned in a tone low enough for only Peter’s ears. “You know how you get, and I don’t want Tony to have an excuse to place cuffs on you.”

Peter scoffed and mumbled around a bite of salad, “If I looked at him wrong, Tony would cuff me.”

“Now that’s a little presumptuous, ain’t it, Petey?”

You jumped up from your seat and wrapped Tony up in a hug he warmly returned. “Congratulations! I’m so proud of you, Governor Stark.”

Tony waved a hand, yet a big smile remained plastered on his face. “Ah, come on. It was bound to happen. Policy is the new name of the game, but I’ll sure miss that courtroom. You missy, on the other hand, deserve all the praise in the world. Best and youngest attorney in the whole state. Mentored by yours truly.” He trailed off, glancing in Peter’s general direction. “Though I question why you waste your talents on the likes of him.”

Now sitting ramrod straight in his chair, Peter slanted his eyes toward yours as you silently pleaded with him to be cordial. Once he brought his eyes back to Tony, he jerked up his chin in recognition. “Stark.”

Tony nodded at Peter. “Baby-faced Criminal.”

“Hey, now!” Pepper swooped in, pulling Tony back a little so she could see you better. “Just look at you! Always a beauty in everything you wear,” she gushed, then put on a stern face for Tony and Peter. “No roughhousing, tonight, boys. I mean it.”

“I was just making a valid critique on my star pupil's decision to become the Personal Attorney to a well-known arms dealer, is all,” Tony defended. He threw up his hands and drew up an innocent expression that might have worked had it not looked so derisive.

Pepper, pursing her lips, nodded sagely. “Right. Okay. So you were being an ass?”

“Pep!” Tony protested incredulously. Peter didn’t even try to hide his triumphant smirk.

You rolled your eyes in defeat. Oil and water can never mix, no matter how hard you try. No, Tony did not take the news of you becoming Peter’s PA well, and he’s made sure to rake you over the coals bout it every time the chance arises. You’ve been Peter’s attorney coming up on two years, and there’s not a sign from either of them that the grudge will ever be let go, not even for your sake, though they do try when threatened.

“I want you two to say something nice to each other and then let the rest of the night go on in peace. Go ahead,” Pepper ordered, indicating for Tony to go first.

Tony took in an excessive amount of air, then puffed it out. “Alright, Parker. Um… I like how you ostensibly don’t know the rules to a Black Tie Event.” He ended with a gesture to Peter’s lack of a bowtie. The poor thing lies in a mangled heap on the floor of the limousine.

Peter ticked up his eyebrow. “I like how the stick up your ass seems to reach new heights every time we speak, Stark.”

Pepper sighed and grabbed Tony’s arm. “Not exactly what I had in mind, but I’ll take what I can get. Come on, you. There are many more guests to greet.” She tugged him along, throwing you an apologetic smile over her slim shoulder as they walked away.

Almost out of earshot, you could hear Tony say, “He calls himself Deus, for Christ's sake!”

They left you two in heated silence. Peter refused to meet your glare, instead choosing to chug down the freshly set out champagne flute filled with Vodka. He immediately flushed as he poured himself another glass full.

“Peter—” you started.

“Don’t say it. I tried, alright?” He slumped against the back of his seat, then shot you a surly frown. “You didn’t even mention our engagement to him. Again.”

You looked down at your untouched food, suddenly not hungry.

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Were you ever going to tell him?”

An anchor of guilt plummeted to the pit of your stomach, chasing away the desire to eat anything for the next few hours. Your answer came out sounding whittled and nearly swallowed by the music. “Pepper knows.”

“And that tells me all I need to know,” said Peter, pushing away from the table and taking the bottle of Vodka with him.

You tried to stamp down the rise of startled panic by clearing your throat and evenly asking, “Where are you going?” A high octave managed to slip in on the last word.

“To socialize. Play some cards. Place a few bets. Criminal stuff. You want in?” He didn’t wait for you to answer, moving further and further away as a wave of hot anger replaced your shame. “Oh, my bad. Sorry. I forgot you probably don’t want your mentor seeing you ruin your perfect image with, what was it? The likes of me?”

He swaggered off, not a mere hint of his hurt evident in his show of arrogance.

You gingerly sat back in your seat, careful to ignore the inquiring stares from those who caught most of the argument. Your nails came close to puncturing your palms, and if your jaw clamped any tighter, it would snap. An annoying, persistent inner voice chimed out, He’s right, you know. It was probably Ned.

You understood Peter enough to know that Tony not being clued in on your engagement wounded him. He told everyone in his life about you—told Aunt May the second you finally agreed to go on that first date with him, nearly shouted to all the rooftops in Queens “SHE SAID YES!” when he proposed three months ago. Yet here you are, dragging your heels on telling Tony, one of the most influential people in your life, that you’re marrying the love of your life. He wouldn’t understand. Or, rather, he would, and he’d abhor your decision.

You’re not sure you could ever explain to Tony how Peter is your favorite star in the night sky. A big, glowing ball of light you spend hours upon hours admiring and appreciating. One that just burns brighter than all the rest.

Your engagement ring sparkled at you, winking as you moved it side to side and marveled at the simple yet elegant details of the inlaid sapphires and diamonds. Peter told you he picked it out a week before the proposal, but you knew he carried it around in his pocket for months, biding his time, waiting for the perfect opportunity. When he asked, you couldn’t say yes fast enough. At that moment, Tony and his aversion to Peter never crossed your mind, but it’s lingered ever since.

Guilt returned as a salve for your anger.

“Trouble in paradise?” asked a woman sitting at your table, a slight accent in her voice. She appears to be young, almost too young to be at this function. The glimmer in her eye and the hitch in her smile denoted a wise person. Goddess braids sat on top of her head like a crown, and she’s wearing a simple black dress with pearl studs that nicely accentuates her dark brown skin.

You uncurled your hands and blew out a held-in breath, kindly smiling back. “Something like that.”

