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heniareth · 1 year

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OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH my brilliant friend you know what? First the notification that you liked the ask game came up and the jittering began BUT NOW YOU HAVE REBLOGGED!!!! PREPARE. TO BE. ASKED.!!!!! Ok now I'll ask a lot, because I'm curious about a lot, and you just pick whatever you want to answer yeah? Yeah! <3 <3 I'll put this under the cut as it's ended up quite long (you said you were on the road tmrw and I didn't know if you'd be on mobile to answer, so I wrote the prompts here so you didn't have to get out of this to go back to the list-- god help me if it turns out there's an easy way to do it and I don't know it :P) Hope you're having a grand time!!!!

NOW!!!!!! For Astala my beloved, as she is always on my mind, let me put forth requests FOR: 1 (what is their colour palette), 2 (what does their handwriting look like), 10 (what piece of moody poetry or novel quote best encompasses your character), and 22 (what is some advice or guidance they received that had a big impact on their lives or outlook? was it a positive or a negative impact)

For Ilanlas my bitey beloved, who spins in my head like he's been glued to a chair-o-plane seat, I'd like to enquire about 4 (if your OC likes art, talk about what they would like best), 8 (if your OC were to live in an alternate time period, which one would suit them best), 12 (what is their character theme song and why? if it has lyrics, pick which ones best suit them), and 24 (is mental, physical, or emotional wellbeing most important to them)

And for Marelas my brand spanking new beloved, who is shiny and taking shape so gorgeously in my head, may I ask 3 (what architectural or design aesthetic would suit them best), 9 (if your OC were to imagine their idyllic life, realistically or otherwise, what would it be like), 23 (what sort of rules, routines, and rituals do they set for themselves), and 26 (if they were to lose the person closest to them, how would they mourn them and how would they handle their grief)

Plant, lovely friend!!! I am so excited for this!!! I did end up having to drive the other day (this is why the asks are trickling out of my askbox rather than being answered all at once), but here we are!!! And such asks!!! Let's talk about the beloveds! A cut is required because this never is short (please take as long as you like with this because it’s. Really Long.)

I appreciate you putting the whole questions into the ask so much!!! It makes life easier (and asks long, but no long asks ever intimidated us, did they? XD)

Astala

1 (what is their colour palette)

Oh boy. Astala loves her colors. She usually goes for muted colors. You know, kinda something like a fall palette. Here are some examples:

When she’s at court as arlessa or as the Hero of Ferelden, however, she very deliberately wears brighter and more saturated (and thus more expensive) colors, and if there’s jewelry involved she’ll go for gold. She’s definitely flaunting her status here in front of all the shem. At the Landsmeet, she’s well known for her red dress; a callback to her first encounter with the most esteemed nobility of Ferelden (aka. Vaughan). If she’s somewhere in her capacity as Hero of Ferelden she’s restricted to blues and silvers, sadly, but she makes it work (and work very well indeed, as Zevran would add). Below are the same colors as above with higher brightness and saturation to give you an idea of what that might look like:

2 (what does their handwriting look like)

Astala, dearest Astala, started her career of doing paperwork while having a fancy title with nothing to prepare her for hours spent writing (she does know how to write, thank you very much). In the beginning, her handwriting suffers from it. She grips the pen with way to much strength and either ends up with a hole in the paper or a cramp in her hand (or both). But practice makes perfect, and after a bit of practice, her handwriting is even and orderly as can be. She tends to make her lowercase letters pretty tall and overall her writing leans to the right. If she's sending informal letters (like the one to Sten) she likes underlining the important words to accurately convey the meaning and intonation of her sentences. She's also one to use several instances of P.S. to tell the whole of what she wants to tell. Her letters are mostly always nice and structured; she's better at accounting than writing, and tables are amazing, so she makes liberal use of bullet points and the like to speed up and organize the flow of information.

10 (what piece of moody poetry or novel quote best encompasses your character)

We've got a couple different ones here, so I stitched them together!

"It is never too late to be what you might have been." —George Eliot

This quote spoke to me because Astala was supposed to be a troublemaker like her mother and live a quiet, unassuming life like her father, was supposed to get married and start a family and is now a Grey Warden.

"Nobody protects us. So we protect us." —Miriam in Dragon Age: Absolution

This one is pretty obvious. Astala is big on protecting and wholeheartedly believes in her community and the need to stick together.

"All you need is love. But a little chocolate now and then doesn't hurt." —Charles M. Schulz

This one just made me laugh XD XD Astala loves to enjoy things (regardless of whether they are luxuries or not), but she does yearn for close connections. And when she can't have them, having access to nice things is definitely a way she copes with a potential lack of close relationships

"But of course, your Excellence. A true commander takes responsability for the life and death of the men he sends into battle; it's only right and proper that he should be held accountable for them. At the first stolen chicken you may have my head." —Rankstrail in The Last Orc by Silvana de Mari (a bit of context: Rankstrail is sassing the local governor's military people bc they wanted to torture one of his soldiers over a stolen chicken. And the chicken wasn't even a fat one to begin with!)

This book series is a YA fantasy series that I stopped reading after some installments because the characters I loved the most kept dying or falling into depression with no visible way out, but it handles poverty, government incompetence and injustice beautifully. Incidentally, the government in question has a very futuristic style of architecture, and given the Italian name of the author I wonder if there are some intended parallels to a fascist government. Back to the book, Rankstrail is definitely one of my favorite characters and the whole series was very formative when I read it as a teen. I wanted to include a quote and this one stuck out to me because Astala has to navigate some authorities trying to pull one on her while sneering down on her as well. I think she and Rankstrail would find common ground in that (and in the book series the whole thing is amazing bc Rankstrail dances circles around these people but they always maintain the upper hand in the end because they have the power and the resources and he doesn't!)

22 (what is some advice or guidance they received that had a big impact on their lives or outlook? was it a positive or a negative impact?)

I've talked about how Astala has been impacted by her mother, for good and bad. Her father mostly taught her by word and by example how to look for work and keep it, as well as how to care for her family. I really should talk more about Cyrion, because obviously he had the bigger impact on her here, but I want to talk about Valendrian.

When Cyrion was still recovering emotionally from losing Adaia and physically from having spent a winter sick (half of it working), Valendrian often took the Tabris kids with him when he made his rounds around the Alienage. Other children in sinilar situations had other adult family members (aunts, uncles, grandparents, adult cousins) who could do the same; not the Tabrises, so the hahren had to step in. Working with Valendrian gave them something to do, connected them more with their people and allowed them to feel useful and capable in a situation that was very much beyond their control. He sent them to run errands for families who couldn't, to deliver medicine or food, to watch over kids, to help clean a house or a street or warehouse, or took them with him to visit people who were sick (and not contagious), alone or grieving. He also often took the scenic route to his destinations and tried to send two of them ahead or something to get time with the third one alone. With Astala he talked about her mother, about her father, about the weather, her future, Soris, Shianni, and, when she was fourteen and still helping him out, her crush on Alarith (that moment in the first chapter of her story when she offers Valendrian her help with Vaughan and Valendrian tells her to step back? That's a callback to those days, when she and her cousins used to help him all the time).

Basically, Valendrian tried to lend these three kids what support he could give them. He's Astala's reference for what leading a community looks like, and what a community is, how it works, and so forth. This comes in very handy during the Blight, but especially later, as arlessa. She is some steps further removed from her people than Valendrian was at that point, but the basic procedures stay the same.

Ilanlas

4 (if your OC likes art, talk about what they would like best)

Ilanlas is very much about statues and abstract art. I think he’d love the black and white paintings of Franz Kline. It's the kind of art where he feels like he can step into it; the feelingnis comparable to when he sees a grove of trees or a structure of rocks or a bend of the road in the distance and wants to go and check it out. These paintings form a kind of space for him where he can retreat into. It's very nice and calming.

He'd also love sculptures made out of driftwood, particularly those where the wood has been left to stay in its original shape. In his opinion, taking the raw material as it is and working with its shape instead of bending said shape to one's will is much more imaginative, creative, respectful.

And then, while snooping through the internet, I found this piece, Burning from Within by Christopher David White. It's ceramic, not wood, which is a feat in and of itself, but what Ilanlas would find amazing is the way the copper leaf on the inside really makes it look like it's wood being consumed by embers. He'd see it from the back and get all excited about it jntil he'd realize that the thibg is not a piece of a hollowed-out tree but. Y'know. The naked torso af a woman. That'd bother him a lot; the ubiquity of naked women in art in general would. Why does everything have to be about having the hots for random women? Wtf??? (He's very unimpressed by the countless Andraste statues everywhere as well. At least they're clothed.)

8 (if your OC were to live in an alternate time period, which one would suit them best)

I answered this one here! It’s kinda hard to find a time period that’d suit him. He’s so integrated in Thedas. But, now that I think of it, he would’ve had a blast in the 80s. He’d have his own painted van and everything. He and Tamlen would just take off and make a long, long roadtrip to wherever the road will take them. They'd set up camp in the middle of nowhere, stop in the desert and spend the whole night looking up at the stars, park the van in the curb of a steep mountain road to climb those extremely climbable rocks, watch the sunrise next to a gigantic waterfall that douses them from head to toe in fine spray water. Merrill comes along sometimes and has them stopping at tourist attractions, museums and canyons. Can you imagine Ilanlas with sunglasses and a bandana holding his long hair back? He’d have so much fun XD XD XD XD

That said, big aside: since the Dalish have ties to Native Americans, Roma and jewish people, all of the above might not've been possible. I don't have a lot of knowledge on the situation of these people in the 80s, in the USA and otherwise, but what little I know makes me think that Ilanlas would've been more preoccupied with travel restrictions, bad faith from the authorities and just the general population, poverty and all of its lovely companions. For his sake, I'd like that not to be so. On the other hand, erasing the past of other people is not good. I hope he does get to see at least one sunrise next to that waterfall tho

12 (what is their character theme song and why? if it has lyrics, pick which ones best suit them)

I have. Several songs I relate to this man, but here’s one. Sound the Bugle from the movie Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron.

If you lose yourself

Your courage soon will follow

So be strong tonight

Remember who you are

I don't have a lot of smart things to say here, except that he's really going through it. Where Astala is doing her damnest to eke out a place for herself, no matter how small, where she can live her life as close as possible to what it used to be, Ilanlas has thrown himself wholesale into the Grey Wardens. The only thing he keeps for himself is the right to take vengeance for Tamlen, and since that means killing darkspawn, it's not really something that detracts from his role in the order (while Astala very much does try to put as much distance between herself and the order as she can). Losing Tamlen was like losing a huge chunk of himself for Ilanlas. When he finds Tamlen again, these verses will be significant.

24 (is mental, physical, or emotional wellbeing most important to them)

I think his emotional wellbeing is the most important to him because it's the most fragile. He has a very decent pain tolerance and doesn't mind getting sweaty or having his legs full of mud after trekking through the countryside for hours. He's also good at problem-solving and decision-making generally comes easy to him (even if they're not always the best decisions).

It's the emotions that get him; some things hurt him deeply and he doesn't know what to do with that. In other instances it's just him losing his cool or being brusque and not thinking much of it, only to then turn around and find that the other person is offended and blames him. There are many people that feel things more deeply than him, and he finds it hard to understand that because to him it's no big deal. It's a bit of a vicious circle, tbh. He seriously and unwillingly hurts somebody and then gets hurt back bc the other person reacts negatively for no reason, seemingly. Or even lashes out. Long story short, it's the emotional wellbeing that bugs him the most and that is thus most important to him.

Marelas

3 (what architectural or design aesthetic would suit them best)

I think Marelas would enjoy the Arts and Crafts Movement. It's beautiful (could do with a bit warmer and more vibrant colors though), practical and it puts great emphasis on the craft of the artisan. This man enjoys having beautifully made things around him, and that's one if the tenets of the Arts and Crafts Movement. You bet he had a say in Skyhold's furnishing, much to Vivienne's chagrin. Too Dalish for her taste.

He'd also have a field day in the Library at the National Palace of Mafra, Portugal. Baroque isn't his favorite (it's very Orlesian), but this building in particular is grand, but not gaudy, well illuminated, probably very cool in summer, and has tons of space in case he wants to strew his papers around to arrange them on the floor and look at them from a certain distance to get a look at the big picture of things. He likes mind maps. Also, the building apparently houses bats!! How cool is that?

9 (if your OC were to imagine their idyllic life, realistically or otherwise, what would it be like)

Here are some of the things Marelas would love to have in his life if you’d asked him right before the plot in Trespasser kicks off:

Study lore!! So much lore!! All the history and the magic, medicine, cultures, all of it!!

Peace for clan Lavellan.

A long life for Keeper Deshanna.

Many people around him he can trust and rely on.

Frequently meet the members of the Inquisition, see what work they have been doing, maybe even continue working with them to enrich the lives of the people of Thedas (and enrich is the keyword here. He’s no fighter when he can help it. He’d rather pursue social or cultural goals).

Be able to often visit Dorian, very often (the separation hit him hard, harder than he wants to admit. He thinks it commendable and a good thing that Dorian wants to better his homeland, but at the moment when Dorian told him he was leaving, Marelas did feel a bit abandoned in favor of more exciting pursuits. He and Dorian did have the chance to talk it through, however, and have settled on an arrangement that, so far, is satisfying to both. Still, he misses Dorian).

Not have any world-ending threats hanging above his head.

Foster more community between the city elves and the Dalish clans (I think somebody from his family came from the city, probably an uncle who married into his mother’s side of the family).

23 (what sort of rules, routines, and rituals do they set for themselves)

Back at his clan, his routine looked something like this:

Wake up, have a handful of something, pray alone.

Do some stretching, have some real breakfast, revise what has to be done that day with Keeper Deshanna and the clan’s Second, and start. He sometimes works alone, sometimes they all work together or in pairs. They have a well-honed system.

Part of his routine is taking a round of the premises (wherever he is) and see how everybody is doing. He tends to do that around mealtime, after getting some work in.

If somebody wants to converse with him, he will tend to schedule it in the afternoon, preferrably right after having eaten lunch and taken a bit of quiet time to himself, or when the sun is already lowering towards the horizon. He finds these are hours best spent quietly, and that they lend themselves more to thinking than to doing.

He will also pray alone in the evening, right after dinner if he can manage. He will go over the day, write up things that have to be done next (either the following day or at some point in the future), offer up the good and the bad, and enjoy the quiet as the sun sets and the stars start to shine.

Prayer is very important to him, and throughout the day there would be more opportunities, mostly with Keeper Deshanna and clan Lavellan’s Second. He tries his best to keep this routine after the explosion at the Conclave, although Keeper Deshanna and clan Lavellan’s Second are replaced by Cullen, Josephine and Leliana. He does miss the more relaxed rhythm of the life in his clan, but he makes do well. It is strange to him to be at the head of a group instead of the leader’s right hand. He takes responsability quite seriously and the biggest break in his routine is him doing paperwork until way later than he intended. Sometimes, it’s almost a relief when he can leave Skyhold to go roam around Thedas.

Another big interruption to his routine can be any sort of magical or historical study that catches his interest. He’s an academic at heart. In the Jaws of Hakkon DLC, he was happy as a clam at first, searching for Inquisitor Ameridan, and even in the Descent DLC he would rather have spent time studying the runes on the wall than investigating the earthquakes. The Emerald Graves were a treasure trove (albeit a bitter one). If there’s a piece of work that captures his interest, he will get his duties done, sure. But later you’ll find him writing deep into the night. Sometimes his room looks like a tornado came through and scattered complex diagrams and drawings throughout. This turns a bit unhealthy after he drinks of the Well of Sorrows. He now has direct access to knowledge from Arlathan, and he considers it one of his duties to record EVERYTHING the well tells him. He ends up with incoherent scribbles more often than not, but at other points he wrote down a poem, sketched a view from the temple of Sylaise, found a recipe to help with some kind of cough, found hints of an old technique to enrich iron, and so forth. It’s fascinating, but dangerous. More than once, somebody else had to take the pen out of his hand and send him to bed, or otherwise bring him back to reality.

26 (if they were to lose the person closest to them, how would they mourn them and how would they handle their grief)

Ooooh, this is a heavy one. Let's do it >:)

Okay, first of all, Marelas would nowadays have been diagnosed with some form of anxiety disorder (or maybe even PTSD, since the symptoms manifested after an accident in which he nearly drowned). As part of dealing with persistent worries, intense fears of danger and death, and with a generalized feeling of helplessness and loss of control, Keeper Deshanna encouraged him to seek special connection with Falon'Din. The reasoning was that if he died, Falon'Din would be there; he wouldn't be alone. Take away some of the fear that death inspired, and everything would be much easier to deal with; that was Deshanna's reasoning. After all of that and all the events in Inquisition, Marelas likes to think of himself as someone who is familiar with grief and who knows that a loss such as this one will take time to heal. He will do his best to be patient and lean on other loved ones for support, to give himself time, to cherish the memories while stepping out of himself to create new ones. And he does good! He tries his best! He is able to step away from the moment, take a deep breath and brace himself for the things that are to come and he is able to stay moderately aware of his own wellbeing during the period of intense turmoil that follows the death of a loved one.

The reality, however, is that he's a very sensitive man who feels things deeply and for a very long time. He might be patient, experienced and good at taking his own feelings at face value, but his emotions are stubborn buggers. He'll most likely spend a couple of days numb, think that it's going better than he anticipated, until reality catches up to him and everything comes crashing down. After that, he will cry, a lot, but try to keep some of it to himself. He does occupy a position of responsibility after all, and he has to keep doing his work.

In fact, although he knows that giving himself time to actively grieve is important, he definitely puts his role as First (or the Keeper if it's Keeper Deshanna who died), well... first. If Keeper Deshanna died, he would even officiate the funeral. Embodying the figure of the First/Keeper removes him from his pain by focusing on other people's pain, although that's not the only reason why he blends into his role in the clan. He does genuinely want to help. It is, however, part of the reason why he spends some days functioning well while emotionally numb. He's not entirely conscious that he does this, and there's no easy answer here because he does have a responsability for the well-being of the clan. He does best when he has somebody that will step past the whole "he is responsible for everybody" thing and makes him contemplate how he is doing as a person. Hold a mirror in front of him, so to say. So yeah, that's him if somebody close to him from his clan dies.

If Dorian died... well, that's a whole other thing. He doesn't have any official role to disappear behind here, although he definitely would find something to try and occupy himself with. He'd definitely be at the funeral, and he'd definitely ask if he could help with anything. But he's out of his depth in Tevinter, and he's Dorian's partner from down south. Despite his best efforts, he'll have everybody's attention and he'll be at an utter loss on what to do.

So he'd do his best to hold his tears in and cry when he's alone. He'd try to meet Dorian's friends and family and establish at least a bit of a positive relationship with them. And in the process, he'd probably have at least one moment where he'd crack under the pressure and either run away or cry somewhere totally inappropriate and end up mortified and with all the pain spilling out.

All of this, of course, if Dorian or Keeper Deshanna didn't get assassinated. In that case his new mission would be hunting those bastards down, and that's what he'd stand behind until the emotions one day suddenly catch up to him. And he’d go for it with a lot of zeal. He isn’t an easy one to anger, but when he is angry, it holds for a long time.