She held out a hand. “Shuri Udaku.”

That name came with an inkling of recognition, but you couldn’t quite place it. You shook hands with the young woman, giving her your name. When you momentarily looked at your clasped hands, your eyes dropped down to catch the jewelry on her wrist. They weren’t pearls like her earrings. They were onyx and emblazoned with ivory symbols on each bead: Kimoyo beads, a technological revolution currently sweeping the nation, manufactured only by one woman. The realization hit you hard. “Hold on a second. The Shuri Udaku? Founder of Vibranium Tech, Shuri Udaku?”

“The one and only,” she answered, her smile growing wider.

This confirmation launched you into a field of questions and acknowledgments. It turns out she knows of your work as New York’s youngest attorney, but you know a bit more about her line of work because Peter always voiced his interest in her growing business. On the surface, Vibranium Tech is like any other technology company, issuing out new and improved ways of communication and medical treatment. In the underground, there’s been rumors of her interest in creating weapons—technological weapons unlike any the arms dealing business has seen before.

You didn’t want to bring up that facet of knowledge just yet. The normal conversation worked wonders on you, loosening your tense muscles and clamped jaw, all of them singing sweet relief once your body naturally released the tension.

“So, did I hear Tony correctly when he said your partner is the Deus?”

You winced and found yourself searching the room for a glimpse of your fiancé. He’s commandeered a table in the back of the venue, showing off his black and gold deck of playing cards to a group of interested guests itching to play a hand.

“Yeah, that would be him.”

“That’s so badass,” Shuri mused, leaning in conspiratorially. “Is he like the mob bosses in TV shows and movies? Like does he have henchmen? Bad-temper? High-speed car chases with the police?”

You genuinely laughed. “Not exactly. Henchmen, kind of. Bad temper is rare. And he’d never shut up about having a high-speed car chase with the police. No, he’s a little more lowkey than all that.”

Long ago, back when you were innocent to the life Peter led, you assumed that that’s precisely what it entailed—an exhilarating life of high stakes, exorbitant amounts of money, strong-armed goons, and reckless shoot-outs. That might be the case for a few bosses, but not Peter. He’s too strategic, and the ins-and-outs of his trade are too complicated to pin on just one person.

“Well, I, um…” she stopped, considered her words. You unconsciously drew in closer. “I may have a business offer for him.”

You kept your smile on, but it felt more commercial-like than friendly. “What type of offer?”

Shuri gulped down a generous amount of her red wine, then darted her eyes side to side before speaking lowly. “Would he be interested in high powered weapons?”

You raised your eyebrows but kept up your cool front. “Depends. In exchange for what?”

“Protection.”

A voice in your ear announced, “He’s here.”

You ignored it, focusing on Shuri. “From who?”

Shuri peeked around again to make sure no one paid any attention to your private conversation, but her examination stopped at the entrance. “From him.”

You cautiously slid your eyes to the main entrance, heart hammering a thunderous rhythm in your chest.

Brock Rumlow. Peter's rival and leader of a group named the Scorpions. A peddler/enforcer for the East Coast's largest mob: Hydra. Of course he’d try to pressure Shuri for the weapons.

He didn’t come dressed according to the occasion, opting for his usual tight-fitted black Tee and gray tactical pants. The visible half of his tattoo, a scorpion’s tail curling out from the cuff of his shirt, stood out against his tan skin. Two other men stood behind him, wearing almost identical clothes to Rumlow and sporting the same scorpion tattoo on their right bicep, not exactly hiding that they carried concealed weapons. All the voices in the room hollowed out to stiff silence, and even the band took its cue to halt. Your eyes found Tony in time to see his jaw tick for the briefest moment, and then he slid right back into a restrained version of his good cheer.

“Hey, hey! This is still a party, people,” Tony called out, addressing the guests. “Eat, talk, have a good time.” He signaled to the band to pick up the music, then crossed the room to chat with Rumlow. You’ve never seen him so keyed up.

You touched Shuri’s hand comfortingly, not taking your eyes off Rumlow. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She deflated gratefully. “Thank you.”

You nodded, already out of your seat and rushing to the back of the room, stopping short once you arrived at Peter’s table. He’s thoroughly invested in this round of poker, glancing back and forth from his cards to the nervous twitches of the five men and one woman at the table. You recognized four of them: Judge Nicholas Fury, Lieutenant Steve Rogers, Manhattan’s Chief of Police Sam Wilson, and District Attorney Natasha Romanoff. Sweat is perspiring on Steve’s forehead, Sam’s leg can’t stop bouncing up and down, and even Natasha, a woman known for keeping her cool while in the line of fire, is chewing on her lower lip. Fury's not fazed. He just seems tapped out.

From what you can estimate, about six hundred dollars lies in the middle of the table.

Sam and Steve speak at the same time. “I’m out.”

The other men followed suit, muttering their defeat. Fury dropped his cards down on the table facedown.

Peter wickedly grinned, zeroing in on Natasha. “Got any last words?”

Natasha squinted her eyes at his taunt. “Kiss my ass, Parker.” She put her cards down face up, showing her hand, and quirked up an eyebrow that dared him to top that: three Queens and a pair of twos. Full House.

Peter laid down his hand. Four 3’s and an ace. Four of a Kind.

A chorus of fucks circled the group as Peter cleared the table of the crumpled bills. Two new bottles of opened Vodka sit on the table as well, along with seven shot-glasses. Steve’s glass remains untouched, but the others look like they’ve drained two shots each.

“Bucky’s gonna kill me for losing so much money,” Steve muttered, twirling around his wedding band.

Sam sadly shook his head. “Dammit, man. I thought we had him this time, too.” He eyed Peter with suspicion. “What you got, kid? X-Ray vision?”

Peter ran a hand through his hair, causing a few curls to escape its sleek style. “Nah, jus’ luck.”

“Yeah, well, here’s to hoping your luck runs out,” said Fury, raising his shot glass and slamming it back.