After having digested the heap of emotions, he does his best to celebrate the person he's lost. He's quite meticulous about marking death-days, and consciously makes space on those days to remember and honor the deceased. He might put up an altar with things that remind him of them and spend a good chunk of the day reminiscing and talking to them (without receiving an answer of course. He might be a mage, but communion with the dead is rare). And he would honor them by trying to help along whatever efforts they pursued in life, if the chance presents itself. Falon'Din is still a god he holds in high regard, even if after Trespasser the elven gods as a whole are unstable ground to him, and honoring the dead is very important to him.

---

And that’s a wrap on these three! I hope the wait was worth it, and if you’ve read the whole thing, kudos to you! This was a very nice brain exercise XD XD XD It was really cool to get to know Ilanlas’s taste in art, tbh. I had a vague idea, but now I really want to sit down with him and talk about modern art. There’s a lot to go into there (starting with what the devil IS art??) and it’d be so interesting to hear what he likes and doesn’t like. Thank you so so so much for these wonderful questions!!!! I hope you are having an absolutely splendid few days!

#astala tabris #marelas lavellan #ilanlas mahariel #dai #dao #dragon age #ask game #for fun

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greaterstolenlandspolycule · 13 days

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Wardrobe, glance and motion for Liesel

glance: At first glance, what stands out most about your OC's appearance? What's their distinguishing feature?

Funnily enough, a lot of Liesel’s design is centered around the fact that (at least as of the beginning of Act 2–their presentation is going to significantly change over the course of Kingmaker) they don’t stand out! This is very deliberately cultivated; they really don’t want to look eye-catching or out of place in any way. Due to fey magic bullshit, though, they do have a slight supernatural charisma that draws attention to them regardless.

motion: How does your OC move? How does their clothing help or hinder their range of motion? Are they flexible, coordinated, clumsy?

Liesel is exceptionally light on their feet, and has a very good sense of balance (in game terms, they are immune to difficult terrain due to the Woodland Stride fey bloodline feature, and they have proficiency in mobility). I imagine their flexibility is pretty average, though; they’ve not really put any time or work into it. They are (unlike me!) quite coordinated.

While as of the beginning of Act 2 they mostly wear typical “feminine” clothing, they specifically cut slits into the front of the skirts of their dresses to allow for a wider range of movement (they wear a pants layer underneath, which I imagine all dress-wearers in the River Kingdoms do because it can get COLD there and skirts allow for an awful lot of exchange of heat with the environment).

wardrobe: How big is your character's wardrobe? Do they wear things threadbare, or can they afford new clothes often? Are they any good at mending and repairing their own clothing?

Liesel has an extremely limited wardrobe, as they grew up in a not-poor-but-certainly-not-close-to-wealthy farming village, and spent the years after they left home as a traveling mercenary who didn’t own anything they couldn’t carry. While they are a baron now, they’ve not settled in to having a stable home base in Tuskdale, and also are juggling learning how to govern and do politics with an extremely informal education, so they still don’t have many outfits. I would imagine all their outfits are quite similar, except for some fancy dress they got for the banquet at the end of Act 1.

Liesel is quite skilled at fixing their own clothes, which is especially important for them because they are very particular about texture—it’s one of the main things they are very sensitive about, sensory-wise—and a messily stitched hole would be intolerably itchy for them! Part of the reason they spent so much effort on making fabric and such in their home village was to ensure they had clothes made out of fabric they could actually tolerate. They also just have a lot of difficulty asking for help from others, so it would have been a necessity anyway, especially during their years on the road.

#thanks for asking!#ask game #oc. liesel #liesel

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1kook · 3 years

Text

ZOOM CALL

⇢ meeting one

jeon jungkook x (f) reader

⇢ series masterlist

summary: In a sea of black screens and faceless names, there’s one smiley boy that beams back at you through the dimly lit screen of your laptop, a tiny Jeon Jungkook (he/him) tacked to the corner of his window. genre: fluff, slice of life, smut (tags tba) warnings: jk is a ditzy lil nerdy sweetheart, college crushes, social distancing -_-, use of the zoom app, 1kook Builds a Healthy Relationship (Version 2.0) ratings: M (18+) wc: 3.2k

notes: well. here we are. as always i have to thank common sense (coincidentally named rumu @kigurumu ) for reading this over and pointing out little details <3 after much deliberation, i have decided to post our beloved zoom jk (see origin story here) in the form of short ‘drabbles’ depicting diff zoom calls with this being The Beginning™️ so please... bare with me </3 ty to all the nice ppl who have been excited for this, luv u very much 🥺

There are times in human history where words captivate their audience; times when single words or phrases wrap around the listener, melt into their bones and radiate warmth from within. But rarely does one word manage such an impact, rarely is it as revered and as cherished as the word cancelled is to most college students.

Class is cancelled, group meetings are cancelled, the stupidly big semester final project was cancelled. You could cancel nearly anything, and in most cases, it would be beautiful. Cancelled meant more time to sleep in the morning, an afternoon free of pesky project partners, a pleasant reprieve from having to socialize with anyone. It was a glorious word with heavenly connotations that brought tears of joy to your eyes whenever you saw it appear in an email preview.

Except this one.

Spring Semester 2021: On-Campus Classes CANCELLED — Social Distance Measures as per State Regula…

Your last semester as a student in university… online? You couldn’t believe it. All these years of studying rigorously, cramming for exams, attaining a near perfect GPA— just to sit in your bedroom and stare at your computer screen for the last 15 weeks of classes? Had your friends not been there to mope with you, you’re certain a part of you would have gone on a rampage and cursed every bacteria known to mankind for doing this to you.

It was your last year, you whined in private (never in public; your friends had always considered you the mature one, the studious friend who kept everyone in order), yet here you were, setting up your desk for your last ever first day of classes with quite possibly the biggest pout on your face.

Zoom, your school had raved in an email a few weeks into the break, the desktop application that will keep us united in these trying times! As if, you huffed, giving the stupid application permission to connect to your computer’s camera and audio systems. What even was proper Zoom etiquette? Did you have to enter the meeting and greet every student cheerfully? You had always said hi to your classmates before, but something about saying it over a computer mic felt awkward.

The feeling doubled when you finally entered the meeting, only to be met with a sea of black screens save for your professor, who seemed to be clicking around his computer in a rather confused fashion. This was going to suck, you thought bitterly.

You had entered the room ten minutes earlier because, well, you always showed up to class a few minutes earlier than the scheduled meeting time. But was there any point to doing that here? Usually, the time before class was spent making small talk with said classmates, discussing the readings or the assignments, talking mindlessly about whatever came to mind. But something in your gut said it would be weird to do that now.

So you sit in silence for the next ten minutes, nervously tapping your pen against your desk as you wait for the professor to launch into whatever introductory monologue he had planned. You toy with your phone, scrolling through your twitter feed only to see a brigade of tweets from students all over the nation suffering the same fate as you. It was a trending topic.

Two minutes before the class starts, you hear the tell-tale ping of someone entering the meeting. You wave it off just like you have your other 41 classmates thus far, but then there’s the clearing of a throat, and a sweet, “good morning” filtering through your speakers. Lifting your head from the hunched over position you had assumed while glancing at your phone, you’re startled by the sudden handsome face that appears before you.

In a sea of black screens and faceless names, there’s one smiley boy that beams back at you through the dimly lit screen of your laptop, a tiny Jeon Jungkook (he/him) tacked to the corner of his window.

He’s nothing short of a dreamboat, soft and doughy cheeks that catch the hue of the screen light, highlighting his cheekbones in a faint blue color. Imploring doe eyes blinking widely at the screen as he clicks around, narrating his confusion in a low mumble (mic still on, how cute). Dark hair— was it brown? black? the pixelated screen made it hard to tell —messily pushed away from his face.

And his voice, oh his voice. It matches his gentle appearance perfectly. A soft snort. “Am I the only one here?” he says, thin lips pulled to the side in a bashful grin.

The professor laughs with him. “No, but you are the only one with your camera on,” he responds.

You’re not sure if it’s the professor’s teasing jab at literally everyone else or the need to support the cutie who smiles softly at screen, but suddenly, a handful of windows come to life. Your classmates fill up the screen, dressed in an array of styles with bedrooms (and, on the rare occasion, dorm rooms) to match. You nibble at your bottom lip, finger hovering over the button that will expose your appearance to the rest of your classmates

Eventually, the wordless peer pressure, the need to be a good student, and the supportive face of Jeon Jungkook (he/him) have you inhaling sharply before dutifully clicking the camera on. Your face appears on screen, nearly lost in the now overwhelming sea of faces. You’re one of the last ones to turn your camera on, both pages of your zoom meeting participant windows filled with the contrasting images of your classmates joining from their bedrooms. The professor claps in delight, and finally dives into the mandatory first day of classes spiel.

Syllabuses, group work, asynchronous lectures. You’ve heard these words all before, have practically memorized this class’s syllabus like the back of your hand. The pros of being an overachiever. The cons are, however, that you think every question your classmates ask is stupid. Read the syllabus, you want to scream. But it’s the first day of class. You don’t even know who your assigned study group partners (as mentioned in the syllabus) are and you certainly don’t want them to dislike you so soon. They can do that after the third meeting, but not today.

You’re not entirely surprised when your attention drifts away from the professor and the endless sea of stupid questions he’s left to answer. Even when you realize you’ve stopped paying attention, you don’t bother forcing yourself to tune back in. No, instead your focus drifts across the windows of faces.

Some of your classmates are as bored as you, glaring at the screen with disinterest, or glancing off to the side probably at their phones. So you start looking at their rooms, analyzing their decorations and posters as if you’re a professional critic on some house design show.

Jeon Jungkook (he/him) is in a rather plain dorm room. Plain light gray walls— or maybe it’s white —free of decoration. He’s sitting at the provided desk, just like you. The only reason you focus on that is because there’s a multitude of your classmates lazily sprawled across their beds, slumped over a couch. Hardly anyone is sitting at attention like you. Well, except for Jeon Jungkook (he/him). He’s practically exposing the entirety of his living accommodation with the way his camera is set up.

Above eye level, reaching just below his chest, with the room all laid out before you. A neat twin bed, sheets meticulously made. It almost looks like the decorative set at a furniture store with the way the comforter and variety of pillows are placed. He doesn’t seem to be in the crappy dorms you remember, which leaves you wondering where exactly he’s been assigned. You know certain sports clubs get fancier dormitories. Anyway, there’s a door off the side of the bed, a black guitar standing in the corner just behind it. You wonder what’s behind the camera, if maybe his desk is as organized as the rest of his room. Maybe his closet is his weakness, you muse, imagining poor Jeon Jungkook (he/him) with a tornado of a closet. But the thought doesn’t make that much sense, so you discard it quickly.

Anyway, his dorm room. It’s neat and orderly, makes you tilt your head curiously as he swivels from side to side before you. As for himself, he’s dressed in a plain white sweater, hoodie strings perfectly even. His hair has long since fallen over his forehead, but he’s pushed it over this time in a fluffy side part. He was adorably soft.

He’s paying attention to the professor like he genuinely treasures every word that comes off his tongue, nodding along understandingly. He’s even got a pencil in hand, leaning forward every few seconds to scribble something down hurriedly. Not like this is all on the syllabus or anything, you think.

But as soon as the thought crosses your mind, it’s dispelled just as fast. He’s only trying to be a good student, you scold yourself, feeling oddly mean for wanting to make fun of this sweet boy. Especially when he raises his hand a second later and asks the first good question of the day. Something about the grading scale for group projects and how much is determined by the group members themselves. You’re not too sure, the words get a little fuzzy when he starts speaking and his pink lips pull down into an endearing pout.

A couple minutes later and your professor finally wraps up the questions, telling everyone to email him if any other questions arise throughout the semester. Just as you’re sighing in relief, he utters those dreaded words: “Ice-breakers!” he exclaims, and the whole class grimaces, much to his amusement. He says something about feeling the excitement through the screen, but then changes gears. “Since it’s a little hard to talk to your neighbor, I’m going to test out the Breakout Rooms and see how that works, okay guys?”

You frown. Breakout Rooms? What on earth was that? Like most of your classmates, this is pretty much your first rodeo with the Zoom application. He was sending you all into small groups, where? The answer presents itself a few seconds later, a message box appearing on your screen.

The host is inviting you to join a Breakout Room: Group 4

Your professor is still chattering in the background when you nervously accept the invitation, his voice suddenly cut off as your computer jumps to a new loading screen. It takes a while before you’re suddenly dumped into a new room. And then you’re staring at your own face, blown up on your own screen in a rather uncomfortable way. Jeez, did you really look like this?

As soon as you get to picking at your appearance, your mirrored reflection jumps to the side, once, then twice more to fit the three new guests in your room. Silence fills your bedroom as you and your classmates all stare at each other nervously for a couple seconds, unsure of what to say. This was, after all, your first meeting.

Just as you’ve gathered all your courage to click your microphone on, the screen jumps around once more and suddenly Jeon Jungkook (he/him) is in your Breakout Room. Immediately, his surprised face melts into the most reassuring grin you’ve ever seen, and he’s practically jumping forward to turn his mic on.

“Good morning, everyone,” he says, smooth and low. It’s like the awkward tension melts away under the pressure of his pretty smile, your classmates responding back with polite hellos and good mornings to him. You barely get yours in before Jeon Jungkook (he/him) starts talking again. “So… how are you guys?”

His words, sweet and caring as they are, send the five of you into a rather mindless conversation. Talking about nothing really, just whatever comes to mind about the class, about the semester, about the remote learning. Then Jungkook— “just Jungkook is fine!” he tells the other four of you with that same too pure look on his face after someone refers to him by his whole name —starts talking about some movie he had seen on Netflix the other day, something his friend recommended to him. Truthfully, you have zero interest in the type of plot he is describing, and you can tell some of the other people in your group don’t either. But he’s absorbed in his storytelling, features lit up as he details every last plot point of the film like his life depends on it. There’s a wordless agreement to let him ramble on.

By the time Jungkook has finished his novella recapture of whatever movie he was talking about, a green message bubble appears at the top of your screen. It’s a message from your professor, who is telling you the small group meeting will end in a few more minutes.

“Aw, that sucks,” Jungkook laughs, rubbing at the back of his neck sheepishly. And then, “oh! We haven’t answered our icebreaker question yet!”

Ah, yes. The reason for this small group was to get to know each other, not for Jungkook to recount an entire two hour movie for you all. “Oh, right,” you agree, probably the first words you’ve said in the past five minutes. You navigate to the chat box, where your professor had hastily dumped the question before sending you all off. “What’s one thing you miss most about being on campus?” you read aloud, glancing back at the screen.

Your group mates are all in various states of blissful comfort, the gaps of their nervousness smoothed over by Jungkook’s bubbly personality, and the hesitation they’d shown at the beginning is practically gone. Someone steps forward and says something about the campus dining hall. Jungkook laughs, loud and airy, claps his hands all cute too. Someone else says the library because it was a good place to study. There’s a lull and you jump in quickly. “I think I’ll miss the couches by the gym in the student center the most,” you confess, though you doubt anyone knows which ones you mean. They were a set of brightly colored couches tucked into a cranny behind the Starbucks just outside the campus gym, avidly avoided by the gym rats who were determined to ignore the sugary drinks and snacks.

Apparently, the hiding spot isn’t as secretive as you thought. “Oh, the ones by the Starbucks?” Jungkook exclaims, excitedly looking at his screen. You have this fluttery feeling that he’s looking at you for the first time. You nod, and he quite positively beams. “I love those!”

“Yeah, I spend a lot of time there,” you say, though it’s a little stilted because you’re not exactly sure how you’re supposed to react to Jungkook’s enthusiasm. Though his outgoing personality cloaks you in comfort, his pretty smile has your heartbeat acting a little funny.

Jungkook’s got these huge eyes, blinking owlishly at you. “Really? So do I!” And then you both seem to have the same realization. His head tilts to the side cutely, an amused smile on his face, “I’ve never seen you there.”

“I’ve never seen you there,” you shoot back, a little snarkier than necessary, but Jungkook doesn’t seem to notice. His smile turns goofy.

“Woah,” he says in a rather dreamy tone, “isn’t that so cool? We spent so much time in the same place, but never crossed paths before,” he babbles. He’s stopped looking at his computer, leaning back in a sort of dazed manner with this sparkly look to his eyes, much to everyone’s amusement. Except yours, because frankly, it sounds a little bit like he’s describing— “fate!” he says suddenly, like it’s truly an aha! moment. He pauses, taps his finger against his chin. “Or anti-fate? I’m not sure. But it’s like— we could’ve met so many times before and we didn’t.” Doe eyes return to the screen, flickering around until they presumably land on you again. “What do you think, __?”

And he’s just so cute, makes the rigid shield around your chest soften for the slightest moment as you nod meekly. “Uhh, yeah. Fate,” you agree, and then get to hear him laugh and giggle for about three seconds before you’re suddenly thrown back into the larger Zoom meeting.

Weirdly flustered, you hurriedly click your microphone back off, and nearly contemplate the camera too. But then the professor is asking you all to share what you talked about and you’re resigning yourself to a few more minutes of screen time while the class wraps up. By the looks of it, not everyone had as an enjoyable time as you did. Part of you is thankful you didn’t get stuck in an awkward small group. The other part recognizes wholeheartedly that it’s all thanks to one smiley boy at the bottom of your screen.

“And group 4?” the professor asks, and you blink yourself back into attention. Before you can unmute yourself and answer for your group, Jungkook is beating you to it.

“We talked about a lot of things,” Jungkook answers cheerfully. From your view, you get a front row seat to the sheer power of Jungkook’s magnetic personality, watching as all your listless classmates suddenly snap back from their daydreams to zero in on whatever Jungkook is saying. He fills in the professor about what you talked about, from the movies to the couches, and you feel weirdly mushy when his eyes flicker across the screen before settling with a soft smile.

He can’t possibly be looking at me, you tell yourself. Your hand jerks forward to turn the camera off, but in your haste, end up knocking down the water bottle on your desk. You scramble to straighten it, thanking the universe for the fact you actually remembered to screw on the cap. You glance back at the screen, and nearly die when you catch sight of a giggly Jungkook, smile hidden behind an adorable sweater paw as he laughs at something on screen. Oh no, was he looking at me? you panic.

“Alright, everyone,” your professor says in that “I’m about to wrap this class up” voice. Too close to the screen, voice a little too loud. “Good meeting today, I’ll see you all again on Wednesday. Stay safe.”

“Bye!” Jungkook sings sweetly, and everyone else follows as they all bid adieu to the professor. Still a little frazzled from the possibility that Jungkook may have watched you flail around like a total loser, you take a second longer to turn your mic on. Your classmates quickly leave the meeting, leaving only a few stragglers until the very end.

Surprisingly, Jungkook is here too, brown eyes focused on the screen. You unmute yourself. “Um,” you stammer, eyes unwillingly flickering over to Jungkook who smiles at the sound of your voice. “Goodbye. Thank you,” you rush out, and then quickly leave the meeting as well.

With the meeting over, you’re left staring at the home page of the Zoom app, heart beating a little too fast to be normal. Your face feels warm, and your fingers tremble from some unfamiliar, giddy feeling in your chest. You exhale slowly, hand coming up to rub at your chin as if that will somehow explain the weird excitement from your Zoom meeting. Maybe it was just adrenaline, or nervousness, you try to convince yourself. After all, the first day of classes is always nerve-wracking.

Except when you navigate to your class page and begin to mindlessly scroll through the class roster, there’s a weird stutter to your heartbeat when you catch sight of that Jeon Jungkook (he/him) that appears halfway down the list.

#bangtanhq #networkbangtan #jungkook smut #jungkook fic #jeon jungkook smut #jeon jungkook fic #jjk smut #jeon jungkook x reader #jjk♡#jjk fic #bts smut #bts fic #mine

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victory-duo · 2 years

Note

BDSP came out a while ago! What do you think of it?

Heya! Still trying to do the legendary mon hunt postgame, but I have mixed thoughts about it being such a strict remake yet removing some things, but honestly, BDSP's been a fun revisit to Sinnoh as a game, personally!

Naturally, I treated this run as a revisit of Oliver's run but just in another timeline. :D

I'll put out my cons first:

- I was disappointed in the watering down of contests 'cause they were one of my favorite side activities. The rhythm game would have been nice if they didn't remove the dress up and move appeals completely :(

- I also didn't like that the Underground lost the traditional secret bases and traps, as I was so excited to play with my sister and friends. That said, honestly, the main reason I wanted BDSP was to be able to play Sinnoh with others (I missed out on the DS wifi), so the lack of features to connect and play with others even as simple as poffin-making made me disappointed.

- I am so polarized with the topic of difficulty and balance in this game. This mainly impacted my personal way to go about my journey with my team in Pokemon games, so two things:

1) I did not appreciate affection mechanics being merged with friendship, keeping it separate like in SWSH camp at the least would make me feel less bad that I have high friendship with them but not triggering the OP affection mechanics lol. I didn't like using herbs to lower friendship just to lessen affection so I just lived with it. I don't like battling online so I'd have preferred to experience the competitively-adjusted trainers in the main game with fair battles.

2) The EXP Share topic is a hot one, but it was weirdly balanced yet not in this game? Gen 4 games were not built around it at all, and it was so apparent with the Gym levels after Gardenia that I had to make a backup team to soak up the extra levels. I'm personally in the "make it optional" camp because I liked keeping my team up to speed and turning it off once I feel they're strong enough, but it saved some time pre-Cynthia for me not to be TOO underleveled lol.

And for the pros!

- Playing through it reminded me that there's something I really liked about the older game designs that incentivized backtracking and getting lost out of the way, and I wish future gens moving forward will get that charm of adventuring back. (SWSH dlc felt like that in a good way!)

- The new stuff they can get away with were nice!! I loved having such a tough time with the E4 and Gym rematches.

- I LOVE how they were serious making the trainers competitive and tough. I went in a deliberately underleveled run with the E4 and I like... spent the whole afternoon genuinely struggling with the levels AND their strategies. And Cynthia's Milotic???? MY NIGHTMARE

- I've rambled about it a bit in my twitter once in a while, but the DPPt soundtrack is my favorite from all of the others, and I am so happy to hear how it was approached!

My personal favorites---those I prefer much more now than the ogs, were Trainer battle (I already was obsessed with it before), Eterna, Route 209, Canalave, and the Ending theme.

- And did I mention how much I love the DPPt credits theme?? And BDSP ambushed me in the best way possible once I finished it, wow, I did not expect them to actually base the whole thing mainly from Platinum and add DP elements?!?! It's probably one of my favorite credits sequences as a whole now because of everything they did there, I was so emotional by the end!!!

- My personal favorite part? My sister and I were especially adoring all the new outfits for the O-sibs---they may be few, but I can feel that someone in the new dev team really likes fashion design, and I thought they did such a good job matching the outfits to them as existing characters!!

I wanna doodle all of them sometime, but for now I'll end this post with some of the ones I did while playing:

(I will compile these in a separate post once I complete the outfits!)

All in all, I enjoyed my time while it lasted despite my gripes! I do hope they update the game more 'cause I love Sinnoh, but atm I'm slowly focusing more on Legends. I'm really excited for it and hoping we learn more of it soon!!!

#asks #pokemon #pokemon bdsp #pokemon dppt #headcanon #trainer lucas #trainer dawn #doodles #protagverse #pv oliver #pv ophelia #turtwig #o-sibs

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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

Text

Good Help - chapter 4 - ao3 link

The day Wen Ruohan returned, Meng Yao felt ready for just about anything short of an immediate order of execution. He had survived an increasingly frantic set of attempts to murder him – in many instances, his survival was entirely courtesy of A-Jue – and had a list of achievements as long as his arm, each one backed with public recognition and an explanation as to how they fit into Wen Ruohan’s pre-existing orders.

He'd disposed of any dissenters, too.

The return ceremony was no time for someone to blurt out something awkward.

It was intricately planned: first the multitude out in the Nightless City, cheering their Emperor’s return, then the procession through the court with all its ministers and representatives of all the other Great Sects, and finally the entrance to the throne room, which would contain only those most important to the Emperor: his closest deputies, his wives and concubines, and of course the Empress far above them all in her sedate chair.

And Meng Yao, of course.

The innermost hall would be guarded by those guards assigned to it, an honor that they all lusted for, and Meng Yao had abrogated the right of the guard captain to select each of them himself, claiming that all of the disasters in the past few weeks had shown him the need to take especial care of their beloved Emperor’s life.

He didn’t select A-Jue.

He hadn’t even looked for his name in the list. He'd rather deliberately planned on A-Jue not attending, in fact, and A-Jue hadn’t questioned it, only saluted with a bow deeper than any of the (usually ironic and highly irreverent) ones that had come before. Their eyes had met briefly – a glance full of regret, regret and understanding – and they had said no more about it, each going their own way that evening as if everything were the same.

And then, in the morning…

A-Jue had not come.

Meng Yao had not permitted himself to be disappointed.

He’d turned his mind to other things, to preparations, to making sure everything was perfect, and it was. He’d worried briefly about the Empress, that she might refuse to leave seclusion, but she was there before he was, seated and waiting in her place, a larger than life statue in her thousand veiled layers as always. He’d stressed over the placement of the guards, but they were there, shining and immaculate as always, each one carefully selected for their talent at discretion. He’d checked over his multiple plans designed to let him survive.

He was as ready as he could ever be.

Wen Ruohan’s procession took an age, the concubines in the inner hall yawning and shifting from leg to leg, the veiled Empress as unmoving as stone. Meng Yao took her as his model and remained still, refusing to show weakness.

And then –

The Emperor walked in through the doors, a swirl of robes, and no matter how much Meng Yao had prepared himself, he still involuntarily drew a breath when he felt the sheer power radiating off the man. There were those that accused Wen Ruohan of doing dark and dirty things to get his power, those whisperers all dissatisfied and envious, and they were probably right, too. But those that entered his presence, that were subject to his might directly, knew that it didn’t matter how he’d gotten his power.

Power was power.

Strength was strength.

Wen Ruohan had the face of a young man and the aura of a vicious beast, the temperament of an emperor and the emotional stability of a madman – and he had enough power to crush all the rest of them with a snap of his fingers.

He swept into the room like a storm.

Following in his wake were those he had taken with him on his travels: his highest-ranked guards, his most favorite servants, and Imperial Consort A-Sang, veiled and hidden but for his clever eyes, characteristic scholar’s fan held loosely in his hands.

Walking freely, as if he feared nothing.

As if he owned the hall.

Meng Yao was not the only one who tensed at the sight of the Imperial Consort and his blithe unconcern, thinking that the last thing that they needed right now at this moment was the bitter internecine conflict of the harem breaking out.

And then, of course, it turned out that their concern, all those rumors and suspicions and speculations and schemes, were all for nothing.

Wen Ruohan didn’t so much as look at the rest of them – not the concubines he had obtained, unmatchable in their beauty; not the guards he had nurtured, each one as ferocious as a tiger and as precious as pearl held in his palm; not the deputies he valued so highly; not even Meng Yao to who he had entrusted his city, his sect, his empire.

He had eyes only for his Empress.

“My beloved,” he said with a smile and hands extended as he climbed the stairs, Imperial Consort A-Sang left forgotten behind him to quietly retake his proper place among the other concubines. “Have you missed me?”

The Empress ignored him, silent and unmoving as always.

Wen Ruohan did not take offense the way he might have with someone else – the way he would have, with anyone else.

Meng Yao had heard people say that Wen Ruohan was mad over his unspeaking statute of an Empress, but his time in the Fire Palace had made it difficult for him to believe it. Wen Ruohan enjoyed rape, among the multitude of torments inflicted there, and he took sadistic pleasure in snatching would-be brides or daughters, sometimes even sons, from people he disliked and forcing them to become concubines; the more he disliked them, the more time he spent in the beds of their loved ones.

He was a man who enjoyed violence and humiliation above all else. How could such a man fall in love?

Much less with the Empress, of all people. The frigid, silent Empress, who had no political backing to prove her worth, who had been there by his side for years and years – long enough for any man to grow bored, much less an Emperor who commanded the wind and storm, who could have anyone he pleased?

Meng Yao couldn’t believe it.

And yet, it appeared – he was wrong.

Wen Ruohan’s gaze as he walked up to his wife went beyond passion and into obsession. The miraculous treasure he had obtained in the south, a powerful spiritual weapon in the shape of a lamp that was said to increase the speed of the bearer’s cultivation a dozen times over, was placed in front of her.

“Do you like what I got for you?” Wen Ruohan asked, and the Empress turned her veiled head aside, a clear gesture of rejection. “So picky, so picky. I could pluck the moon out of the sky for you, my beloved, and you wouldn’t care…”

Any normal woman would yield to such persuasion.

Any woman who knew fear, knew Wen Ruohan’s fickle moods, would seek to at least temporize, distract.

The Empress ignored him.

“Same as always,” Wen Ruohan sighed exaggeratedly, and put his hand upon her cheek, turning her face back to him. “You never do change, do you, A-Jue?”

A cold sharp shock spread at the base of Meng Yao’s spine.

The Empress permitted her head to be turned, to be raised to regard her imperial husband.

“Fuck off,” A-Jue said, his voice painfully familiar, and attacked.

“Would you like some more tea?” A-Sang – Huaisang, apparently, Nie Huaisang, just as A-Jue was apparently the long-thought-dead heir of the Nie sect, Nie Mingjue, and obviously had never even once been a guard of any hall whatsoever – asked Meng Yao, patting his shoulder sympathetically yet again. “You’ve had a hard day.”

“No, thank you,” Meng Yao said, both because he didn’t know where he’d put the needles he used to check tea for poison after the last cup and also because he wanted to keep some room in his belly for the barrel of liquor he intended to find and down at some point later on.

He rather thought he deserved it.

A hard day. He scarcely had words to explain how much Nie Huaisang was understating things. A hard day!

Meng Yao still had blood splattered on his face from standing too close to the throne when A-Jue – Nie Mingjue, he needed to remember that – when Nie Mingjue decapitated the Emperor right in front of all his deputies and concubines, which was immediately followed by half of said concubines pulling out knives or swords or other weapons and moving at once to hold the other half hostage. The shrieks of those concubines that had not been in the know acted as a signal to those outside the hall, the roar of fighting breaking out at once, and Meng Yao didn’t even want to think about the gigantic mess they’d undoubtedly turned the Sun Palace into.

(But that was still better than thinking over and over, with no little amount of hysteria, I’m so glad I never ordered him to serve me in bed!)

Nie Mingjue had stalked out to the door, the frankly gigantic saber he’d always carried around everywhere finally drawn – it felt almost alive to Meng Yao’s admittedly inferior senses, alive and vicious and cruel and bloodthirsty, and he remembered how he’d once laughed off A-Jue’s claim that death would inevitably follow if he drew his blade – and he’d been greeted by shouts of acclaim and admiration from his followers, cries of dismay and despair from his enemies. He’d still been dressed in an Empress’ robes, which he’d torn apart for more mobility, but no one had cared one bit.

I guess the problems really did start in the harem, Meng Yao thought to himself, and thought he might still be a little hysterical.

Jiang Cheng had shown up at some point, wielding some sort of lighting-whip; he’d only stopped long enough to pull Nie Huaisang into a brief embrace before continuing onwards, his voice snapping out orders as sharp and vicious as his weapon, his orders obeyed by what might or might not have been a secretly resurrected Jiang sect. And he was the least disturbing of their visitors – the Lan sect apparently had been hiding a demonic cultivator away in their placid and boring little mountain retreat, just waiting to bring his unique brand of necromancy to cause havoc in the Nightless City – !

“How did I miss all this?” Meng Yao found himself asking Nie Huaisang, who smiled at him.

“Scale,” he said. “You were so close to everything, and your ascension so abrupt, that you had no chance to catch us – by the time you were put in charge, everything was already in the works. You would have only been able to see the patterns as they were, not as Wen Ruohan would have had them be.”

That made sense.

“You came pretty close a few times, though,” Nie Huaisang added thoughtfully. “I had to deal with more than a few frantic messages from my brother – thanks for spilling that, by the way.”

Meng Yao could not, for the life of him, tell if Nie Huaisang was being sarcastic.

He did feel marginally appeased that he’d come close.

“Was it always supposed to happen now?” he asked, curious. “The lamp he retrieved – was it –”

“Oh, no, no, we’re three months early! The lamp wasn’t important at all; it was just something I dug up a reference to because I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist going after it and we needed him out of the way to set up the last few things we needed. And then da-ge got into a fight with him so that he’d get the idea to drag me with him – he’s vindictive like that, but also predictable – and that gave me the opportunity to keep on poisoning him. The whole thing was actually supposed to be at his birthday banquet, after he’d gotten drunk…it’s all your fault, you know.”

“Me?”

“He was going to execute you, as you’d suspected,” Nie Huaisang said. “Your methods would have forced his hand – he couldn’t have done it publicly, not and keep his self-image of the merit-rewarding Emperor intact. But he promised your father that you’d be dead before the month is out, even if he had to cause an ‘accident’ himself.”

Meng Yao shuddered. That’d been the one weakness of his plan: his weak cultivation, which Wen Ruohan could have used to excuse a death from a supposedly ‘friendly’ interaction.

Still, that wasn’t the key part of what Nie Huaisang had said.

“You sped up your plans – for me?” he asked, confused, and Nie Huaisang nodded. “Why?”

“My brother likes you! He doesn’t like just about anybody, really,” Nie Huaisang said, voice blithe and merry as it had always been, something that raised Meng Yao’s hackles more than relaxed him. Clearly Nie Huaisang wasn’t anywhere near as useless and head-in the-sky, dreamy and idealistic, as he’d appeared for years. “Especially when it turned out that you were easy enough to convince into not continuing to commit atrocities as long as another route was offered – you don’t know how hard some people find that, and of course you did come out of the Fire Palace, very suspicious, but all in all you passed your trial period with flying colors. So obviously we couldn’t let you just die, could we?”

“…this humble one thanks you,” Meng Yao forced himself to say.

Nie Huaisang waved a hand dismissively. “Anyway, you’re a good administrator,” he said. “And there’s still the Nightless City and all the Empire left to manage. You don’t mind, do you? There should be fewer assassination attempts now.”

Meng Yao frowned. “Those attempts…?”

“We spread word that Wen Ruohan was planning on keeping you,” Nie Huaisang said, and he didn’t even sound apologetic. “Obviously Wen Ruohan had already encouraged all those he thought were his enemies to attack you, but we tried to lure out the rest of them: his most faithful servants, the greedy and the vile – that part of the plan was before we got to know you. Or, well, before my brother did. He felt so bad after a while…I don’t see why. He protected you, and together you got rid of any number of the people who would have been our fiercest enemies! So what if you had to endure a little stress?”

No, Nie Huaisang was definitely not useless and dreamy and idealistic.

“Now there’s really only one problem,” Nie Huisang mused. “It’d be strange if you went from being Wen Ruohan’s viceroy to being ours, so we need to give you a new position. But what would suit…?”

“Huaisang! Meng Yao!”

They both turned.

A-Jue – Nie Mingjue, why couldn’t he remember – strode towards them. He’d changed into proper robes at some point, dark ones that could handle bloodstains, and he looked like a war-god, shining with power as bright as sunlight. He was every bit as powerful as Wen Ruohan was, in his own way – the blazing sun to Wen Ruohan’s dark and ominous hurricane – but that wasn’t so much of a surprise, given as he was such a ridiculous cultivation maniac…and, oh, they’d made jokes about the Empress right in front of him. They’d joked about her dual cultivating with the Emperor in front of him – !

No wonder he was so powerful. Wen Ruohan literally shared his spiritual energy with Nie Mingjue, presumably for years, the cultivation making them both grow more powerful and creating a connection between them, a connection that Nie Mingjue had used to drain all that power away from a weakened Wen Ruohan – Nie Huaisang’s unspecified poison, presumably – and then to sever the bond between them when he severed the erstwhile Emperor’s head.

A-Jue smiled at them both, just as free and easy and straightforward as he’d ever been.

“I’m so glad you’ve finally met!” he said, beaming. “You’re very similar, in some ways; I think you’ll get along excellently. Which is good, because I’ll need all the help I can get –”

And then he started talking about a publicity campaign, rearranging the army, and tax reform, about implementing Meng Yao’s system of random audits for more than just wheat and expanding the Watchtowers concept across the entire Empire, and Meng Yao stupidly felt a little like someone had given him flowers and romantic poetry written just for him.

At his side, Nie Huaisang started giggling.

“Oh,” he said. “Well there’s always that, I suppose. It’ll work quite well. I think you’ll make a very nice Empress, Meng Yao – perhaps a bit more sociable than our last, wouldn’t you say?”

The pinnacle of power, Meng Yao thought to himself, and shrugged, accepting his likely fate with a smile that he thought was even genuine. And why not? He could have everything he’d had under Wen Ruohan, except with a leader that would actually listen to him – that he had already trained to listen to him – and it would good for them, too. They’d keep him around, he was sure of it.

After all – good help was so very hard to find.

#mdzs #meng yao #jin guangyao #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #my fic #my fics #good help

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justmaybee · 3 years

Text

The Phantom’s New Clothes

(Alternatively: ‘I Like Ya Fit, G!’)

A/N: Yes, the spam is gonna end in a dumb fic. No, I’m not confident in posting it. But honestly? I don’t think I’ll ever be when it comes to Fling Posse. So I’m doing it anyways! Because Gen looks like a whole prince, and if I don’t start somewhere I’ll never be able to write them!

Summary: Fling Posse photo shoot time! ~ ☆ and Dice has taken a special interest in Gentaro’s outfit for the day….

Of the many things required by divisions during battle season, one ‘checkpoint’—so to speak—is the creation of promotional materials. A Chuohku-designated event, ‘asked’ of the representative teams from each district.

This is Fling Posse’s second time representing Shibuya, so Gentaro is more or less acquainted with the roadmap ahead of them. And as a group member—and friend—of one Ramuda Amemura, he’s quite used to the mild discomfort of modeling clothes far outside his comfort zone.

Though it had at first been a point of contention in the group—due to some very polarized creative decisions—Gentaro has grown into his role, just a bit. He may never go so far as to call himself a ‘model,’ but he’s done much stranger tasks for the sake of his posse.