You inched closer to Peter’s side. He reeked of alcohol, and his eyes are glazed over. You wonder how he’s even capable of sitting up, let alone playing people out of their money.

“Peter,” you whispered, putting your hand on his shoulder. His muscles tensed, but he didn’t shake you off. “Rumlow’s here.”

The remaining people at the table began to disperse in a collective gripe of loss. Peter didn’t say anything, only jerked his head in acknowledgment.

Your hand itched to slap him back into reality. “Peter, baby, listen. I’m sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry. I should have told Tony about our engagement.” Desperation sapped into your words. “It was stupid and childish not to, and as soon as I get the chance, I’ll tell him. But for the love of God, this is not the time to—”

“Well, well, well! Look who we got here! Deus, in the flesh!” boomed a disturbingly baritone voice. Rumlow, shadowed by his two men, plopped down in one of the empty chairs, sitting right across from Peter. He glanced at Peter first, then languorously landed his gaze on you. “And who’s this pretty lady you got here?”

“My fiancée,” answered Peter monotonously. He said it as if the words synonymously meant: just some chick. A dull kind of ache slashed through your chest as you dropped your hand back down to your side and took two steps away from him.

Rumlow pretended to miss the interaction, appearing to be in deep thought, and then clapped his hands once. “Oh! The attorney. I don’t believe I ever formally introduced myself.” He offered his large hand to you, grinning with his whole teeth on display. “Name’s Brock Rumlow.”

You reluctantly let him take your outstretched hand. His skin is blazing hot, to the point where your hand nearly felt suffocated. He brought it to his lips for a small kiss that twisted your stomach in knots. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Rumlow.”

Rumlow winked. “Pleasure’s all mine, sweetheart. And call me Brock.”

“Fuck do you want, Rumlow?” Peter bit out, picking the cards up off the table and shuffling them.

“Ooh,” tsked Rumlow. He made sure to lay another grin on you just to irk Peter. “Come on, Parker. Can’t a guy just enjoy some company once in a while? It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong.” He watched Peter’s movements, the cards haphazardly sliding back and forth from one hand to the next. “Playing cards, huh? You up for a quick game?”

You butt in with a pressed laugh. “Actually, we were just leaving.” Drunk Peter is overly confident. If Rumlow found that out, you knew he’d take Peter for everything he’s worth.

“So soon?” Rumlow glanced down at his watch. “It’s not even ten yet. What’s the rush?”

Peter cut you off. “No rush. I’m staying. You play Draw Poker?”

“ ‘Course I play Draw Poker, but that seems too simple for you, Parker. Don’t you wanna make it hard for me? A little Texas Hold ’em?”

“Draw Poker,” said Peter, splitting the deck against the table and flexing the cards enough to have them rapidly collapse into place. “Take it or leave it.”

A dark, mischievous smile brewed on Rumlow’s face as he watched Peter fumble with the deck and, at some point, entirely losing his grip. You discreetly watched him size up his opponent, dismayed to find that he likes the assessment. Hair is stubbornly falling into Peter’s eyes, eyes that anyone a mile away could point out are bleary and bloodshot. The flush from earlier deepened on his neck and flashed scarlet across his face—an easy target for a skilled player.

“Deal me in.”

The first game played out exactly as you feared it would. Rumlow and Peter agreed on a $100 ante to get the ball rolling, both pulling out a single bill from their pocket and placing it in the middle of the table, then they settled for a pot-limit. Though Peter’s shuffling skills lacked his usual finesse, he expertly dealt each of them a hand of five cards.

You leaned against the back wall with your arms crossed over your chest and watched the game unfold. Rumlow processes his hands at the speed of a bullet, snapping his eyes to his cards once he’s drawn, and immediately discards the ones he doesn’t like when it’s his turn. Other than the minutest crinkle in the corner of his left eye, you couldn’t tell when he felt confident or when he bluffed. He gave nothing away, not even an involuntary scratch to his five o’clock shadow. He was so in the zone he began to partake in the Vodka bottle close to his side of the table, swigging straight from the mouth.

On the other hand, Peter moved as if a millisecond was the equivalent length of ten years, scanning his cards more than several times with pursed lips, looking up at Rumlow, scanning his cards again, once, twice, three times, then reluctantly discarding some. He frequently shoves a hand through his hair to keep it out of his eyesight, but the same unruly strands find their way back to impede his vision. He scratches the shell of his ear when he’s about to draw, and Rumlow’s picked up the tell.

Rumlow never even had to do more than call. The confident drunk in Peter always raised.

The pot increased to about $1400 before Peter folded his hand.

As Rumlow collected his winnings, he suggestively lifted his eyebrows at Peter. “Care for round 2?”

Confident drunk Peter never backs down, even when he’s the dumbass who can’t remember that he’s brought fists to a gunfight.

You step back up to the table and put a restrictive hand on Peter’s wrist to keep him from picking up the cards. “Enough, Peter. You’re done. Let’s go home.”

“No, I’m not done,” he said, snatching his arm away from your touch. “Go talk to Tony or somethin’. I’ve got this.”

Rumlow caught your bewildered stare and shrugged his broad shoulders, a gesture that didn’t match his cocky smile. He has Peter right where he wants him, and there’s nothing you can do to stop him because Peter is a willing participant running on alcohol and no critical judgment.

You should have left right then and there, but your feet stayed rooted to the floor. You couldn’t leave Peter like this. Sighing, you pulled up a chair to the table and sat beside Peter.

“Don’t worry. I’ll go easy on him,” said Rumlow, putting on a smile too sardonic to be comforting. Too artificial to be genuine.

His lie didn’t surprise you. The hole Peter dug himself did.

The second round went similarly to the first. Flash decisions from Rumlow and molasses-like contemplation from Peter. This time, though, the ante came up to $200. As far as you knew, Peter is only carrying about $2500 in his pockets.

By the time the fourth round started, Peter’s Rolex lies on the table. The ante is up to $1000. Somehow the pot-limit became no-limit.