Thankfully, this shoot leans decidedly into Gentaro’s style of choice. Unlike Ramuda’s last artistic venture, which had involved a bright yellow top in an aquarium of all settings, this outfit could be described as almost tame in comparison.

The blouse is a loose and flowing white number, tucked into a similar style of black pants. A little tighter to his waist than he’d prefer, but the fabric is soft and stretches down to his ankle—for the most part—so it’ll do. The addition of some colored cords to secure an ash grey cape around his shoulders finishes the look, and Gentaro hums an appreciative note when Ramuda shows him the full look in a mirror.

Ramuda seemed pleased, smoothing out Gentaro’s cape and tucking stubborn hairs back into place before flashing him a grin and bouncing off to help Dice finish dressing.

It’s comfortable, fashionable, and well-suited to his tastes. Gentaro must say, it’s one of his favorite designs from Ramuda so far.

That being said—there’s…one small thing he could recommend be changed.

It doesn’t occur to him until the picture taking is about to begin.

———

“Ya think Ramuda will let me keep it?” Dice asks, impish grin flashing his canine. He pops the collar, striking small poses as the dressing room around them clears out. Gentaro humors him.

He takes his time, stepping forward from behind Dice, peering over his shoulder at their shared reflection. His hand comes to rest on his chin, scrutinizing the tropical pattern with a deliberate trail of the eyes. He continues until Dice’s gaze lowers, until his hands start fidgeting in front of him.

Gentaro finally breaks with a smile, resting his chin on Dice’s shoulder. He can feel the way Dice sags with relief.

“It’s very likely that he will,” Gentaro muses. “This outfit was made specifically for you, and I’m not sure anyone else would wear it willingly.”

Dice nods in a small repetitive motion, absentmindedly checking his reflection in the mirror. The moment he comes to recognize Gentaro’s backhanded confirmation is both visible and audible. His body jolting upright with a pitchy ‘hey!’ tossed back over his shoulder. Gentaro hides a smile behind his hand.

“Oh, Dice. There’s no need to be insecure,” He coos. “From what I’ve heard, sustainable fashion is on the rise! This set may have been a curtain at some point, but your confidence in it is very admirable.”

Dice has that tight-lipped smile on, the one that pushes his cheeks up and makes his squinty faux-glare even more endearing. It says, ‘I know I’m being made fun of,’ but he continues to endure it anyways. Because it makes Gentaro smile.

Still, he’s come a long way since the early days of Fling Posse, and he won’t take things lying down if he can help it. So he sneaks his hand behind him, aiming a light pinch to Gentaro’s side; his comeback of choice since learning of Gentaro’s…sensitivity.

Unlike those recent times, Gentaro quickly back steps, pulling his head off Dice’s shoulder to smother a gasp behind a well-timed fist. Dice blinks, hand still hovering behind him in the empty air where Gentaro once stood.

Then he spins around; the biggest, toothy grin on his face.

Gentaro can feel the butterflies slowly flutter to life in his stomach. His free arm moves subconsciously, to wrap around his front and hide his torso. The longer they hold eye contact, the more his face begins to burn.

And then the photographer can be heard, calling Dice for photos.

They stay in place, gazes locked for a moment longer; then Dice shoots him a wink and jogs off.

Gentaro breathes a shaky sigh, rubbing away the phantom touch.

———

So yes, while it was obvious the outfit had less layers than Gentaro was accustomed to, he hadn’t realized just how much thinner the layers he wore were.

Photo shoots don’t have a lot of downtime, in his experience. There’s always group shots, touch ups, individual shots. While it’s undoubtedly ‘Posse Time’—as Ramuda would put it—he doesn’t get more than a passing word to either of his group mates at any one time.

Which make the times he runs into Dice all the more memorable.

Slipping past one another in the hallway when it’s Gentaro’s turn for solo shots. Gentaro feels a distinct skittering of nails over his flank. It has him stumbling, tripping on his own feet. He can hear Dice laugh as he straightens up and continues walking.

Getting his hair touched up, making sure his pesky bangs stay out of his face. Dice comes to watch for a while, leaving Gentaro with a quick pinch either side of his waist. He jolts so hard, the hair on his left side falls out of place. He mumbles an apology to the poor stylist, eyeing Dice’s retreating smile in the mirror.

In a moment to himself, Gentaro tries to retuck his blouse, smooth out the uneven bunching of ruffles. He doesn’t notice when Dice slips behind him, when he grips onto Gentaro’s hips—too easily accessible through these pants—and squeezes. Gentaro yelps, drops to a crouch to dislodge the ticklish pulses. When he turns with narrowed-eyes, he finds himself alone.

Although Dice has been able to startle a reaction out of him several times today, calling these occurrences ‘uncommon’ would be nothing short of a lie. In his extended stay at Gentaro’s apartment, Dice has been very — thorough in his exploits of Gentaro’s unending sensitivity. One could say that once he got a reaction, he couldn’t will himself to stop.

Also a lie. Well, a half-truth to be more precise.

While it had been Dice’s curiosity and willingness to take a chance that led to the discovery, he didn’t act on his newfound information much at all. While a very physically affectionate lover, he would never go so far as to touch Gentaro in a way that caused discomfort or distress.

No, absolutely not. And so despite many implicit hints and invitations, Gentaro found himself having to get very explicit.

He didn’t dislike Dice’s teasing touch.

No, quite the opposite actually.

It was flustering to a degree Gentaro couldn’t imagine, but…Dice got the message.

He got it loud and clear, and now here they are.

In a game of cat and mouse; Gentaro’s eyes darting toward every movement, hands enveloping his torso at the slightest noise. The fabric on his skin is light, breathable, and silky to the touch; impossible to ignore. His stomach swoops nervously, broiling with anticipation—borderline excitement.

Oh, the monster he’s created.

———

After two hours of lights, cameras, make up, hair, and such; things are finally starting to wrap up.

Gentaro can see the end’s approach easily due to experience. It always comes in the form of Ramuda’s name. Called out by a weary photographer and followed in turn by their leader’s sing-song reply, skipping happily out of the dressing room and into the limelight.

Ramuda’s solo shots are always saved for the end. One must save the best for last, of course.

That being so, it would be a good idea to begin making preparations to leave.

Gentaro can feel the pinpricks in his legs as he slides them off the dressing room couch, uncurling from his seated position. He kicks out, pointing his toes in a stretch, arching his back and spine. The relief pushes a quiet sigh from his lips, leaves him sagging back into the cushions for a moment, suddenly drained.

Time spent in the presence of others can already be tiring, but the looming eyes of Chuohku make things far more intense. Gentaro can find peace in having his posse with him, but the sooner he can get these clothes folded, the sooner he gets his regular attire back—the sooner he’ll be home and out from under the Party’s prying gaze.

It takes Gentaro a few attempts to rise to his feet. His center of balance equals out as Dice makes his way into the room. The timing is very lucky, Gentaro gets barely a greeting out before his arm is in Dice’s hold. Before he’s swung around, in a blur of cobalt blue and floral print.

His back hits the wall with a dull thud. Not hard enough to hurt—Dice would never—but enough to have his breath catch in his throat. The way Dice leans into Gentaro’s personal space—hand still firmly gripped around his wrist, pinning it to the wall beside his head—makes getting air back a bit difficult.

“Hey Gen,” Dice breathes, a soft smile on his lips that completely contradicts the situation, and makes Gentaro melt all the more for it.

“Hello, Dice.” Gentaro’s hesitation is hardly noticeable.

“Whatcha up to?”

It’s so casual — the way Dice speaks, despite their position which has Gentaro’s brain buzzing like radio static. Strangely, it’s somewhat placating, in a way.

“Well — I’d intended on tidying up while Ramuda’s away…” Gentaro musters up a teasing smile, a lighthearted jab. “If you’re attempting to have me fold your clothes for you, I’m afraid I’ll have to stop you right there—”

Dice laughs. The sound does strange things to Gentaro’s heartbeat. Difficult to miss while it thrums so vividly in his ears.

“No, not that.” Dice smiles. Gentaro can’t help but return it.

“But could I—uh—do one thing? Before you go?”

Gentaro can take a fairly good guess at what Dice is referring to.

He shuffles, wrist rotating the smallest bit in Dice’s hold. His grip is strong, warm, and noticeably firm. Dice hasn’t moved, not an inch from his close lean over Gentaro, but he’s suddenly all that Gentaro can see, smell, feel.

He’s trapped.

It’s invigorating.

Gentaro is somewhat proud of the light, careless hum he gets out. A flippant roll of the eyes before his gaze meets Dice’s.

“Oh fine, if you must.”

Dice laughs again. Gentaro feels that familiar swooping sensation.

“I’ve been dyin’ to do this all day.”

Despite the unaffected air Gentaro puts off, his body is already tensed up in wait. Free hand poised to the side, ready to fend off Dice’s experienced fingers. His waist, hips, stomach; they’re all compromised in this outfit, leaving him more vulnerable than even his home loungewear would allow. It’s anyone’s guess as to where Dice may strike.

Which makes it extra shocking when Dice suddenly drops Gentaro’s wrist. When he slips both hands, with a pre-planned speed, into the gaps of Gentaro’s billowing sleeves and under his outstretched arms.

Gentaro is able to clamp his lips together before Dice’s fingers make contact. It makes muffling his surprised shout marginally easier. The same can’t be said for his limbs.

Before he can even think about it, Dice has found his rhythm, spidering feather-light strokes beneath his arms. His fingertips are gentle, calloused, and so very effective in their unpredictable movements.

Gentaro’s shoulders lock up. He chokes back the bubbling wave of laughter, then clamps his arms down in attempted self-defense.

Immediately after, his spine snaps off the wall. Thrusting his torso flush against Dice, leaning in to cover him. He tosses his head back, a squeaky cry pathetically stifled as the feelings grow exponentially.

It takes all of Gentaro’s remaining brainpower to lessen the pressure of his arms against his sides, to bring his elbows a centimeter out from his waist. Because when he tries blocking Dice’s fingers—

Gentaro bites his lip against a particularly loud squeal; Dice using one finger on each hand to vibrate into the center of each hollow. Oh, please.

—when he tries to guard himself, he just pushes Dice’s fingers deeper.

“Mph! D-Dice!”

It’s debilitating. Dice rarely has access to his bare skin in most situations, but this may very well be a first for both of them. The skittering touch under his arms has Gentaro squirming, shaking. Every time his arms twitch down to stop it, he’s stuck muffling louder laughter at the added pressure he’s made for himself.

It’s all Gentaro can do to hold as still as possible; minimize the jerky, impulsive movements. But it’s so hard, and he’s quickly losing the battle with his volume as well.

What were once small, nondescript sounds are now squeaking—almost whining—noises. As Dice continues his careful track, sweeping soft fingers around and around and around each twitching hollow.

It takes Dice vocalizing aloud to get Gentaro to lift his head from the wall, blink one teary eye open and get a look at him.

Dice is smiling sweetly—no doubt a much nicer look than the hot flush and wobbly smile Gentaro’s trying to control—with his head tilted to the side. It leaves his neck and shoulder open, right at Gentaro’s head level.

He takes the invitation for what it is.

Gentaro quickly buries his face into the side of Dice’s neck. If he had the mind to think and the hindsight to see, he might have considered if this was well-meant aid or a well-sprung trap. It really depends how much credit Gentaro decides to give Dice. His scheming side is somewhat lacking.

Either way, it makes things much more manageable, and far less embarrassing when Dice’s fingertips turn to nails and Gentaro finally breaks, spilling surprised giggles into the other’s skin.

“Dihihice! What—whahat are you—ahahahaha! Wait! Th-that isn’t fahahahahahair!”

Dice had never kept his nails long before, not for so long as Gentaro has known him. He had no use for them, and it was much easier to keep clean with nails as short as can be. But he’s taken to growing them out, just a tad, for…special situations.

Situations where Gentaro is foolish, careless. Usually in the comfort of his own home, in clothes that make it too easy for Dice. To touch, caress. Warm hands over soft skin that finds another’s touch one part foreign to ten parts addictive.

Situations where the small scratch of a nail can amp the feeling of a tingle to a spark.

“Dihice, pl-plehease. I—aha! Oh no, oh pleheheHEHEHEASE!”

It’s so much easier to hide; in the warm, familiar grip of Dice’s embrace. Where he can smother his keening laughter and sudden gasps. No care in the world for his pink cheeks and ruffled hair, so embarrassingly genuine after the painstaking process of making him ‘modelesque.’

Where all he has to focus on is the rippling movement, scratching up and down the dips beneath his arms. A constant, offset graze on hypersensitive skin; gentle as can be but more than enough to drive Gentaro past the point of composure.

All too quickly, Gentaro feels his knees go weak. His back slips down the wall a fraction, hands gripping onto Dice reflexively.

Dice responds in kind, keeping him stable, then going the extra step forward. Literally.

He steps until there’s no space between them. Until Gentaro can be held up with no need for his own legs; just the cool, sturdy wall behind him and Dice’s chest against his own. He’s surrounded by Dice’s warmth, by his scent. It’s been only minutes, but Gentaro is panting for breath.

“Hey,” Dice mutters, softly, once Gentaro can focus on him. He tugs his hand free, chuckling along to the author’s stray giggle, before reaching up to cup his cheek. His thumb strokes habitually, eyes staring deep into Gentaro’s — searching. Always searching. Making sure he’s okay.

And he is. Better than okay. That’s not a lie, it can’t be, and the way Gentaro narrows his eyes, sends a challenging smirk Dice’s way — makes that abundantly clear. Dice drops his gaze, laughing to himself. Then he straightens up, thumbs the moisture from the side of Gentaro’s face.

“As I was saying…” Dice trails, locking eyes with Gentaro as he speaks. Watching the way they widen, lips pressing together, when his remaining hand flexes.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

#bee stuffs #side note I’ve never played arb #I just love their aquarium fits ✨#tickling #tickle fic #dhfhhfhdjd I don’t wanna tAG THIS #Hypmic #Dice #Gentaro #Gendice #Daigen #ticklish!Gentaro #this may be the first FP tickle fic and that’s the only thing I can be proud about #✌🏼

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pomegranates-and-blood · 3 years

Text

νοσταλγία (Chapter 22)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character is a Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place after 5A, but the universe of this is a little changed in relation with the series, of course. Thank you for giving it a chance, hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: The usual

A/N: Hi! I’m sorry, this chapter kinda jumps around a lot, like seven different things happen, I’m sorry. A few chapters are gonna be like this, I’m afraid.

Also, some things at the beginning refer to stuff mentioned/detailed in Ivar’s PoV, which will be uploaded on Tuesday, so any doubts regarding what is mentioned about those first few days after the wedding will hopefully be cleared up then. Regardless of that, I always welcome any and all questions, of course!

Thank you for reading, sorry for the long note, love ya!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax @pieces-by-me @angelofthorr @samsationalwilson @peachyboneless @1950schick

The celebrations for Ivar’s wedding last more than a few days, you lose count -refuse to count, if you are honest-. It proves to be…not as awful as you believed, to be his wife, to be queen.

You are still by no accounts used to people calling you that. You sooner grew used to Ivar calling you his wife -which he does, a lot- than to the people of Kattegat calling you their Queen.

Of course, Ivar has noticed. He is exceedingly good at noticing things about you, in a way that if you were a sane woman, would frighten you.

The ring you bear on your hand, you noticed once the blood was washed off, is engraved with runes you aren’t familiar with, but bears the design of branches and leaves. A wreath of flowers to wrap around your finger instead of being placed on your head.

The crown he gifted you on the first morning you spent as husband and wife is also skilled metalwork with the delicate motif of flowers. You asked why, and his answer was, simply enough, that he knows you like flowers.

On that same first morning he also pointed out he’s noticed your very deliberate intention to avoid having your hair braided in any way. It resulted in this silly game that still goes on, where you exchange a braid in your hair for the day for a question he must answer with the truth.

You’ve learned many things, and the thralls have been told to make intricate work of the braids he insists on seeing on you. You’ve learned more of Sigurd, and how he is somewhere in the Danes with an Earldom and a child on the way; you’ve learned of what happened with Margrethe when Ivar was younger, you’ve learned of his ambitions to be even more of a legend than his father ever was, you’ve learned of what he thought of you when he saw you across that battlefield.

And it is not just Ivar that has learned to notice things about the person at his side. You have grown keener to noticing the tells in his expression, in his voice, in his posture.

It is terrifyingly easy to find routine amidst all this madness. To find safety, peace.

It has always proven to be easy, when it comes to Ivar, for you to forget there’s a world past him. In Aneridge, the door to the hut closed and there were no Saxons, no dead and no living, no names. And now, here in Kattegat, you sit at his side on a throne of your own and there’s no chains, no past or future, no walls.

And now, in the borrowed time that it seems both you and Stithulf live in, there’s a freedom in being at his side you weren’t able to allow yourself before.

You know it should scare you, and sometimes it does. When easy steps guide you to him every night and familiar fingers run down your back unlacing your dress, you feel that in reveling in this familiarity, in being soothed by this strange peace, you betray your people, your home. When you slip under the furs of your shared bed and close your eyes and feel safe and warm and like you’d never want to leave, you are haunted by the question of why you deserve to choke with the hope you can still taste so long after the kiss you shared with Ivar, while Narses choked with the poison you fed him until the day he died.

____

You’ve realized many things, in these past few weeks.

Something they don’t speak of, something you frankly hadn’t considered before now; is how, regardless of your intentions, intimacy grows between two people that share most aspects of their lives, and every night they go to sleep together and wake up every morning together.

It makes you realize, the easy familiarity, the reluctant intimacy, that grow between you and Ivar, why it is so easy for arranged or unwanted marriages to fall into contempt, into resentment for one another.

Granted, that intimacy, that trust to close your eyes and trust you are safe even if alongside someone you did not want; it also explains the respect, the formal but honest affection you saw in the marriages of many elders back home.

If you are honest with yourself, which is something you’ve been trying to do more often, you know you will not grow to resent Ivar, you know you trusted him even before he became your husband.

No, you know -and fear, you fear to your very core- that all this familiarity, this intimacy, does is soften your foolish heart, make your chest fill with a warmth you shouldn’t feel in this land of cold.

But it doesn’t matter, you don’t have to make a choice, not yet. You don’t have to face what the choices you would have made would have said about you, for you didn’t make them; and you don’t have to face what this choice you could make says about you, because you haven’t made it yet.

It is a strange limbo to live on, a limbo that may last months or days or years, but you find you do not mind.

Point is, you’ve realized many things, in these last weeks.

This morning, as Ivar gets out of bed and in his absence lets the cold air enter the space he occupied before with no regard to your body so unused to Scandinavia’s cold, you also realize why so many women kill their husbands.

You grumble curses in your own tongue as you burrow further under the furs, and you could swear he huffs a laugh in response. Regardless of your reluctance, you know you are to get up soon as you hear the thralls walk in and leave the platters and pitchers on a nearby table.

You quickly prepare and let the infusion of red clover and chickweed sit before you skip your way over frozen ground to the dress you quickly fasten around you.

With your feet in the warm shoes and your body covered in something more than a flimsy nightgown that does nothing to protect you from the cold, you go along with what, surprisingly enough, has become another familiar routine for you since becoming his wife.