By the fifth round, Peter made paperless bets. Ante is $10,000. Rumlow knew Peter’s pockets went deep, and he’d keep at it until he struck gold.

Nothing you said stopped him. Peter hadn’t won a single hand. He’s desperate for at least one good hand; he’s got something to prove.

Rumlow kept drinking with each win.

By the seventh round, a crowd is around the table, watching in horrified interest as Peter raises the bet to one million dollars. The most significant amount you’ve ever seen him bet. So far, he’s held this hand for three draws.

Peter’s hair lost all semblance of its previous style, hanging over his forehead in disarray. He’s hunched over in his chair, his jacket’s off, and he’s rolled up his dress shirt’s sleeves to his elbows. His group’s signature tattoo stands out stark against his inner wrist: a roughly sketched spider.

Rumlow, eyes now as bloodshot as Peter’s and face just as flushed under his tan skin, asks, “Think you got something, Parker?”

“Do you?” Peter countered.

“I just might.” Rumlow ran a finger against his bottom lip, then smiled at his hand. “Why don’t you say we make this last Showdown a little more interesting, eh?”

A terrible queasiness wrapped around your gut.

Peter listened intently, his silence Rumlow’s indication to continue.

“$10 million. And the best trading routes. Including foreign connections. I want everything you got.”

You turned to Peter, placing your hand on top of his until he finally looked at you. Your eyes begged him to listen to you for once tonight. “Please don’t do this.”

His reply sounded tortured. “But I can. I have to.”

“Is winning really worth losing everything?” you asked, your voice cracking.

Rumlow chuckled ominously. “Oh, that’s not everything, sweetheart. We both know what’s left.” He gave you a meaningful stare.

Your eyes widened in disgust.

Peter snapped his gaze to Rumlow. “She’s got nothing to do with this.”

“No, but I want her. Imagine having New York’s best attorney in my arsenal. How many charges has she saved your sorry ass from, Parker? Five? All felonies, right? You lucky son of a bitch.” Rumlow’s smile is sinister. “Not that lucky tonight, huh?”

Peter spoke through gritted teeth. “Back off, Rumlow.”

“To have Deus wrapped around her finger, she must be pretty damn good. Is she, Parker?” goaded Rumlow, ignoring Peter’s warning. “Is she any good?”

Instinct controlled your hands as they seized Peter’s cards before he launched himself over the table and landed an ear-splitting blow to Rumlow’s jaw. Rumlow must’ve known the punch was coming. Still, he hadn’t expected the impact to be that forceful because his eyes blinked in astonishment. The two men behind Rumlow didn’t react fast enough, missing Peter as he stood above Rumlow, grabbed the handgun hidden in the waist of his pants and pressed the muzzle deep into Rumlow’s temple, finger on the trigger.

Rumlow shifted his eyes up to Peter. “Did I hit a nerve?”

Peter’s voice is lethally calm. “Say one more goddamn word about her and you’re dead.”

“Put that gun down, Parker!”

Tony. Shit.

Peter squared his jaw, never taking his eyes off of Rumlow. About six off-duty policemen and the venue’s guards have their weapons trained on Peter.

“I said put the gun down! Now!” Tony had pushed his way through the crowd, Sam and Steve right behind him. You didn’t notice until now how quiet the room became, everyone holding in a collective breath.

“Put it down, son,” Steve gently ordered. He spied Rumlow’s men, their hands tightened on their guns, and shook his head. “Don’t even think about it.”

Peter didn’t move a muscle. His chest rapidly rises and falls with each breath.

Sam, holding a pair of cuffs in his hand, tried getting through to him. “It’s over. Drop the gun, kid.”

A slow grin spread across Rumlow’s face.

“Peter,” you spoke softly.

His red-rimmed eyes met yours.

“Everything’s gonna be alright. Just put the gun down, okay? Please.”

Two heartbeats passed before his grip on the gun slackened, and he begrudgingly lowered his arm.

Steve and Sam seized on the opportunity. Steve disarmed Peter while Sam restrained Peter’s arms behind his back and tightened the cuffs around his wrists.

Rumlow massaged his injured jaw. “Guess that means I win, Parker.”

Sam yanked Peter back before he could charge at Rumlow. When Peter looked your way, he saw you still held his cards. “I’m still in play.”

“Wait,” you protested. Sam began to guide Peter up to the entrance. “Peter, I can’t—”

He nodded his head furiously, talking over his shoulder as Sam lead him away. “Yes, you can. You know you can, baby. Play the hand.”

You stared helplessly at Peter’s retreating form. It was all on you.

Rumlow watched, unperturbed; his cards still held tight in the hand that wasn’t nursing his jaw.

Slowly, you lowered yourself down into Peter’s chair, sitting directly across from Rumlow’s smirking face. Tony stared at you incredulously. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him rendered speechless. The room’s chatter never recovered, either. All eyes stay glued towards the standoff.

The game is in your hands. Exactly as planned.

[rotzaprachim]

⭐ She isn’t ready for marriage, she said. She isn’t ready to be tied to a man, to be anything more or less than herself alone. The Kerch made the whole business easy by never referring to this thing they’re doing as a marriage, all the paperwork is about Economic Units, Civil Unions. There were so many pages of jargon it made Inej’s eyes bleed. Future children held less inches of fine grey type than agreements on pigs and shipping company stocks, and were described in the same economic language.

Kaz went through the whole thing line by line until the she was sure she was going to call for an annulment before they’d even gotten the damned thing notarised, or else make herself a tastefully rich and very young widow.

“It’s a contract,” he said. “You should know all the details before you sign your life away.”

“For heaven’s sake,” Inej said, irritated by the last several pages about Property Division in the Event of Medium Sized or Larger Storms, Grisha Attacks, and General Flooding, “I’m not signing my life away.”

“When you get married, it might be difficult to annul if you’ve still got a legal Kerch-”

“When I get married?” she shot back challengingly. “To who?”