Turning your back to Ivar you fasten an earring as he tightens and ties the laces at the back of your dress.

Taking one hand off his task, he touches the hanging pendant that now adorns your ear, and asks,

“These are new.”

“A gift,” Before he can ask from whom, because of course he would, as if someone would be stupid enough to try and court Ivar the Boneless’ wife, you shrug, “A shieldmaiden gave them to me.”

“Why are you surprised? You are their Queen; they should want to earn your favor.”

With a shrug, you offer the only truth you can, “They don’t hate me, your people. I thought they would.

You sigh, and work on putting your other earring as you think on how to say this.

“I want you t-…” You stop yourself, and clearing your throat start over, “I have noticed that you shouldered a responsibility that was supposed to be mine, and I know-…Life hasn’t changed much for me or for the people here since I’ve become their queen, and…I know it is part of the reason they don’t hate me,” You straighten your head as Ivar finishes lacing up the dress, and turn around to face him. “I want you to know I am grateful.

But because pride wins, you join your hands in front of you and add,

“This could all have been avoided if you hadn’t forced me to marry you, of course. But, regardless, I…”

“You are welcome.” He interrupts you, his expression in equal parts exasperated and smug as he silences you.

You take a seat and wrap cold fingers around the hot drink, lifting your feet from the floor and bringing your knees closer to your chest.

Choosing to test how well you’ve taught Ivar your language, and how well he’s taken to understand it, you start, slowly and enunciating clearly,

“How far along are we from winter?”

He replies with a smug smile and a tilt of his head,

“A month, at most.”

“Your Greek is getting better.” You reply, knowing pride seeps through your voice.

“Your Norse is still that of a Greek.” He taunts without missing a beat, and you roll your eyes even if your own lips betray a smile.

The doors to your rooms open and you are startled into attention. Prince Ubbe stalks into the room, muddied and battle-worn, but his eyes, and his rage, are settled on his brother.

The Prince departed what you’d like to say is two -three?- weeks ago, shortly after the wedding, to follow a trail further North with a small army. Ivar ordered him to, even if you know Stithulf will retreat to Strepshire.

As to why Ubbe was sent North, you don’t know. Maybe Ivar knew of some route to some village, maybe he knew something he didn’t share with you or his brothers. You don’t know.

What you do know, is that Prince Ubbe has returned and apparently has done so with a lot of pent up anger. You lower your legs back to a proper position, and stay silent and still as you wait for an explanation as to why the Viking barged into your rooms.

Ivar smiles, the cruel visage of the King of Kattegat as he starts to play, “Welcome back, brother. What did you find?”

The other man snarls, “Nothing. Not a fucking trail, Ivar. The Saxons are not traveling North, and we just gave them all the time they needed to get away.”

But Ivar doesn’t seem phased at all, shaking his head with a knowing and mocking smile.

“I know. They are moving for Strepshire.” He assures. You frown his way, begging him silently to stop being so fucking secretive.

The Prince finally takes notice of you, and a wide gesture of a big and dirtied hand towards where you sit precedes his loud words,

“Why are you so certain? Don’t tell me it’s because of what your witch tells you, brother, be-…”

Ivar interrupts him, mocking smile dimming and seriousness settling in his features, even as he speaks with gesturing hands and raised eyebrows, “Because my wife was right. If they think we are not pursuing them they will move. I sent men disguised as merchants to travel the area, and while your little army made noise on the other side, they caught the Saxons moving for Strepshire.”

You are startled into silence, and for a moment you think so is his brother. Counting on his vitriol and his reluctant agreement with many of the things you say when the Vikings argue of the war against Stithulf and his men, you never expected Ivar to take your words to mind when planning his next move, not truly.

Prince Ubbe’s expression starts to switch from an enraged snarl and the eyes of a man raging over presumed failure; to realization and a hint of a surprised smile hidden under his beard.

“You sent me on a blind chase,” He huffs, fond exasperation in his voice, “You little shit, you could have told me the purpose was to distract them.”

Ivar shrugs, even if the mocking and mirth is still on his eyes, the tension between the brothers seems to lessen.

“It wouldn’t have been as convincing, brother.”

Half-hearted curses flow from Ubbe’s lips as he clasps one hand roughly on his younger brother’s shoulder, shaking the other Viking as he laughs. You have a feeling secrets of blood shared flow between them in those brief interactions, so you lower your gaze to your red clover and chickweed infusion and watch the herbs twirl.

“Witch,” The Prince calls, and you lift your gaze. With a sigh, he amends, using your name instead of the unwanted title before he continues, “I do value your counsel,” Your skepticism shows in your face, for the man huffs a short laugh and corrects, “I should value it.”

“Thank you, Prince Ubbe.”

The older man takes his leave and when Ivar returns his gaze from the door to you, he frowns when faced with your wide smile.

“What?”

“You trust me.” You boast, a giggle leaving your lips. Ivar rolls his eyes in response, taking some almonds from a platter in the table and eating as you still stare at him with a smile.

“You are a strange woman.” He mumbles in response, but you shrug.

“I have been called worse,” Seeing he refuses to acknowledge your words, you insist, “And you trust me.”

Ivar’s eyes narrow, “I don’t trust easily.”

Whether that is a rebuttal of your claim or a warning to honor his trust in you, you cannot know for certain. Instead of giving him an answer, you offer a smile and drink from the almost scalding infusion.

____

“If we reach out to Sigurd, we can get a legal claim on that land, our people can-…”

“We don’t need a legal claim if we erase the Saxons from the earth, Ubbe. We can gather a bigger army, we can return to York, start raiding from there again.” The King interrupts his brother, and the other man is quick to jump into a discussion. The Prince’s voice raises, his hands gesture wildly, and of course it all is returned tenfold by the King.

Your eyes travel from Ivar to his oldest brother, back and forth as the two argue on and on and on and…

It has surely been too long of this, and you have only been here a couple of months. Hvitserk, on the other hand, has been dealing with this for Hera knows how long. He may be close to planning a coup and murdering both of his brothers, and you cannot say you would blame him.

You find Hvitserk’s gaze across the table, a middle ground between the two sons of Ragnar here in Kattegat in more ways than one. While Ivar yells for the army and resources to move for Wessex again and Ubbe argues with gritted teeth about earning more land to settle North; Hvitserk bites into an apple, granting you a half-hearted shrug in response to the rising voices of his brothers.

You hide your own smile behind the rim of your cup as you drink. Soon enough you and the Prince find yourselves discreetly battling for dominance as you throw almonds to battle his cashews, playing in turns to try and throw the pieces carefully so that they push the enemy pieces off the imaginary board.

The game evolves and changes, and after a while you are breathing little laughs as you try aiming some dried fruits and nuts into Hvitserk’s open mouth.

You ready another throw of a dried piece of some strange fruit, but a hand grabbing onto your wrist stops you. You lift startled eyes to meet Ivar’s enraged ones.

“Would you two stop acting like fucking children?” He growls, eyes jumping between you and his brother.

“We are having fun, brother,” Hvitserk answers around a mocking smile, drinking from his cup before adding, “Not that you would know what it is.”

You keep your gaze on Ivar’s profile as you pointedly tug your wrist out of his grasp, even as his attention remains on his brother.

“Hivtserk…” Ubbe sighs, and you watch him drag a hand over his face.

“What?” The other Prince shrugs, defiant before he turns eyes to the King. “He keeps her chained to his side, like some pretty bird in a cage. Least he could do is keep her happy.”

“So you’ll be the one to keep your brother’s wife happy?” Ubbe presses with a shake of his head, “Just shut up and eat.”

“I kept yours pretty happy, didn’t I, Ubbe?”

Instead of letting the conversation between the Princes go on, Ivar asks, cruel and cold but you know there’s more anger to him than his tone lets on,

“You want to fuck her, is that it?”

Well, that wasn’t what you were expecting. You turn wide eyes from the King to his brother, but Hvitserk only smiles slightly, completely calm.

“Ivar!” You hiss quietly, but he doesn’t even turn to you.

“All of Kattegat wants into her bed, brother,” Hvitserk replies, drawling out the words, “But you know this already.”

Ivar shows a smile as cold as it is feral, and even if it is not directed at you -thankfully- you still feel a thrill of cold run down your spine. Not so difficult to imagine, if that’s how he looks at his own brother, why the people of Kattegat fear their warlord King.

“And do you?” Ivar insists, making you frown.

“I didn’t take you for the sharing kind, brother.” Hvitserk replies easily, a merciless sort of mischief shining in his warm eyes.

“Stop this,” You warn, raising your voice a bit and dreading the few eyes that turn to look. Glancing at the Prince in silent admonishment, that he surprisingly accepts by lifting a hand in silent surrender; you then turn to your husband and state lowly, “It does not matter, I married you. I am your wife and I will not be spoken of as a slave to be passed around.”

He shakes off the touch of your hand on his arm, a gesture you didn’t even realize you did. Not noticing you had reached out to touch him, it shouldn’t hurt as it does to see him reject you, but it does.

“I think it’s time you go prepare for tonight’s feast, wife.” He dismisses without even looking at you, cold fury in his voice.

Even though you did nothing wrong, even if it is not your fault his temper flares without warning or motive; he dismisses you like an unwanted pet.

You grit your teeth and beg to Persephone, Freyja and all the Gods that your eyes do not betray the furious and powerless tears even if your eyes sting as you stand up and walk away.

The Gods made you many things, but none of the things you are would walk out with lowered eyes, with your head downcast, letting a man forget what he has done when trying to silence you.

____

When you are summoned to stand alongside Ivar for the start of the feast, you walk in with your head held high and what is sure to be what Sieghild called your Athenian nobility shining through in every step you take.

You cross your legs, and tilt your head to the side. Your mother very obviously bristles at the display.

“Narses will follow my-…”

“Commands?” Galla interrupts, sly smile on full lips.

“Advice. He will refuse to negotiate with the Saracens,” You insist, before shrugging, “There are no pacts-…”

“Don’t say it.” Sieghild warns, but you ignore it.

“Between lions and men.” You finish with a smug smile. Your mother sighs in exasperation, rolls her eyes and drops her head to the back of the chair she sits in.

“Gods above. I dread to imagine the kind of uptight little monster you’d be if I hadn’t been the one to raise you.” Sieghild grunts.

“Yes, thank you, Sieghild. You raised a noble-blooded Athenian with the courage of a Varangian. A delightful woman to be around, especially when she doesn’t get her way.” Galla grumbles before standing up with a curse, and you frown.

“Hey, I can hear you, both of you.”

You bow your head in greeting to the Princes and King, and you could swear Ubbe and Hvitserk share a look between them, but say nothing.

Once the people are distracted enough, Ivar leans towards you from his place on the throne and states, “You are angry with me.”

“What a perceptive man you are, truly.”

“Don’t mock me, it won’t end well for you.”

“What will you do? Humiliate me in front of everyone?” You intone with a tilt of your head, furious eyes set on his.

____

Hope you liked this, would love to hear your thoughts on this! As for why this was the mess that it was, idk, my writing either drags on and on or is a convoluted mess, I don’t have a middle ground it seems. I’m very sorry if this chapter is a shabby one, I did my best. Thank you for reading, have a nice day/night! <3

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar #νοσταλγία masterlist

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carrotycake · 3 years

Text

the world put you in front of me (and we aligned)

A chance encounter at an Ishgardian dance, and Ysayle finds herself falling in love all over again.

4.1k words | Rated M | FFXIV | Estinien/Ysayle pairing | AO3

It’s funny, Ysayle thinks. She has spent so much of her life fighting and despising everything the nation of Ishgard stood for, that to be standing here, on the balcony of one of Ishgard’s largest manors, feels a tad hypocritical. For the first time, she appreciates the beauty of the land stretching out in front of her, the late-night sunset (which is as close to a summer as Coerthas gets) casting orange and pink hues across the grey pointed spires of the city itself. She rests her arms on the balustrade, observing the chatter of guests down below. It is oddly peaceful, despite her protestations at being invited in the first place. And still bitterly cold, of course, despite it being summer. Ysayle, shivering, rubs her hands together in an attempt to warm herself up; she had left her coat inside and the thin fabric of her gown was not nearly enough to ward off the freezing night air.

She sighs, her breath exhaling into a cloud of mist in front of her. Had she not gone by the name ‘Iceheart’ for years, revered by her heretic followers? She had survived many harsh Coerthas winters, only for her to shiver now at the merest hint of a breeze. Admittedly, she had found the warmth of the ballroom inside to be a little much, packed as it was with nobles, commoners, and politicians alike. The fresh air, cold as it was, was extremely welcome.

It was Aymeric, of course, that was behind the ball, and her invite to it – the Warrior of Light’s dear friend, and perhaps the most influential man in the city. Endlessly charming, he had persuaded her that it was an olive branch, of sorts, to mend the rifts between heretics and men. And – well, she had wanted to make amends. Lead those who walked after, and all that.

“Out here enjoying the festivities, I see?”

A familiar voice drags her from her thoughts, and she turns to see the tall, lithe body of Estinien crouching carefully on the gables above the double doors leading back into the ballroom. She frowns, irritated that he had caught her unawares in a moment of introspection.

“How long have you been sitting there?”

He shrugs, getting to his feet and gracefully hopping onto the ground beside her; ever the dragoon, she notes. He’s not in the armour he wore the last time they had seen each other, before Azys Lla. Like Ysayle, he is dressed in an approximation of Ishgardian formal wear, his long white hair tied in a loose half-ponytail. He’s handsome, her mind helpfully supplies, and she wills the thought away before it becomes trouble.

“Long enough,” he replies, leaning on the railing a fulm or two away from her, his gaze distant. He frowns. “Formal…balls aren’t really my thing. I needed some air. And – a break from drunk nobles trying to get me to dance with their offspring.”

Ysayle chuckles, despite herself. “I must admit, I did not recognise you at first. You clean up well, when you’re not head to toe in dragon blood.”

He bows his head. If Ysayle is not mistaken, she sees the hint of a blush colour his pale cheeks.

“Well,” he mutters, “You are the opposite, Iceheart. I believe there was not a soul in that room that did not notice you upon entering.”

She raises an eyebrow. “In a good way, or a bad way? Pray, do elaborate.”

Estinien splutters for a second. “Well, I – It is a nice dress. That is all I meant. No doubt the haberdashers will be inundated with requests for similar styles by tomorrow morning.”

A slightly backhanded compliment, but a compliment, nonetheless. “Damned by faint praise, I see.”

She turns to look back towards the sunset. “It is actually one of Tataru’s creations, so they’ll have a hard time prying the pattern from her little hands.”

Tataru had taken over creative control of this project, because formal dances were certainly not Ysayle’s area of expertise, and the Lalafell had been only too happy to help out. The light, drapey cerulean fabric of the dress belied the traditional Ishgardian style, but Ysayle had never cared much for tradition anyway. It was pinned and tucked beautifully, with embroidered details on the neckline and hem. It even – scandalously – showed off a little cleavage, something Ysayle wasn’t necessarily unhappy with.

They stand like that together, a little distance apart, for a few minutes; enjoying the last rays of the sun in what appears to be a companionable silence. How many times had they done this, a mere few months ago? Accompanied by Alphinaud and the Warrior of Light, of course, but together nonetheless. Sunsets always seemed even more spectacular when seen on islands beyond the clouds. Ysayle had never thought to see such beauty again in her lifetime; she had expected to die on Azys Lla, one last act of service as Shiva.

The gods, as it happened, must have had other plans, as she’d fallen from that great height and landed in the middle of a Vanu Vanu outpost; the last remnants of Shiva’s protection shielding her from further harm in the fall. Word had gotten back to Camp Cloudtop of her survival, and she had eventually woken in the infirmary in the centre of Ishgard. Mere days after her own discharge, and Estinien was staying there under the very same care as she had.

She had avoided visiting, though, despite Alphinaud’s almost-insistence that she do so. She had never thought this far ahead in life; now there was peace, real peace, and her old role was no longer needed. Lord Aymeric, introduced through the Warrior of Light, had requested her help in rehabilitating the remaining heretics and repairing the city in exchange for a pardon for her crimes, and she was not about to turn down such an offer. The Scions had allies, and she herself was still blessed with Hydaelyn’s gift, so she might as well make herself useful.

In quieter moments, however, her mind always drifted back to Estinien. She admitted to being a little disappointed when he disappeared from Ishgard without a trace after his recuperation; the small, naïve girl within her longed to believe that they could have been…something, more than just acquaintances passing in the night.

“You are deep in thought, my lady,” he says, a statement more than a question. Ever with the formalities, even when they were at each other’s throats with opposite ideals.

She shakes her head. “Just reminiscing. My life has taken on a trajectory I could not have anticipated before I had met you and your allies. I have much to be grateful for.”

“I admit, I was – glad to hear you had lived. My own fortunes were, you could say, not so lucky after our victory on Azys Lla. I did not hear about – you – until after I had awoken in the infirmary.” Estinien looked – embarrassed, perhaps? Ysayle could not tell, in the dim light of the evening.

“I-” He falters, swallowing. “I wanted to apologise. For things I have said. Knowing now the full truth of the war betwixt man and dragon, I – I said some unkind things. ‘Twas not your fault that I was ignorant.”

Ysayle takes a moment to think on his words. They were not the people they once were, after all. The truth, she thinks, has changed them both. She looks at him, then – he does not shy away from her eye contact – and nods.

“Apology accepted. For what it’s worth, I have a great deal to apologise for as well. My conscience is not clear, by any means.”

Estinien cracks a small smile. (She tries not to think that a smile suits him. It really does.)

“Aye, that is true.”

Their conversation was momentarily interrupted by a change of music from the ballroom – a slightly faster tune, reminiscent of folk tunes Ysayle heard as a child at communal dances in Falcon’s Nest. It was clearly designed to bring more couples onto the dance floor, and was so far having the intended effect. Ysayle could see the Warrior of Light, dressed in finery (another of Tataru’s creations), swinging Alphinaud a little too fast round in circles on the dancefloor. Aymeric could be seen, too, dancing politely with Hilda; commoners and nobles alike danced merrily to the band’s music. If this was their new republic, Ysayle thinks, then she quite likes it.

It is this train of thought that compels Ysayle with more bravado than she has; not thinking about where it might lead, she turns to her brooding companion.

“Well, when all is said and done-” She holds out a hand to Estinien, “Care for a dance?”

His brow furrows. “I’ve never- I mean. Forgive me, Ysayle. I’m not much of a dancer.”

She smiles lightly. “Neither am I. But we are alone, for the time being. Indulge me.”

“As you wish,” he frowns, still a tad reluctant, but he takes her outstretched hand regardless and pulls her close and Ysayle thinks, oh.

Oh no.

It has been a long time since she has been this close, physically, with anyone, and she wonders if Estinien can feel her heart thudding loudly in her chest. They stumble at first, taking a few attempts to figure out the rhythm of the song versus the clumsiness of their feet, but eventually settle into a gentle waltz.

Ysayle is acutely aware of the position of Estinien’s hand on the small of her back; its warmth – and he is so warm – practically burning through her dress. They are closer than they need to be, exactly, for the formality of ballroom dance, but Ysayle finds that she does not mind. He is avoiding her eyes now (deliberately, she thinks), so she instead concentrates on the position of her hand on his shoulder, her other hand clasped tightly in his as they circle aimlessly together across the balcony.