“I don’t know. That fire-tongued revolutionary who writes you poetry and will make you a new world. The Kaelish tavern maid who always pours you a free beer in her bar while you sing about the plight of the repressed. Someone hopelessly moon-eyed and optimistic, who thinks the world shits rainbows and knows what you’re worth.”

“You, Kaz Brekker,” she finally sighed, “are a hell of a lot dumber than they say you are.” ⭐

this is from in secret, between the shadow and the soul! This fic has kind of a complicated story- I had devoted my free writing time that summer to writing an inej-centric hunger games au which currently sits at 20k on my laptop and may or may not ever see the light of day. but it very much DID get me thinking about the complexity of inej and kaz's relationship and just relationships in general. on a whim while i was waiting for someone in a medical center waiting room a bit of a trip from home (nothing of concern but i had a notebook and a pen and no wifi and a bunch of like half hour snippets of free time) I started writing something for fun totally disconnected from the AU and very self indulgent. i love historical fiction and well-done historical romances, and one thing I'm so fascinated in in general is marriage. as a social, religious, economic and cultural institution. because it's something both found in so many times and cultures and yet the reasons for and views on why people get married are so debated and complex and variable. and so i think a lot of the stuff about what we owe each other, in a way, and contracts, got remixed into this fic.

in retrospect I think this fic marked a really landmark moment for me as a writer, which was when I went from writing mainly AU's to writing mainly canon. i started writing and reading fic when modern AU's and such were really predominating over everything, esp in the star wars and the 100 fandoms, and I think the canon for SW in particular scared me, or I felt in some way constrained to the style of the original. writing this made me realise how much fucking around with the style of originals is actually what as a writer i love to do. writing fic in the original universe of something means having to crack it open a bit to see what the component parts are (I guess Kaz would have a whole lockpicking metaphor about that!)

 i think the big vibe between kaz and inej here is sort of digging into that pseudo-regency combo of intimacy and restraint that really characterises their mix of electricity and emotional remove. and that's on full display here, because they have this thing as big as a MARRIAGE on the table and are having to figure out how to deal with it. so we’ve got the collision course of kerch’s hell capitalism and how they think of marriage as a financial agreement above all- which is definitely not the only reason or cause that people have gotten married historically, but has in various societies been a major factor. we’ve got inej, who emphatically does not, as she says, want to be tied to a man in this kind of economic situation. but i don’t think she is flatly opposed to a marriage in the future that’s thought of more in terms of familial ties and children. one of the kanej lines in CK that lives in my mind the most is probably the whole thing after the bathroom scene of, “what was she supposed to do? find a kind husband, have his children, and sharpen the knives after the family had gone to bed.” so for her there’s this internal argument between the life she might have had and the one she’s having now, and what the life she actually wants now is. Even if these questions are still very hypothetical, i think the hypothetical future is on the table for almost everyone who’s planning on getting married. meanwhile Kaz doesn’t want to tie her back to him or ketterdam in any way that can’t be undone! she’s not his girl but she can have him if that’s what she wants! he’s certainly repressing himself and telling himself it’s for her sake her, in a way, but a few lines after this whole thing ends up signed he’s got a whole little tongue slip about kids. SO. and the thing is about them too that I don’t think they’re flatly solely repressed! I think they’re remarkably comfortable with each other and are Dealing With Things in this whole fic in a remarkably adult way. They’re getting there! but anyway TL:DR I’d say this scene for me is actually sort of the I DO serious wedding moment. it’s kaz’s whole idea that she’s only doing this wedding thing for her practical purposes and he won’t be the one to tie her down again, she’ll find someone else better because who wouldn’t love INEJ, and then it’s inej going YOU YOU LITERALLY SHAPE UP YOU’RE THE HUSBAND. 

thank you SO much for sending me this! it was fun to puzzle this one over a bit and i do actually have thousands of words still in my mind about them and their marriage that i WILL get back to! 

[areyougonnabe]

Modern Problems Require Modern Solutions

The two-day deadline he’d set for himself was nearly up, and Aziraphale hadn’t called again.

It wasn’t like he’d been obsessively checking the time or anything, cross referencing it to the exact hour that Aziraphale had dialed him what seemed like years ago. He was just— staying aware. Keeping his phone on him at all times. In the atrium, misting the plants; in the office, rearranging his  precious keepsakes; sprawled out in front of the television, clicking through channels and retaining absolutely nothing.

He knew what it was about. In a time of crisis, nothing comforted Aziraphale more than learning the rules and abiding strictly by them. If he tried to force his way in, tempt and cajole and convince, it would all collapse like one of the angel’s awful magic tricks, complete with all the full-body embarrassment that implied.

No, there would be no slithering over. Aziraphale was having fun by himself. An unbelievable amount of fun, by the sound of it. This was paradise for introverts like the angel; what right did Crowley have to saunter in and bring it all crashing down? 

He had a tendency to do that with paradises, historically speaking.

Fuck, two days. Why the hell had he given himself two whole days? He shouldn’t have even bothered. It was hopeless, clearly.

Three hours to go, now. The angel might well be dithering and pacing and fretting a mile away in his cozy, closed, bookshop, but Crowley knew it wouldn’t make a difference in the end. Crowley might as well go to sleep now, get it over with, fast-forward to August when the whole thing was over— when Aziraphale said he’d see him again. He had said that, right? It hadn’t just been Crowley’s brain, proffering up a hopeful hallucination in a time of great need.

With a snap of his fingers, Crowley was clothed in a slinky black silk dressing gown with red piping, open in a deep V at the chest and trailing elegantly on the floor.

His bed was calling. He could practically feel the deep luxury of his enormously expensive mattress and just-cheap-enough sheets* already sending goosebumps of tactile pleasure up his limbs. Did the bookshop have these accommodations? No. Definitely no. Decidedly no. Positively no. So it was a good thing, then, that Aziraphale hadn’t called. Absolutely a good thing.