“So,” he begins, uncertainly, once they’d found their rhythm, “Where did you learn to dance, then? You seem to have more of a head for it than I.”

Ysayle smiles. “A little, as a child. And we had plenty of impromptu dances when I was-” When I was with the heretics¸ she would have said. Another time, in another life. Estinien, evidently noticing her hesitation, raises an eyebrow.

“Forgive me, my lady, but I simply cannot imagine a band of heretics indulging in such trivial things as dances whilst plotting the fall of Ishgard.”

“You are a fool, then, if you believe that we did nothing but sit around and curse the Holy See whilst getting drunk on dragon’s blood,” Ysayle scowls, swinging Estinien round a little more forcibly than she had intended. He stumbles, a little, before righting himself.

“I did not give much thought to the heretics unless they were forcibly attacking the city,” Estinien says, his tone serious, but the quiet glint in his eyes relaying a certain kind of humour. Ysayle rolls her eyes. He always knew exactly how to push her buttons to get her riled up when they were travelling together, and it seems not much has changed.

“I’ll have you know,” she huffs, “Lord Aymeric himself requested my assistance in restoring the city-”

“To avoid a jail sentence, yes,” Estinien has an eyebrow raised, smirking. He positions his arms just so, allowing her to dip backwards as part of the dance. His arms are secure, holding her in place perfectly before swooping her back up. They continue their circles together, Estinien chuckling at Ysayle’s irritation.

“For someone of little skill, you have picked up this dance remarkably fast,” she comments, her face flushed – from the exertion of the dance, or from Estinien’s attention, she was yet unsure.

“I’m a fast learner,” he says, and was it her imagination or was he a little closer to her than before? He stares resolutely ahead, his expression faintly jovial, and Ysayle tries not think about how good his arms felt holding her up.

The upbeat song currently playing comes to a close and, after a brief interlude, a new one starts up, slower than the previous one. Adjusting their pace accordingly, she thinks back a few months to their expedition together. Gods, she had not cared for the dragoon upon first meeting him. He was narrow-minded, and brash, and had been all-too willing to fight and kill the very creatures they were trying to make their allies without a second thought.

And yet – she had grown to like him, over those many days travelling. At first, the attraction had been purely physical. He was handsome, after all, and Ysayle had caught a peek of him removing his armour to see chiselled muscles and a wiry frame; something inside of her had fluttered, momentarily, when he had removed his helmet in front of her for the first time, revealing uncharacteristically soft, fair hair and deep-set blue eyes.

“Don’t get used to this,” he’d muttered, noticing her looking at him. “I can’t eat your soup with a helmet on.”

She’d blushed, then, almost as much as she was surely blushing now.

Even with Estinien’s growing connection to the Eye of Nidhogg – she’d felt it, creeping, growing, gnawing at him even as they travelled together – and his insistence that killing the wyrm was the best solution, she had caught glimpses of a kinder man underneath his harsh determination. Alphinaud had seen it too, as had the Warrior of Light. It endeared him to her, whether she wanted it to or not. And in the long weeks that had followed her miraculous survival, there had been much time for her to dwell on these thoughts.

Halone’s tits, she was in it now, wasn’t she?

It occurs to Ysayle, just then, that the slow pace of the current song meant that their little, secluded waltz had become less of a dance and more just – swaying gently, endlessly circling, not really paying attention to any kind of rhythm. The whole world, for a second, felt like it was just the two of them, the stars aligning to bring them together in a single moment.

“Your hands are cold,” Estinien murmurs, and she forgets for a moment that she still had one of his hands in hers. Usually a woman of great eloquence, she suddenly finds she is tongue-tied, she cannot speak-

“Y-yes, well. Perhaps it is you that is warm,” she whispers, her breath hitching in her throat as he brings her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. He almost seems surprised at his own boldness, his eyes crinkling in a rare bit of humour at her response.

“Mayhap,” he replies. The night is almost completely upon them now, the only light illuminating their faces being the candlelight from the outside lanterns and the ballroom itself. Their eyes meet, Estinien’s expression unusually soft.

Ysayle is not sure who makes the first move but suddenly his lips are on hers, her arms snaking around his neck, his hands on her hips, guiding them in a new kind of dance. In the end, it does not matter, because she is kissing him, and it is suddenly all she can think about. How long had she thought of this moment? How long had she imagined what Estinien’s kiss would feel like? It was, in truth, longer than she would care to admit.

He kisses with the air of someone who does not have a huge amount of practice, but makes up for whatever experience he lacks with strong, guiding hands; Ysayle soon finds herself pressed up against the iron railings of the balcony, the coldness of the metal on her back in sharp contrast to Estinien’s warm embrace. She feels goosebumps on Estinien’s neck where she is touching him; – yes, her hands are always cold, so cold – she moves a hand round to his lapel, using it to anchor herself to him and pull him closer, ever closer.

They break apart to catch their breath, and she looks up at his face, flushed as red as she’d ever seen it, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Do you, perchance, have a residence in Ishgard, Ysayle?” he breathes, still so close to her. Ysayle knows where this is going, knows where this might end up. And she wants it, Halone knows she does.

“That depends,” she says, curling a lock of his hair around her finger. Estinien exhales, almost impatient.

“On?”

Ysayle pulls away, just enough to see his face fully. “Is this…something you want? Truly?” Am I someone you want? She doesn’t say it, but the words settle between them anyway.

He frowns, a trademark scowl, and grasps the hand currently playing with his hair.

“It is. I am not one to deliver undue suffering to a soul such as yourself. And-” He looks flustered, struggling to articulate, “-this is something I have thought about often. In times of difficulty. The possibility of…something more.”

Oh.

“Well then,” she murmurs, his answer more than satisfactory, “In that case, I have a small apartment in the lower wards of the city.”

“I would very much like to get out of here,” Estinien replies, pressing a kiss to her cheek, another along her jawline. She lets her nails scratch the back of his head, just a little, privately enjoying the effect it seems to have on him.

“If you would permit me, my lady-” He breaks away suddenly, a spark of mischief in his eyes, and scoops her up bridal-style. She splutters, wriggling.

“What are you doing?!”

He peers over the edge of the balcony cautiously. “Avoiding any odd stares we might receive from my good friend’s guests. Now, hold still.”

Before Ysayle has any chance to protest, Estinien bends his knees and leaps, and Ysayle’s heart is rushing, the wind howling in her ears momentarily, and it is not far off what a dragon in flight feels like-

He lands, gracefully, some distance away from the mansion, and places her back on her feet with an uncharacteristic amount of care.

Hand in hand, she leads him through the lamp-lit streets, following well-worn paths to the lower area of Ishgard. More than once he catches her against a wall in a bruising kiss, so the walk takes considerably longer than it normally might on one’s own, but Ysayle is too busy wrapped up in Estinien’s arms to care.

The night is fully upon them now, so upon reaching Ysayle’s apartment there is a small amount of stumbling in the dark until she manages to find a lantern. Estinien, helpful as ever, is predictably distracting as she reaches for a pack of matches, hindered by his hands on her waist as he caresses her from behind.

“You know a lantern isn’t really necessary,” he growls, apparently eager. She rolls her eyes – realises too late that it was a gesture he could not see – and bats him away, momentarily.

“I don’t know about you,” she retorts, “But I like to see my lovers when I’m in bed with them.” She manages to strike a small flame into the lantern, illuminating them both in dim, soft candlelight.

Estinien raises an eyebrow, tailing after her as she leads him to the bedroom. “And has the Lady Iceheart had many lovers, in the past?”

She places the lantern down on the chest of drawers with a thunk. “A few. Borne out of convenience, mostly. Some out of love. All enjoyable, for the most part.”

It might have been a cold way of looking at it, but her time leading the heretics had come with its perks, namely that there was no shortage of people interested in her and her powers. She would never have dared manipulate anyone into sex or abuse her power in any way, but she had not been without company, had she so wanted it.

“And what about the famed Azure Dragoon?” she says, her tone a little more defensive than she had intended, “I’m sure the position comes with its own amount of attention.”

“Some,” he concedes, “But for the most part, I preferred to spend my free time training. A few dalliances, here and there. Nothing serious.”

Ysayle nods. Fair enough, she thinks. You’d have to be out of your mind if you actually wanted to sleep with that grouchy, stubborn arse of a dragoon anyway. Yet here she was.

“Well then,” she says, instead, “I still wish for your company tonight, if you’ll have me.”

Estinien is already against her, capturing her mouth in his and lifting her – a little roughly, not that she minds – onto the bed. “I was hoping we would get to that eventually,” he grins, wickedly.

“You’re an arse,” she replies, but there is no heart in the insult, not really. There’s not much time for thinking, after that, and she is happy to lose herself in Estinien’s arms for the time being.

Ysayle wakes from what might have been the most restful night’s sleep she’s had in some time. She casts a sleepy glance over her small apartment; the curtains had been left half-drawn the night previously, and the morning light was casting a bright glare across her bed, and the sleeping souls that lay within.

Ah, right.

Estinien is still sound asleep next to her; they must have moved apart in slumber during the night, but she distinctly remembers falling asleep in his arms. For the first time, she sees him and all of his scars in full daylight, and fights the urge to trace them gently with her fingertips. She settles for brushing his bangs out of his eyes; he is so peaceful in sleep, she thinks, his usual furrowed brow replaced with one of general content.

There are bruises too, newer ones, scattering across his neck and chest. Ysayle blushes, a little, because she knows that she is the one who put them there, and that there are similar marks on her own body. They will be covered with clothes, eventually, but for now they sit as a reminder of newfound passions and a lover she can’t quite forget.

His eyes flutter open, and an immediate scowl crosses his face as he adjusts to the bright light streaming in.

“Gods, do you always wake this early? To this kind of racket?” His voice is raspy with sleep, his long hair a little dishevelled.

She throws him a mock-frown. “Usually I remember to shut the curtains. I might have been…a little distracted last night.” She runs a finger along his jaw, lifting his chin so that she could lean and kiss him. He leans into her touch, a different kind of reverence.

“Ah,” he says, softly, when she pulls away, “Yes, that would make sense.”

Their clothes, haphazardly rumpled on a nearby chair would also suggest a measure of distraction. They had only paused long enough last night for Estinien to peel off Ysayle’s dress and his own clothes and place them somewhere off of the ground before continuing his ministrations.

“I don’t have anywhere to be today,” she says, by way of invitation, unsure as to how her overture would be received now that it was morning. Morning, bringing with it clarity, and the uncertain light of day. Estinien may not want anything more than whatever the previous night had been.

To his credit, though, Estinien reaches for her and brushes a few strands of silver hair behind her ear.

“Me neither,” he says, and Ysayle’s heart thuds in relief, “What activities have you planned? Lunch out, mayhap?”

This elicits a laugh from her, despite herself.

“Mm,” she smiles, “Maybe later. For now, I want you all to myself.”

Estinien responds in kind, using his advantage of strength and centre of balance to hold her firmly by the waist and flip her over, laying on her back.

“That can be arranged.”

His eyes are dark with want, and Ysayle finds that it pleases her greatly to be able to obtain this kind of reaction from him. She wants – well, she wants Estinien. All of him. Now. Obviously.

What she really wants, though, is Estinien for longer. Knowing that they might have something to come back to, a home found in each other’s hearts – the thought terrifies her, as it wasn’t something easily articulated to her stoic lover. Still, she thinks, perhaps in time.

For now, she has the man she wants in her bed, and that is enough.

#ffxiv #ffxiv fanfiction #final fantasy 14 fanfiction #estinien x ysayle #final fantasy 14 heavensward #carroty writes #this is me remembering i used to post my fanfic on here so here we are i guess #this is extremely self indulgent and i will not be criticised

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wiypt-writes · 3 years

Text

Stark Spangled Banner

Ch49: An Old Friend

Intro: After five years of more or less domestic bliss, Katie’s fear that their peace will be one day shattered comes to fruition as a man they long thought dead appears at the compound.

Warnings: Bad Langauge. Smut (NSFW, 18+)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x OFC Katie Stark

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar Katie Stark and the other OCs. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

A/N: And so we begin the Endgame timeline...and as with all the parts, it has it’s own little banner as made by the talented @angrybirdcr who’s made another lovely edit for me here!

Chapter 48 Part 2

Stark Spangled Banner Masterlist // Main Masterlist

May 2023

“Emmy this room is an utter disgrace!” Steve said exasperatedly as he looked around at the various items of clothing scattered around her bedroom. DVDs lay on the floor instead of in the designated rack, the bed was unmade and various school books were tossed onto the rug instead of at her desk.

“Chill Dad.” She mumbled as she sat cross legged, tapping at her tablet, music blaring from her stereo. “Chill?” He shot her a look “Seriously, we spent a fortune doing this room up last month. Get it tidied.” “Yeah, yeah.”

Steve grit his teeth, jaw twitching with annoyance before, after a moment’s deliberation, he crossed the room and turned off her music.

“Hey I was listening to that!”

“Well, now you’re gonna listen to me.” He stood cross armed looking down at her. “I mean it Emily, get this sorted now, or you can forget going to Philadelphia with Brooke.”

“But, it’s all organised, we leave first thing in the morning!” “It can be unorganised.” His threat was simple but it had the desired effect.

“Fine.” She groaned, tossing her tablet to one side. “Thank you.” Steve replied, sarcastically before he left the room, shutting the door behind him. He made his way downstairs to the kitchen where Katie was prepping lunch, Jamie sat in a chair at the table on a booster seat, colouring in an activity book.

“Look, Daddy!” he pointed to his picture. Steve leant over, one arm on the back of the chair and glanced down at the elephant his son had coloured in purple.

“A purple elephant.” He nodded “Creative.”

“Like in Dumbo!”

“Of course.” Steve smiled, Jamie’s Disney film of the moment. It was one Steve could remember seeing at the theatre before he joined the army. It still creeped him out slightly, the scene with all the drunk elephants. So much so he was convinced the animator had been on some kind of mad drug fuelled trip when he drew it. He ruffled his son’s hair and then moved over to where Katie was slicing up a cucumber for the salad, reaching round to steal a piece as he dropped a kiss to her cheek.

“She tidying it?” Katie asked, her eyes not moving from her task.

“Only because I threatened to stop her going to Philly.” he snorted, leaning on the counter, looking at his wife. He reached into the salad bowl to snatch a piece of pepper and Katie slapped his hand. He grinned as she looked at him.

“Bet that went down well.” “Don’t care. Her attitude stinks.”

“She’s a teenage girl, Steve” Katie smiled. “That’s not the point.” “Honey, just shut the door if the mess bothers you that much.”

Steve sighed, and rubbed at his temple. “I’m surprised the door even opens with the amount of crap on the floor.” Katie gave a little chuckle before she looked at him. “Can you get me the dressing out of the fridge?”

He pushed himself off the counter and opened the fridge. “Caesar or Ranch?”

“Caesar.” She nodded after a moment’s deliberation. “Oh, and the cooked chicken please.” Grabbing them, Steve turned back to Katie and passed her the items, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Do you think I was too strict?”

Katie placed the knife down and looked at him. “Stevie, stop second guessing yourself.” She reached up to run a hand down his cheek “You’re a great dad. All I’m saying is it’s not out of the ordinary for her to have an attitude. She’s fifteen. I was a nightmare at that age, as I’m sure Tony will delight in telling you.”

“Speaking of your brother, what time is he expecting us to drop Jamie off?” “Oh he’s coming to pick him up.” Katie said. “They’re in town anyway so said he’ll be here later this afternoon. I just hope Emmy does as you told her.” “Huh?”

“Because if she doesn’t, you’re gonna have to carry through with your threat. And that means you’ve just flushed our night alone down the lav.” Steve let out a groan, he hadn’t thought about that.

A little while later Katie called Emmy down for lunch. She appeared in the kitchen with a scowl and Katie saw Steve bristle slightly so she decided to get in there first and back him up.

“Straighten your face, young lady.” She ordered sternly as Emmy sat down. “Your dad’s right. That room is an absolute dump.” Emmy sighed and reached over for a warm pitta bread, piling her plate with the salad before she took a deep breath.

“Sorry. I’ll tidy it, I promise.” Steve looked at Katie who gave him a wink as they began to eat.

“Emmy I colourded you a picture.” Jamie pointed to the book which was to his right, out of the way of his plate.

Emmy smiled, and looked at it. “Aww dude that’s awesome. Is it to pin up on my board?”

He nodded and she bopped his nose gently, smiling back.

“I staying at Moo’s tonight?” He asked, turning to his mom.

“Yeah.” Katie looked at him as he picked up a piece of the pitta bread she had sliced into smaller strips for him “Is that okay?” He nodded. “Uncle Nee gives me juice pops. The red ones are my bestest.” “I thought you liked the blue ones?” Steve asked, swallowing his food. “Because they’re the same colour as Cap’s Suit?”

“Red ones better.” Jamie nodded. “Like Iron Man.”

Steve looked at Katie who was biting her lip, trying not to laugh at the look of utter indignation on his face.

“This is good, Mom.” Emmy nodded at the food on her plate. “Better than the incinerated breakfast dad gave us.” Steve half-heartedly glared at his daughter. “I burnt one egg.”

“One too many.” She quipped, and Katie grinned, reaching over for the jug of water. Steve beat her to it and poured her a glass, sliding it over to her before he did the same for Emmy, Jamie already had his in a tippee-cup by his plate.

“Thanks.” Katie smiled at him before she turned to Emmy “Hey, did you get your grade back for your English essay last week?”

“Oh, yeah, I got an A.” she shrugged.

“Emmy that’s great.” Steve nodded at her, smiling.

“Yeah well don’t get used to it. I don’t think I’ll get one again. I may have upset my tutor.”

“Why?” Katie frowned “What did you do.”

“Well, he’s assigned us a book that is totes inappropriate.”

“What book?” Katie interrupted to ask

“The Colour Purple. I mean it’s good but…”

“Yeah, that is kinda heavy…” Katie frowned, having read the book herself. “What’s the angle?” “Race, gender, and bigotry in the early twentieth century. ”Emmy shrugged “I would have thought To Kill A Mockingbird would have been better but when I voiced my opinion Mr Tozer didn’t like it.”

“So what did you say to upset him?” Steve arched his brow.

“Exactly that. And then he told me it was his way or the highway. Don’t worry, I refrained from calling him Hitler.”

“I guess we should be pleased then.” Steve snorted. Emmy flashed him a grin and went back to eating.

The family made chatter for the rest of their lunch until Jamie poked at his mom’s arm.

“Yes, Sweetie?” “I done now. Fankoo.” He grinned, his plate completely cleared.

“You’re welcome, honey” Katie ruffled his hair “Cake?” He asked hopefully.

“What do you say?” Steve prompted gently.

“Please.” Jamie nodded.

“Do you think about anything but food?” Emmy looked at the small boy.

“You know he doesn’t.” Katie sighed. “He takes after your father in that respect.” “That’s not all I think about.” Steve grinned, as he raised a suggestive eyebrow at his wife over his glass of water.

“Yeah well, thankfully he is way too young for that.” Katie winked as she stood up to get the fruit cake she had made the day before to cut everyone a slice. As she did, she had to bite back the smirk as Emmy sighed at Steve’s blatant sexual reference.

“Gross.”

****

Emmy did tidy her room, so she was dropped off at the coffee shop early evening with her bag which Steve was sure contained more clothes than she needed for the four nights she was away. He made a comment to that effect and the fifteen year old just rolled her eyes and explained she needed two outfits a day, just in case. Just in case of what, Steve had no idea, and he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know if truth be told. He made small talk with Jennifer over a coffee for a while, instructed his daughter to behave and loudly told Jennifer that if she was any trouble to pack her home straight away. Brooke rolled her eyes but gave him a hug goodbye anyway as he left. By the time he had gotten home, Jamie had already been picked up leaving the two parents alone. Steve had been planning to take Katie out, but when he suggested it she shook her head and pulled a magnum of Champagne out of the fridge and held it up.

“I got a better idea.” She grinned “Hot tub party for two and take out.” “Champagne, pizza, you in a swimsuit.” Steve grinned, pulling her to him. “Baby, I’m sold.”

Needless to say there wasn’t much relaxing done in the hour they were in the tub, quite the opposite if truth be told. Hands and lips were all over the place, pawing at skin and kisses being exchanged with avaricious force. By the time they’d called for pizza, Katie was feeling thoroughly defiled as she sat on the sofa, wearing one of Steve’s button downs and tore into a large slice of pepperoni as if she hadn’t eaten for a week. Steve grinned, tucking her damp hair behind her ear and dropped a kiss to the side of her head. They settled down to watch a film, but Katie was flat out before it was even ten minutes in and she didn’t even stir bar to murmur something to Steve when he carried her up to their room.

Steve woke the next morning, wrapped around his wife, her warm body pressed to his chest, one arm under her neck, the other draped over her waist. He sighed in contentment, it was bliss, knowing there was nothing to get up for. No constantly hungry three year old to feed, no lunches to make, no school runs, no meetings until later, nothing. Snuggling into her closer, the arm that wasn’t trapped underneath her swept her hair away from her face, before his lips skated over her jaw and down the side of her neck. As her eyelids fluttered his large, gentle hand trailed down the curve of her hip and slid between her legs, caressing the inside of her thigh. Katie took a deep breath, shifting automatically, still half asleep, spreading her legs a little wider. She rolled her head over her shoulder, blinking and she was met with those blue eyes she loved so much, the owner wearing a devilish smirk.

“Morning.” He rasped, his voice low with sleep and desire.

“Good morning.” She grinned, biting her lip as his hand moved back up over her stomach to her breasts underneath the shirt she was wearing and he began to tease her softly, causing her to moan as he rolled a nipple between his fingers, the sensation burning in her stomach. She rolled onto her back and Steve settled between her legs, her arms winding around his neck as he captured her lips with his, soft and slow before he pulled back to peel his shirt off her body, tossing it down the side of the bed. He turned his gaze downwards, eyeing up her blue lacy panties before he groaned and lowered himself over her again, kissing her and sliding his tongue along hers. Katie wrapped her legs around his hips, grinding against him to get any friction that she could. His hands trailed down her sides and under her back, fingers gently grabbing at the waistband of the lace before he broke the kiss and unhooked her legs from around his waist. He gently pulled her underwear down, shimmying under the covers as he removed the garment and then kissed up her right leg, his lips hot as he made his way from her ankle up to her inner thigh, pushing her legs open wider.

His actions were controlled, slow. There was no rush after all. His mouth and tongue gently worked her to distraction, flicking at her clit over and over. She was a writhing mess within minutes, her hand fisted in his hair, the other grasping at the sheets, the noises flowing freely because they didn’t have to be quiet. Her fingers tightened on his scalp and she gave a cry of his name as her hips bucked upwards, her legs tensing slightly before they flattened against the bed, her breathing heavy and ragged. With a smirk at how easy he could undo her, Steve moved back up the bed, one hand pushing his sleep pants down. Without a word he lined himself up with her, letting out a loud groan as she slid a hand between them, stroking him before guiding him inside. He moved slowly, deliberately, until every inch of him was sheathed. Katie’s eyes rolled back as he stretched her, her groan was loud as he laced his fingers into hers. Steve let out a shaky little whimper as he moved his pelvis slowly, pushing back against her hands.

Every thrust was deep, slow, measured, his mouth moving from hers to her jaw, neck, collar bone. The house was quiet, nothing but the sound of soft cries and kisses could be heard as Steve continued his thrusts, whilst his wife purred into his ear, and he let go of her hands to bring one of her legs up round his hip. She let out a cry at the change of angle as he picked up the pace slightly, but not much, Katie’s nails raking down his back as her pleasure rose. The sensation made him shudder and he doubled his efforts, her hands sliding down, grabbing at his flexing ass, urging him on and, as always, he was happy to oblige.

“Shit, Stevie,” the cry of his name turned into a complete babble which died in her throat as she tightened and pulsed around, him, her body shaking with pleasure.

“God, Doll,” Steve was right behind her as he came with a low moan, his hips thrusting until he was completely spent, his head buried in the side of his wife’s neck.

Katie tipped her head back in satisfaction, sighing softly as Steve pushed himself up slightly. He gently ran his nose up her throat, taking her bottom lip between his and he let out a loud, satisfied sigh of his own. He loved his kids, beyond anything but man he enjoyed being able to take his goddamned time making love to his wife without the patter of little feet across the hall meaning they were about to be interrupted. “Baby,” he said softly, his lips gently smoothing the skin underneath her ear “Hmmm?” She asked, her hands creeping into his hair as her head rolled to the side, eyes still closed in pure bliss. “Look at me, kitten.” She obliged, and emerald green met ocean blue as she held her husband’s gaze. He gave her a soft smile, and she reciprocated, the affection on his face blatantly evident. “I love you,” he said, as she reached up and gently brushed the longer strands of his hair back over his forehead, “more than you can ever know”

“Will that still be the case when I’m old, grey and wrinkly but you still look like you’re straight out of GQ magazine?”

Steve frowned as he looked at her, this wasn’t the first time she had mentioned that. He shook his head and sighed softly, unable to do anything but repeat what he told her the last time she’d raised the issue.

“I told you baby girl.” he gave her lips a quick peck, “it’s me and you till the end of the line.”

After a lazy breakfast, Katie headed off to collect Jamie from Tony’s and Steve made his way into Manhattan for the two support groups of the afternoon. The first one was always the busiest and it took a little longer this week as they had a few new faces. This didn’t surprise Steve, people were still five years later coming to terms with opening up about their heartache or problems, but the core of the group were always welcoming. He had an hours break before the second, slightly quieter group so he took a walk. Their air was damp and there was a gloomy fog descending over the city, making it darker than it would normally be for the time of day, but it wasn’t cold. He grabbed a coffee from the shop round the corner and headed back to start the second meeting.

The meetings always followed the same format. There was ten or so minutes of everyone arriving, grabbing refreshments, saying hello and then they would form the usual circle and Steve would start the discussions with a chat about something he’d done or seen that week that was positive before moving to something he’d done or seen that week that wasn’t so positive, and then invite other people to comment and do the same, gently coaxing them into opening up.

“So, I went on a date the other day.” A man named David sighed. “First time in five years. I didn’t know what to talk about.”

“What did you talk about?” Steve pressed gently, patient as ever.

“Same old crap, you know? How things have changed. My job. His job. How much we miss the Mets,” David paused taking a breath, “then things got quiet. He cried as were serving the salads.”

“What about you?” Another man, Ian, asked hopefully.

“I cried,” David trailed off, “just before dessert,” There was a slight pause, “but I’m seeing him again tomorrow, so…”

Steve gave a small smile. “That’s great. You did the hardest part. You took the jump, you didn’t know where you were gonna come down. And that’s it, it’s those little, brave baby steps we gotta take, you know, to try and find purpose.” He paused and looked around the group, biting the inside of his cheek. “I went into the ice in forty-five right after I met the first woman I’d ever loved. Woke up seventy years later and met the love of my life. She gave me hope, she gave me a purpose, a reason to keep going in the crazy new world I’d found myself in.” He paused again and looked around at the attentive faces assembled in a circle. “You gotta move on. The world is in our hands. It’s left to us guys. We gotta do something with it. Otherwise, Thanos should have killed all of us.”

Steve let the meeting roll for a little longer, everyone discussing what he had said before it came to a natural end and, with a glance up, he saw Katie and Jamie pushing open the door, Katie holding a huge box full of brownies.

“Looks like you’re all in luck!” Steve nodded towards his wife as Jamie ran across to his father who smiled and swept him up into arms, planting a kiss onto his head before replacing him on the floor. He looked over at Katie and she smiled back, placing the box of treats down on the table. She often did this, popped into a few of his sessions over the week with some form of snack for them all when she had time, her way of helping out, and Steve loved her for it.

Over the next ten minutes or so, various people drifted over to the side of the room, greeting Katie and grabbing a brownie. She gave David a hug and cheekily told him to behave on his next date as Steve wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed her forehead in greeting as they waved the man away.

“How long where you at the door?”

“Long enough.” She told him, knowing instantly why he was asking.

“I meant it.” He turned to look at her. “Every word you know.”

“I know, and for the record you’re the love of my life too.” She grinned “My husband, my baby daddy…”

Steve smiled and pressed a soft kiss to her lips.

“Gross.” Jamie gagged, sticking his fingers in his mouth, an action he had learnt from Emmy.

There was a pause before Steve grabbed Jamie and launched into a tickle attack until the boy was screeching and running from his dad who chased him round the hall. Katie watched her boys as Jamie feinted left and Steve let him get away, before the little boy dived under a table and out the other side of it, cackling in a way so like his father.

“Don’t think that’s gonna save you, pal.” Steve easily vaulted the table, picking Jamie up, throwing him over his shoulder, patting his backside once with a large hand.

“Momma, help!” Jamie’s voice was punctuated with laughter and with a grin Katie strode forward and her hands went straight to Steve’s sides from behind, and she began to tickle him.

“Oh sh-stop it!” Steve cackled, his ridiculously ticklish nature was always his downfall. He let Jamie down as Katie continued her attack and he whipped round, grabbing her and spinning her round. He folded her arms across her chest, pinning her back to his front as he dropped his mouth to her ear.

“You’re gonna pay for that later.” “Promises, promises Captain.”

****

There was a presence to Katie’s right and she felt the soft weight of a hand against her cheek. It was too small to belong to her man, but the perfect size and weight to belong to her boy.

“James,” a soft, deep voice whispered, warning in the tone, “this is the second time I’ve told you and there won’t be a third. Leave your ma alone. She’s sleeping.”

Katie sighed and stretched. “It’s okay, I’m awake”

Jamie giggled and surged forward giving her a peck before falling back onto his father’s pillow, "Morning Momma!”

“Good morning, Sweetie.” She yawned rolling onto her side, dislodging Lucky who had been asleep with his leg resting on the back of her knees. As ever Jamie had his stuffed Cap bear with him, along with God knows how many other toys all which adorned Steve’s side of their enormous bed.

“Morning, Baby.” Steve bent over from behind her, pecking her cheek too.

“Hey.” She smiled, rolling her head to catch his lips, noticing his bare, damp chest from the shower. “What time is it?”

“Little past seven. Somebody-“ Steve glanced at Jamie, “-was awake at half Five.” “Not sleepy daddy.” “Really, I didn’t notice.” Steve replied, sardonically. Katie chuckled as Jamie frowned, the sarcasm utterly lost at him.

“Momma, we hided in the fort.”

Steve and Jamie had made a blanket fort in Jamie’s room last night in which they had hidden in for their bed time stories. Jamie had insisted they left it up, and considering it wasn’t in the way, Katie had been happy to oblige. Steve, who had gotten a lot better with dealing with the mess Jamie left around over the years had resisted the urge to fold away the blankets and his wife had pulled him out of the room when the pair of them had popped in to check on Jamie before he could change his mind.

“Mighty fine Fort it is too.” Steve ruffled his son’s hair.

“What time are your meetings today?” Katie asked, looking at Steve. His groups ran at different times during the week. This way, it made sure that there was a day or night everyone could attend at least one session a week.

“Last one finishes at four today. Why you ask?”

“Well, I thought seeing as we didn’t see Nat at the weekend, we should pop in.” “Auntie Nat-Nat, yay!” Jamie clapped his hands “Maybe she can come see my fort.” “You should tell her about it.” Steve nodded, before his attention turned to Katie. “Might convince her to leave the compound.” “Yeah, maybe.”

“What do you fancy for breakfast?” Steve swiftly changed the subject.

“I can bake some cinnamon rolls if you want?” “You don’t have to do that.” “I know, but they’re already made so just need to go in to the oven and I also I know someone id going to ask for pancakes and he isn’t having them three days on the run.” “Waffles?” Jamie whipped his head round, hopefully.

“No.” Katie shook her head. “Cinnamon rolls or cereal, your choice.”

“Can I have both?”

“You two will eat me out of house and home.” Katie rolled her eyes. “Yes, if you want both you can have both.”

“Cool, man.” Jamie nodded, in a way that was so like Emmy it made Steve turn back to face his wife from where he had ben stood at the dresser pulling out his clothes, a smirk on his face. The pair of them watched as their son announced he was going to get dressed and dropped onto the floor, heading out into the hallway, Lucky following.

Katie watched as Steve pulled on a pair of sweats and she cocked her head to one side.

“Did you seriously call me Jamie’s Ma before?”

Steve grinned. “Sorry.” “Makes me sound like I’m ninety” she snorted.

“Try actually being ninety.” Steve scoffed, and Katie laughed as he started to crawl over her in the bed, pushing her back gently.

“Hate to break it to you, Captain Badass, but you’re actually a hundred and five.”

“Thanks for the reminder.” Steve muttered gently, his lips pressing to hers. She happily melted into the kiss her hands straying up and down his bare chest, before she pulled away knowing that if they carried on she’d be wanting a lot more.

“Stop it.”

“What?”

“This.” Katie pouted.

“I only wanted a kiss.” Steve looked at her, eyebrow raised. “You have a dirty mind, Mrs Rogers.” “Years of being with you.” She shrugged and Steve laughed, standing up. As he headed across the room Katie couldn’t resist one last quip. “Nice ass…daddy” Steve turned round, a wicked grin on his face as he held his arms out at either side of him, as he walked backwards for a few steps. “It’s all yours, momma.” He smirked, before turning round and heading out to help Jamie get dressed.

The rest of Katie’s day was pretty much the same as it always was. She dropped Jamie in at the day-care and headed up to her office for her fifteen minute start up meeting with Soray. After going over her diary for the day, she spent most of the morning sifting through the mountain of emails and responding to the ones she needed to. After a quick chat with Emmy at lunchtime, the girl enthusiastically telling her all about how her and Brooked had run up the Rocky steps and were eating a tonne of Philly cheesesteak, Katie headed up to the boardroom for the Monthly Financial Review. Escaping at little after three, she picked Jamie up and headed to the store to grab something she could make at the compound for dinner. Once Steve was home they all jumped in the car to make the hours drive up state owards the compound.

Steve drove easily down the highway, one hand on the steering wheel, the other laying on the arm rest in between the front seats, whilst next to him Katie hummed along to the John Legend playlist that was playing. Steve cruised the Audi onto the bridge which would take them out of Manhattan and frowned gently as he noticed that the cars ahead were all coming to a halt. As Steve slowed the car down, Katie too narrowed her eyes as people started getting out of their cars, heading to the side of the bridge, pointing.

“Wait here.” Steve instructed, climbing out of the car, Captain mode engaged.

“What’s happening?” Jamie asked.

“Daddy’s gone to see.” Katie turned to smile at him before she turned back, watching Steve approach the side of the bridge and speak to the nearest man before looking down. His mouth dropped opened and he turned, jogging back to the car.

“You’re not gonna believe this!” He shook his head, excitement all over his face as Katie climbed out of the car. “Come see.” He opened the back door of the car and unstrapped Jamie from his seat. Picking him up in his arms, Steve made his way to the side of the bridge, wife by his side and he pointed downwards.

Katie felt herself gasp at the sight- a small pod of whales leisurely making their way through the Hudson River.

“Wow.” She whispered.

“What are they?” Jamie asked

“Whales.” Steve replied. “Humpbacks, I think.”

Steve tried to keep the smile on his face genuine, but he hated it when Jamie saw something out of place in the new world that he was born into which would have been perfectly normal in the world that they once knew. Whilst a pod of whales in the Hudson was an astounding sight for sure, and would have been unheard of even before the Snap, the fact that it was Jamie’s first time ever seeing a whale made him slightly sad. They had been a pretty common sight around the ocean waters in and around the bays leading out into the North Atlantic. That was until Thanos had killed half of them.

Jamie giggled and pointed out that the biggest whale was being followed closely by a slightly smaller one, and then an even smaller one after and then a tiny one.

“Daddy, Momma, Emmy and Jamie.” He smiled at Steve who chuckled, smoothing Jamie’s hair back.

“Come on Kiddo, let’s go see Auntie Nat” When they arrived at the Avengers compound, the sun was just beginning to set. Steve drove round to the rear entrance and the gate creaked open as the ANPR scanners recognised the car. He parked the car in their old designated spot before he collected the bag of ingredients from the trunk that Katie had bought to make dinner with. Together the three of them headed inside, FRIDAY welcoming them all as they made their way towards the living area, and they could hear Natasha closing up a meeting.

“Nat,” Rhodey’s voice was almost pleading but Nat cut him off

“Please.” She begged.

Katie had a feeling she knew what she was talking about, or rather who. She glanced at Steve as they rounded the last corner to the large meeting-slash-living room and it was then that Katie could hear Natasha trying to stifle her cries. At that point Jamie ran in and jumped onto his Aunt’s lap hugging her tightly.

“Don’t be sad, Auntie Nat-Nat.” He whispered, and Natasha took a deep breath, leaning her head against her nephew’s with her eyes closed hugging him back.

Steve leaned against the bookshelf for a moment as Katie walked into the room, taking the bag of ingredients off Steve as she took in the sight of Natasha’s dinner of a peanut butter sandwich which rest on top of the table.

“You know, I’d offer to cook you dinner, but you seem miserable enough.” Steve opened, looking down at her with a smile.

“So I’m gonna do it instead.” Katie smiled, holding up the bag she’d brought, dropping it onto the table. “Chicken stew, dumplings and chocolate cake for after.”

Natasha looked at them, a smile playing on her face as Katie sat down across from her. “You guys here just to feed me?”

“And to see a friend.” Steve shot back.

Natasha leaned back into her chair, Jamie still on her lap. “Clearly, your friend is fine.”

“Bull.” Katie mimicked her stance, eyeing her. Natasha avoided her gaze and the room fell silent.

“You know we saw a pod of whales as we were coming over the bridge.” Steve broke the silence, changing the subject.

“In the Hudson?” Natasha raised her head slightly, sounding impressed.

“There was a Jamie whale and a daddy whale and a momma whale and an Emmy one!” Jamie gushed and Nat smiled.

“I haven’t seen whales in the Hudson ever, even before.”