As he walked to the bed, Crowley caught a glimpse of himself in his gilt-framed full-length mirror. Damn, he looked good. He’d been growing his hair out for a few months now, and it fell to just above his shoulders now in perfect red waves. Combined with the black silk, the effect was pure glamour.

Pity the angel wasn’t around to see it. “Your loss,” Crowley muttered, as he pulled his phone out of his dressing gown pocket, and began to snap a series of truly daring mirror selfies. Leg out, leg in. Hips this way, hips that way. Angle, angle, different angle— yeah, that’s the stuff—

And then his phone lit up.

“What—?!”

It was Aziraphale calling. Except, no, he wasn’t calling— it said— how could it say—

He pressed the answer button so hard he nearly cracked the phone screen. “Aziraphale, are you FaceTiming me?”

“Oh, Crowley! I can see you!”

“Yes, that’s the blessed point.”

“But it’s wonderful! And you look— oh, good lord.”

Crowley was, against his better judgement, holding his phone far enough out so that Aziraphale could get a better view. He could see, in every HD pixel, the flush building on the angel’s cheeks as he took it all in. This was dangerous territory. 

“No, hold on,” he said, “you don’t even own an iPhone. Or a cell phone at all. Or a webcam, so how are you doing this?”

“I don’t know about any of that,” said Aziraphale. “I’ve just seen people on the street, you know, video chatting away, so I sat down at my computer and told it to get you on the line, and that I wanted to see your face, and, here we are!”  

Crowley couldn’t rein in his grin at the thought of Aziraphale’s ancient, groaning desktop, being angelically commanded to sprout a webcam and an internet connection and an iOS operating system, purely in service of getting in touch with a demon over a one-mile distance. 

“You really went to all that trouble?” 

“Well, you were bored. You said so. And— oh, I really wouldn’t like to set a bad example by breaking the rules, but— if you slept for that long, I’d... I’d miss you.” 

“Nnh.” Crowley did not dare try to verbalize a response to that.

“And we are rather experts at these sorts of things, aren’t we? Loopholes, arrangements? I thought it would be such a pity if I didn’t even give it a try— for your sake. Is— is that all right?” Aziraphale said. His eyes were now wide with the beginnings of alarm, and it killed Crowley that he couldn’t physically reach out to soothe it all away. 

“It is. It really is. But hold on, gimme a mo, I’ll make it better—” Crowley left his bedroom and went out the living room, where he AirPlayed his phone to the television, blowing Aziraphale’s face up to majestic proportions, like a Chuck Close portrait or a Moai head. 

He propped his phone up below it, keeping the entire living room in frame, and retreated to the sofa, where he recreated the type of graceful limb-drape he so often engaged in at the bookshop. “Howzat, then?” 

“My goodness. It’s like you’re right here in the shop with me!” 

“It’s not,” said Crowley, “but it’ll do, angel. It’ll do just fine.” Very slowly, he lengthened his sprawl, letting a hand casually come up and slide the fabric of his dressing gown away, revealing one tanned thigh, the barest hint of a scallop-edged undergarment beneath.

“For now,” Aziraphale agreed. His eyes were so big on the screen, and getting bigger. He was looking, looking very intently indeed, at the movement of Crowley’s hand, and was that— oh, he most certainly just licked his lips. “Yes, for now— I think it will, my dear.” 

*Because sometimes things that are expensive are worse.

[feysandfeels]

Sometimes I think of the trigger Lucien must have gotten when he saw Feyre die and Tamlin holding her crying. He probably made a parallel about what happened to him and Jesminda. I believe that's why he didn't help Feyre so hard in relation to Tamlin in the second book, because Tamlin got the opportunity he didn't get.

Of course there's every part of Tamlin being his High Lord and he owes him allegiance, but I believe his trauma has been addressed.

Of course, that's not an excuse, but I can't stop thinking about it.

Hiya Sugar, I know you asked me this like three weeks ago, sorry I'm just getting around to it.

So this mainly has two sides to understand first is what was happening to Lucien. Here we need to take into account his history of abuse at the hands of his family and Tamlin. The second is clearly how Feyre understood the situation from her own place of enunciation. Still I think this is one of those discussions in the fandom where you should tread lightly because I don't think either side is entirely wrong to feel what they felt and every argument has a well crafted response that is enlightening.

Lucien.

I think by this point denying that Lucien is a victim of abusive relationships that showcased their abuse not only physically but mentally and emotionally is just irresponsable and willful blindness. Lucien's family dynamic speaks of a toxic environment if I ever saw one. The Jesminda's death at the hands of his brothers and father is something that has left a scar as visible as the one across his eye. This is an experience that molds how he interacts with other people as friends, as romantic partners, and also how he understands romantic relationships that he is not involved in (Feyre and T*mlin).

From this angle, yes, UtM was extremely triggering for him because yet again he was placed in a situation where the loved one is killed and the other person "can't do much" about it (the quotation thingies are because T*mlin was being useless af here and he should have done more than just beg, Lucien's situation he was magically and physically restrained). He understands T*mlin's nightmares better than almost anyone, and as he told Feyre, T*mlin will never not hear the sound of her neck breaking. I do believe that if T*mlin had talked about this with Lucien, he might have dealt with the whole thing better.

We can't also ignore that Lucien carries a lot of guilt regarding Jesminda. He couldn't save her and seeing his friend die in a similar manner must have brought up his own traumas so its understandable that his full on attention might not have been spent towards understanding what Feyre was going through. We all are dealing with things and it's fair when you don't have the mental space to see what is happening to those around you, even when you are as observant as Lucien is. If your mind is not seeing, it doesn't matter if your golden eye sees it all. This guilt of not being there for the ones he loves (in any capacity) is also shown in WAR when he realizes better what happened to Feyre and he says something about being the villain in her story. As much of an Elucien fan that I am I do think that part of his reasoning for going to fetch the army was to make amends with Feyre. He felt guilty for not being there for her friend. (Yes he had a lot more to address on his plate, there's no doubt of that). In a way I do think he recognized that he could have done more.

On top of this we add that Lucien's relationship with T*mlin is based on a partly on the loyalty earned from saving him from his brothers. I think that it is not for nothing that in ACOSF Eris says that he's the one that sent word to T*mlin about what was happening to Lucien, which implies the existence of a friendship that predates the murder of Jesminda. This means that along with that loyalty there must be some old fashion good hearted feelings that nourish what we see as the friendship these two have. What I mean is that probably Lucien's vision of T*mlin is the friend he used to be way back when and the loyalty for offering a "home".

We don't know when exactly T*mlin started being abusive towards Lucien, but at least we can all agree that during ACOMAF he was. It wouldn't also be a stretch to think that in the pre-acotar days there might have been incidents of physical abuse, but so far we don't know for sure. There is a missing piece of information that we don't have yet because Lucien was more feisty during UtM when his life was at risk, than he was during MAF... this tells us a lot of how T*mlin was handling things with him.

There's also something to be said with how Lucien understood abuse. It's a heavy possibility that he perceived abuse like he saw it in the AC. He had a naturalized version of what abuse is, that for him w abuse looked like and felt like what he lived in the AC, so what he experienced with T*mlin pre-acotar did not seem to him as abuse (even when it was). And after Amarantha he began to understand the multiple faces of abuse and thus started to being afraid of T*mlin. Lucien could have also been dealing with the realization that a centuries old relationship had be tainted with abusive behaviors.

I do think that Lucien thought that he tried as hard as he could with the tools he had. But that does not mean that he shouldn't have done more. The problem is that Lucien didn't know he could. Like if he had fought with Tamlin for Feyre's sake where would he go then? Feyre had the option to go to the Night Court, Lucien did not. I like to believe that if he had known the truth about the NC before and had him and Feyre talked about it they would have said fuck you Tamlin, bye, black is the new spring. But he did not know. So he stayed on the comfortable zone of pushing but not jeopardizing his "home". You can hardly blame him for how he played the game when he did not know he was playing with one hand tied to his back.

I will not excuse though when he tried to grab her against her will during the woods. I understand that he was scared and desperate, but I still think that it was not right.

Feyre.

When I stand from a Feyre point of view there are two things that speak to me above all others. First she died for Tamlin and she bargained her life for his court -Lucien included- so I understand the she expected him to push and fight hard for her too. I know there's a quote about her recognizing that T*mlin had fought for her but that she had fought harder for him, and I think that can also suit her relationship with Lucien to an extend. I'm not saying that Lucien is like T*mlin, because no, not at all, not even in the least; but I do think she would have liked for her friend to fight for her well being like she fought for his during UtM.

Second it is hard to be see your friends still be friends with your abuser. Yes Feyre doesn't know all the variables that affect their relationship, the toxic loyalty that T*mlin saving Lucien created, the genuine friendship that was there before her and before Jesminda... but I understand the pain to see your friend not draw the lines for your sake.

This offers a beautiful arc for Lucien in the sense that only recently there has been a movement of "tell me if I'm friends with your abuser", and this awakening is a reality that a lot of people are facing. Is hard to untangle yourself from a person you have known for x amount of time, because you are trying to see the abusive person in the face you related to kindness or something not abusive. Again, we don't know how their relationship was pre-Feyre, perhaps Tamlin had been nothing but a sugary cupcake with Lucien and it's hard to associate that version of his friend to the version he is post Amarantha, the version that will physically abuse them; perhaps T*mlin had always been an ass but "the good outweighed those few instances of abusive behavior". What I'm trying to say is that sometimes it is hard to make a clean cut when the abuser turns out to be the person who saved you (from an even worse abuser but like you get what I mean).

I will not do him the disservice to say that he might not have connected the dots and thought that T*mlin's behavior was abusive towards Feyre. Even if he was just understanding how abuse can look like and even if he was reliving Jesminda's death I do think he could see that T*mlin's behavior was abusive towards Feyre (here I am making the distinction between reliving the trauma of having his love murdered and him recognizing abuse). Lucien is clever and intelligent. I think he did see what was happening, but that implied also a massive shift of reality for him that he was not prepared to see and did not have the tools to deal with, he was also struggling there.

Final thoughts.

I think Feyre is not wrong to feel a tad of distaste against Lucien through ACOMAF. Speaking from a personal experience it is quite sad and tough to see people who you conceived as friends not stand up to you when you are suffering at the hand of your S.O who happens to be their friend. It sucks a lot because you truly feel alone and you feel that at the end of the day they did not take care of you at the expense of taking care or helping or remaining on the good graces of your abuser.

But I think that simply condemning Lucien's actions during MAF without understanding the complicated history of abuse he has, is irresponsable. You are of course allowed to say that he is not fave and that it left a bad taste in your mouth, that's fair, but to condemn him the way I've seen this fandom do without an ounce of empathy or critical reading is just baffling (which to be quite frankly is also something I saw everybody after ACOSF with Rhysand, they condemned his actions without truly taking five second to understand the historical context of them).

Characters are allowed to make mistakes and are allowed to fall short in any given situation, because we as living creatures sometimes fall short in life. What's important to me is that Lucien is learning and when Feyre returned to the SC in WAR we could all see that he changed his approached towards the situation and was there for her. And also you will pry this off my hands but the fact that he is invited to their Solstice celebrations speaks of the state of their relationship right now, they are understanding of what the other is going through and I do think they are making amends and creating a friendship that acknowledges the mistakes they have both made towards the other one.

Yeah this was a long ramble.

Again, apologies it took me so long to answer

Long live Lucien and Feyre. I can't wait for them to grow closer.

[therobishow]

I think I'm done with podcasts made by men

I love listening to podcasts while I work. Especially ones related to history, film, and literature.

And damn near every time I try listening to ones that are made by men, I end up hitting a point where I have to stop listening and switch to something else. There's always a point where they say something that is so ignorant, blatantly sexist, etc., that I just can't take it.

Often times it's the host buying into a very male-centered lens of interpreting whatever it is they're discussing. And, you know, that's kind of expected. They're men. They're viewing things as men. I get that and I'm usually willing to just roll my eyes and move on. But then it keeps happening, or gets much worse than what can be excused by simple ignorance. And then I can't just roll my eyes anymore. I just want to start yelling. And that's not a good energy to have while I'm trying to do my job. So I switch over to something else.

A good example of this happened today. I was listening to a podcast called History by Hollywood. I found it because I'm a huge fan of History Buffs on Youtube. Comparing historical fiction to the actual history is fascinating to me. I love learning about the real event and how it's translated into fiction. But...it got bad. Real fucking bad.

Now, I can't place all the blame on the creators of HbH. They had guests who do a podcast that I think is called Green Screen, which discusses films through an environmental lens. And I definitely will not be listening to that podcast after hearing them today.

The episode was about Gorillas in the Mist, which is biopic about Dr. Dian Fossey. If you don't know who Dian Fossey is, look her up. She was one of the group known as the Trimates, sometimes called Leakey's Angels. The group consisted of three women who were expert primatologists: Birute Galdikas, who studied orangutans; Jane Goodall, possibly the most well known of the three, who studied chimpanzees; and Fossey herself, who studied gorillas. I would love to write hundreds of pages about how awesome and unbelievably badass these women are/were. Seriously, learn about these women if you haven't already. They are amazing.

Anyway, the episode was about Dr. Fossey. My first issue is that, despite her PhD, they never once referred to her with her proper title. This is upsettingly common with women who have earned doctorates. Men never want to call them Doctor. It frustrates me to no end. But that's not nearly the worst of it. They went on to discuss how she became pregnant twice during her time in Rwanda. She chose to abort both pregnancies because she did not want pregnancy or motherhood to interfere with her work with the gorillas. One of the GS guys commented on this saying "I suppose her reasons could be considered valid." Um, excuse me? First of all, why do you think that you get to decide whether or not she had valid reasons? You don't. Second, of course her reasons are valid. Whatever a woman's reasons are for having an abortion are valid. She's the only one who gets to make that decision. So fuck right off with that. Sorry for getting a bit heated here, but that really pissed me off. There was no need for a comment like that. Especially since it makes it sound like he doesn't actually think her reasons are valid, but is scared of catching heat so tried to sugarcoat it.

Moving on, TW: rape, they also got into the fact that Dr. Fossey stated that she was repeatedly raped by soldiers in 1966 over the course of two weeks. People freaking love to claim that this is "disputed" or "exaggerated" and some go as far as to claim that it was an outright lie. Why? Because she originally claimed that she was treated well and then escorted to the border. Later on, she admitted that she was actually beaten and raped. I'm not going to delve too far into this because a) this post is already way longer than I intended, and b) I will get SO MAD. For the sake of brevity, I'm just going to say that I believe that she was raped, and that she initially lied because she was not ready for this information to become public. The hosts however...well, they'd like to claim that they didn't come down on either side of this "debate" and simply presented facts. But they totally don't think she was raped. They went on and on about all the reasons that she would have lied about being raped, such as political clout, publicity, propaganda, and other dumb reasons. But just couldn't seem to think of any reason that she would have lied about not being raped. Gotta love how men are always able to come up with fifty million reasons why women would make false accusations. It's absolutely not in any way revealing how they think of women.

They also got into the admittedly shitty things that Dr. Fossey did during her time in Rwanda. She wasn't perfect, and she did do some rather bad things. Her approach to conservation work was very much steeped in a colonialist mindset. I'm not about to deny that. And they did do a good job of explaining some of the more overlooked facts of poaching--most African poachers aren't cartoon villains who want to destroy nature. Many are farmers who are killing animals that threaten their crops and/or livestock. And then they get offered lots of money to do it. It's not a simple issue, and doesn't have a simple solution. I don't have a problem with them addressing this, and I'm glad that they did. However, and this is a pretty big HOWEVER, they also didn't discuss any of the great things she did. She saved a huge number of gorillas. She helped improve the Rwandan economy. She fought against multiple colonialist organizations trying to exploit Rwanda and it's wildlife. She helped to revolutionize the field of primatology. There's so much that we know now that we only know because of her. They also decided that the fact that she's a heavily revered and respected figure in Rwanda was worth a few sentences and that was it.

They referred to her as cold and unfeeling multiple times, largely due to her relationship with Bob Campbell, who was married when they met. Apparently the fact that she didn't stick with him for her whole life means that she's cold and uncaring. Ugh. I just fucking can't with this.

And the cherry on top, they made jokes about her murder. Yep. Dr. Fossey was horribly and brutally murdered with a machete in December of 1985. And they apparently think that's funny. Now, I know that some of the people who were close to Dr. Fossey have also made jokes regarding her death. However, there are several Grand Canyon-sized differences between someone using humor to cope with the death of someone they loved, and some assholes with a podcast making jokes about the brutal murder of a woman they never met. They also said that it doesn't matter who killed her or if they're ever caught. Which...no? It very much matters who snuck into this woman's home in the middle of the night and used a machete to brutally murder her. It very much matters if this person is caught. I can't even imagine trying to say that it doesn't matter if an actual murderer is ever caught.

All of this goes into a huge problem when it comes to studying history, especially the history of science. Women are always scrutinized more heavily, always criticized with more vitriol, and always have their enormous accomplishments either left out entirely or pushed to side. I almost never see male scientists given this treatment. Edison comes close, but he always gets quite a bit of "Yeah, he was awful, but let's not forget all the awesome things he did!" Women however get "Yeah, she did a few cool things for science, but let's not forget that she had an abortion!"

I just can't handle this shit anymore. If you managed to get all the way to the end of this wall of text (yay) please recommend me some good history/literature podcasts created by women. I will love you so much.