"Well, there’s fewer ships, cleaner water.” Steve shrugged

Natasha sighed looking up at the ceiling. “You know, if you’re about to tell me to look on the bright side, umm, I’m about to hit you in the head with a peanut butter sandwich.”

“Sammich?” Jamie looked up hopefully and Natasha tore off half of one side before passing it to him.

“Sorry.” Steve sighed pushing himself off from the bookshelf, his jacket slung over his arm. “Force of habit.”

He tossed his keys onto the table, dropping his jacket over the back of a chair before sitting down next to his wife, glancing at Jamie who was now eating a small piece of the sandwich, then at Natasha. The woman looked tired, pale and such a far cry from the stoic, well-groomed Natasha Romanoff he had first known. But then again, they were all a far cry from the people they had once been.

“You know, I keep telling everybody they should move on, and forget what happened.” Steve crossed his arms as he leaned back in his chair. “And some do. But not us.”

“If I move on, who does this?” Natasha asked simply with a shrug.

Katie sighed. “Maybe it doesn’t need to be done.”

“You know, I used to have nothing. And then I got this- this job, this family.” Nat smiled sadly and looked down at Jamie before she looked back up, the tears evident in her eyes. “And I was better because of it. And even though they’re gone, I’m still trying to be better.”

There was a pause as Katie wiped her eyes, a tear having escaped down her cheek and Steve gently placed his hand between her shoulder blades, rubbing softly.

"I think we all need to get a life,” he joked, breaking the sad silence, and Natasha forced a smile nodding to him.

“You did.” At her words, Steve gave a smile. She was right, he had. Whilst he and Katie had been extremely lucky over the last five years, that didn’t stop them thinking about the people that hadn’t, and the friends they had lost.

Katie reached for the bag she had placed on the table. “I’ll go start dinner.” She was mid-way through standing when a small, holographic screen popped up in front of Natasha indicating she had a notification of sorts. She flicked it to the side, bringing the video feed to life behind Steve, who looked over his shoulder as the video began playing.

“Oh, hi, hi! Is anyone home? This is, uh, Scott Lang. We met a few years ago, at the airport, in Germany. I was small, then I got real big.”

Katie left the bag where it was and whipped round, to see Scott on the screen, stood in front of his van. Besides her Steve stood from his seat, unable to believe what he was seeing.

“This…this is impossible.” Katie breathed, shaking her head. “He was…”

“Is this an old message?” Steve asked, his voice quiet, not taking his eyes off the footage.

“Ant-Man! I know you remember Ant-Man.”

Natasha’s reaction was much the same as theirs, confused awe as she sat up, breathing deeply. “It’s the front gate.”

“I really need to talk to you guys!” Scott continued to yell his voice becoming desperate.

The three of them remained frozen for a moment, absolutely lost for words, before Jamie broke the silence.

“Who’s that?” He asked, jumping down from Nat’s lap. “An old friend.” Steve swallowed, turning to Natasha who was fishing in a drawer for the key to the main gate which had been padlocked shut for years as no one used it anymore. She found it, tossed it to Steve and he caught it expertly before heading off to go meet Scott.

**** Chapter 50

**Original Posting**

#stark spangled banner #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers #katie stark #steve rogers fic #steve rogers x ofc #steve rogers x original female character #mcu #mcu fanfic #chris evans #chris evans characters

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written-on-the-trees · 3 years

Text

Silver Linings In Winter Clouds - Machine Gun Kelly Fan Fiction

Prompt: Nativity Play (very, very loosely)

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2100 words (I know, okay, it got away from me)

Summary: High-school AU. Colson is almost one-hundred per-cent sure that there was no punishment worse than having to join the drama club for their Christmas play, even one of the other members is possibly the cutest girl he's ever seen...

Colson had thought he had experienced the worst of his school’s punishments for bad behavior, having been in detention almost every week since he could remember, but he had been wrong.

So, so wrong.

He stared in horror at the carnage unfolding in front of him, and wondered if the punishment for bailing on this punishment could really be any worse than what he was currently facing.

Sure, he might get suspended or something…but he wasn’t really sure that was any worse than being forced to take part on the drama club’s Christmas play. His dad would absolutely flip his shit, but he’d be able to pick up some extra shifts at work, and he’d get out of the fucking nightmare that was this drama club bullshit.

Colson was more than ready to take his chances, when Mr. Greene, the drama teacher, saw him frozen in the doorway to the practice room, and cheerfully called out to him:

“Mr. Baker! So glad you could make it.”

Too late to escape now.

Unwilling to lose face by running (or even walking) away now everyone was looking at him, Colson curled his lip in disdain and stepped further into the room.

He wasn’t a coward.

Disgusted by all this theatre shit, but not a coward.

It was exactly the kind of attitude they were expecting from him, so it wasn’t long before they were all going back to focusing on that they had been doing before Mr. Greene had drawn everyone’s attention to him. Knowing Greene, it was probably a deliberate way of irritating Colson - the guy was just like that - but unfortunately that didn’t mean Colson could avoid him. Greene was the only one who could sign off on Colson’s report that documented him actually being here…and he was also the only one who could give Colson a job to do, because Colson sure as hell wasn’t taking any initiative with this shit.

The less effort he could put in, the better. It was bad enough that people were going to think he was one of the drama nerds (albeit unwillingly), he refused to give anyone even an inkling that he was enjoying or being proactive about being part of this.

As it was, Greene sent him over to work with the group of kids working on the scenery, muttering something about putting his height to good use. Colson had never been so grateful to be a lanky motherfucker as he was right then, walking over to where four girls and two guys were leant over various bits of paper, arguing between themselves.

“Hey…apparently I’m meant to be helping out over here.” Colson announced to get their attention, watching as all six of them looked up from the paper and had six different reactions.

Brendan, always the drama queen, threw his hands up and stormed away while muttering about not wanting to deal with ‘the white trash kid in detention’. His twin sister, Ellie, smiled apologetically and went after him to calm him down. Willow looked a little nervous, which was understandable since the last time she’d seen him he had been kicking the shit out of her older brother. Cameron beamed friendlily and welcomed him to the team. Darren just smiled.

And then there was Belle.

Colson had to stop himself from staring as she smiled at him, the soft, somehow glowing expression one he’d never had directed at him before.

She looked so gorgeous, standing there in her black denim dungarees and white t-shirt with the small splotch of pink paint on the shoulder and with the paint and ink stains on her hands, Colson felt like he almost swallowed his own tongue. She just looked so…soft, so sweet, like some kind of paint-stained Christmas angel.

He was instantly in love with her.

I’m so screwed…

Being in regular contact with Belle was doing nothing to stop Colson feeling like he was doomed – because if their first meeting had been difficult, with Colson feeling like he was tripping over his words every time he spoke to her (although thankfully she seemed not to have notices his sudden incompetence when it came to speech), then the second was basically excruciating.

The thing was, Belle was nice.

Genuinely, altruistically, nice.

Unlike Brendan, who sneered at Colson every time he spoke, or Willow and Darren who were still a bit jumpy around him, Belle always took time to not just say hello when he showed up, but actually ask how his day had been and then listen when he responded - however flippant his responses were.

She laughed at his jokes, and shut Darren up when Colson saw a bit of scenery design so blatantly stupid he had to suggest it be changed - because even if he was going to be part of this fiasco, he wasn’t going to have his name associated with anything so dumb as the fake graffiti Brendan had drawn on the plans.

Modern take on the Christmas Nativity scene or not, there was no need for that bullshit.

Colson hadn’t really expected anyone to take his side, even when he explained why he didn’t like it, but then Belle had nodded and said: “That’s a fair point - what would you suggest we do instead?”

“Like, speak to someone who maybe knows how to do that graffiti shit?” Colson asked.

“I’m sure you have a whole list of degenerate friends to recommend - ” Brendan sneered, but Belle cut him off:

“Great idea, Colson. I know exactly who to ask.”

On the day of their third meeting, Belle walked into the room five minutes later than Colson, with a familiar face trailing after her.

Dom was a kind-of friend of Colson’s in the same way he was a kind-of friend with everyone in this school; he just had one of those personalities. He went to the same parties as Colson and his friends, wrote stories that had him in good standing with the English Lit kids, and apparently spent a lot of his art classes working next to Belle.

He also was well known for creating various pieces of artwork all over any walls he got get to without being seen. His fingers were constantly stained with spray paint.

Colson was a little bit surprised to see him, but still happy to chat while the others were distracted: “Hey man, I didn’t know you got involved with this shit.”

“I don’t, normally. Mr. Greene hates me.” Dom laughed loudly - and drawing a furious expression out of Greene: “But Belle’s sound, and she asked me to ‘consult’, so here I am.”

Colson shouldn’t be surprised that other people thought Belle was a good person - or ‘sound’ as Dom put it - and, when he thought about it, he wasn’t.

He just surprised at how in love he was with her after just two meetings.

I’m so unbelievably screwed…

After a week of planning sessions, Belle took Colson to the art cupboard to help her gather supplies for painting the scenery Willow and Cameron were currently drawing out back on the stage of the school theatre.

He wasn’t much use; standing outside with a big cardboard box in his arms while Belle actually found everything they had been sent out to go and get, but Belle didn’t seem to mind all that much…

“I’m just so glad I don’t have to lug it all back by myself, or with Darren.” she confided in him while putting some pots of brightly coloured paint in the box he was holding: “Don’t tell him I said it, but you’ve got a lot more muscles than he does.”

Colson knew she was only being friendly…but that didn’t stop him from winking at her: “Thanks, I worked hard for them.”

“And they’re very nice, too.” Belle laughed, clearly taking his response as a joke…but Colson didn’t mind her missing him flirting with her.

He’d seen her looking at his arms.

She hadn’t just been teasing.

Colson wasn’t the only one

On opening night, Colson was hanging out backstage, leaning against a wall and waiting for his cue to help move the scenery about on stage. They had to keep it down, as to not be heard over ‘Marine’ and ‘Joey’ dramatically bemoaning that there was no room at the inn – in rhyming couplets (Colson was seriously glad he hadn’t been put with the kids writing the script for this punishment, he might have actually punched someone), but it was still…alright.

Brendan was still a dick, obviously, but Willow had warmed up enough to offer him some sour patch kids from the bag she, Ellie, Belle, and Cameron were sharing (which was more than she’d offered Brendan - which Colson was taking as a major win), and Belle was leaning against the wall next to him, dressed in a pair of black slacks and a black button-down shirt like the rest of them, with her chocolate-coloured hair smoothed into a sleek twist, and her skin free of paint.

Honestly, Colson kind of missed the paint stains…but he had to admit he wasn’t ungrateful to be seeing the smokey eyeshadow and deep red lipstick she’d put on for when they went out on stage to take their bow after the play was over.

After a month of spending anywhere between one and three hours a day with her, Colson could safely say he’d never wanted anyone more than he wanted Belle.

She was…indescribable. Literally; he didn’t have all the words to describe her properly, and Colson prided himself on being eloquent. He adored everything about her: from the fact she was constantly sketching in a notebook just as he always had scraps of paper to write down anything he thought might sound good in a song, the way she was quick to laugh and even quicker to smile, and the fact that she was always willing to give someone a chance, no matter how disdainful they were when she met them.

Yeah, he was talking about himself.

Belle had been nice to him, even when he didn’t deserve it. Even when, to make sure everyone knew he was no coward, he’d acted like a dick.

Well, Colson still wasn’t a coward…so tonight, after they’d all taken their bow and shit, he was going to ask Belle if she wanted to go out with him at some point over the Christmas break. Just the thought was terrifying, but if she noticed anything, she was kind enough not to mention it as they waited around backstage, or as they moved scenery as required, or when they went out and took their bow with the script writers, the kid who’d done the lighting and sound effects, the kids who’d make the costumes.

She just…carried on making normal conversation, and didn’t seem to mind when Colson’s responses were a little halting and disjointed. She didn’t even say anything when they were heading out of the back of the auditorium after most of the audience had left, and Colson was trailing after her, feeling a little like a lost puppy…

He felt like an idiot, so when she paused just before she was about to say goodbye, Colson blurted out:

“Hey, Belle, I know we probably won’t be seeing each other much now my detention in theatre club is over, since if I stick around I might get kicked out for finally punching Brendan like he deserves, but I was wondering if…maybe you wanted to go out over winter break? Like, on a date?”

Belle looked surprised for a few seconds, and Colson’s heart dropped…but then she grinned, fishing a pen out of her pocket and scrawling her number on the back of his hand, before leaning up to press her lips against his cheek: “I’d love to. Text me to work something out?”

“I’d love to…” Colson echoed, feeling a little dazed from the kiss…but still overjoyed.

Belle laughed gently, before ducking out when someone called for her.

Colson waited a few seconds in the room, probably smiling like an idiot, before heading out too.

Slim and Rook were waiting for him just outside the doors, the grins on the faces confirming that they had heard everything Colson and Belle had said, with Slim greeting Colson with a congratulatory grin: “So, bro, how do we sign up next year? I’m thinking I need a way to find me a hot girl…”

#The Trees' Christmas 2020 Writing Collection #The Trees Writes #Machine Gun Kelly imagine #Machine Gun Kelly fanfic #Machine Gun Kelly fan fic #Machine Gun Kelly fan fiction #MGK imagine #MGK fanfic #MGK fan fic #MGK fan fiction #Colson Baker imagine #Colson Baker fanfic #colson baker fan fic #Colson Baker fan fiction

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onewfantaesy · 3 years

Text

Crime Baby AU

Taemin feels his heart beating rapidly against his chest as he sits in the same car across the same man Saturday night, en route to a dinner Taemin can’t wrap his mind around. He’s wearing a green dress shirt he stole from Kibum, and he managed to sneak away from the dorm on time without getting caught. His tongue feels like sandpaper in his mouth, afraid to say anything, afraid to do anything, afraid that one wrong move will be the end of him.

Instead, the entire drive is spent with the man telling him about his half-siblings: two older sisters and an older brother. All much older than him, between eighteen and twenty-two years older than him, he can’t believe it. Makes him panic, by he tries very, very hard to suppress it, push it down, swallow the terror that rises in his throat. His entire body goes cold as he listens to the man tell him how his half-siblings are all part of the family business, how they’re excited to meet their little brother. How his step-mother is excited to meet him.

Taemin feels like he’s going to puke.

“She’s my third wife,” he tells Taemin. “It’s a shame your mother and I never - well, it’s a shame she stayed with that husband of hers.”

There’s a lift in his voice, like he thinks it’s so funny, like it humors him. There’s a smirk playing on his lips, a glint in his eyes when Taemin looks up.

It makes Taemin’s head spin, he forgets how to breathe for a while, he feels like he’s going to pass out. This isn’t happening. This isn’t real. Taemin doesn’t even know this man’s name, but he’s claiming to be his father and joking about his mother’s death.

It’s all a blur, the entire car trip, and suddenly Taemin is being led into a penthouse with a heavy hand on his shoulder.

Why hasn’t he told his dad about what’s been going on? Or his brother? Or the police? Why is he so willing to walk into the lion’s den where men standing at the door has guns at their hips and sour looks on their faces and this is his mother’s murderer, why hasn’t he told anyone?

Because this man is terrifying. Because Taemin is sure that if he wanted it, he’d have had Taemin and his entire family killed off in the blink of an eye. He’d spoken in the car about how he supposedly loved Taemin’s mother at one point, but he had no problem getting rid of her.

Taemin thinks everyone in this room looks like something out of a movie. It’s all designer clothes and expensive jewelry and swirling wine glasses, all overlooking the nightlife of Seoul.

They’re a crime family. It’s the only way to describe it, it’s their entire aura. Taemin feels so inadequate, standing there in a shirt that doesn’t fit quite right and generic black pants and not-quite dress shoes. He tried his best, he really did, but he didn’t know what to actually expect.

He’s given a glass of red wine and encouraged to drink it even though he insists he’s too young. He listens to everyone in the room talk about The Family Business. He tries not to throw up the moment he takes a bite of the dinner placed in front of him. Nothing makes sense and his entire body feels ice cold and the wine is making his head fuzzy.

He’s sitting at the table, staring at the dessert sitting in front of him, quiet after answering several invasive questions about idol life and idol training and idol schedules. They’re talking about business now, pharmaceuticals or something, Taemin can’t quite keep up. But his head is spinning and he’s exhausted and he’s so so terrified of everyone in the room.

“Why did you kill my mom?”

He doesn’t quite recognize his own voice, the way it shakes, the way it sounds so hollow and horrified. Everything goes silent. No cutlery clattering, no chatting, no glasses clinking, nothing. He doesn’t want to move his gaze from his refilled glass of wine, but he does manage to lock his eyes with the man sitting at the head of the table. The man doesn’t look angry, but his lips thin out, and he swirls his wine around slowly, deliberately, making everyone wait for answer.

“Because she hid you from me,” he says, his voice low and quiet. “Because no one takes what’s mine.”

Taemin tries to hide the way his chest heaves, the way he can’t catch his breath, moves his head to stare at the untouched plate in front of him.

“If you’re going to kill me too,” Taemin says, his voice shaking, “please just do it already.”

He expect to hear a gunshot or feel a knife to his neck or hands ready to twist his head or something. He doesn’t expect the laughter. The way the man seems almost entertained by him.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he says. “You’ve been - amusing. And you intrigue me. And having someone inside the entertainment industry is a possibility I never quite considered. I think you’ll prove to be very useful to me.”

Taemin doesn’t know what that means, aside from the fact that he’ll make it back to the dorm in one piece by the end of the night. He’s given a cell phone, told to never use it unless it’s to contact someone in the family, told that the man will be in contact with him again soon.

Except he stays for what feels like an eternity, the wine going straight to his head. He’s exhausted and tired and they end up in a fancy sitting room, Taemin squished between one of his half-sisters and the arm of the couch, unable to keep up with the conversation, his eyes blinking slowly. It’s well past midnight and he’s so emotionally and physically drained, and even though his brain is screaming for him to stay awake and alert, he can’t help but slump over the arm of the couch, his eyes closing entirely.

He falls asleep. He doesn’t know how he got back to the dorm, but he wakes up at four in the morning with a start, under the covers of his bed and wearing his pajamas. The others are all asleep. Nothing seems out of the ordinary.

Except the new cell phone underneath his pillow. It only has one message on it, from a contact named Father.

Sleep well. You’ll hear from me soon.

Taemin doesn’t know if the urge to puke is from the message or from his first ever hangover, but either way, he stumbles into the bathroom and kneels above the toilet. He falls back asleep curled up on the bathmat.

#taemin #shinee #crime baby au

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queenofspades20 · 4 years

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Bloodbath & Beyond 2/3

Synopsis: Loki is the original vampire. He has grown bored with the women he’s been with over the centuries. That all changes one day when he takes a second look at Y/N, the owner of a bar. Inspired by the song Bloodbath & Beyond by Ice Nine Kills.

Loki x reader

Word count: 1.5K

Warnings: Some fluff, slight angst

Decided to make this a 3 chapter story. Ended on a bit of a cliffhanger. I think I know where I’m going with this story but I might change my mind. We’ll see what happens.

CHAPTER 2 – The Date

Y/N struggled to figure out what to wear for her date with Loki. Because it was a casual date, she didn’t want to overdress. After much deliberation, she settled on some skinny jeans, booties, and a light sweater. She made her way to the bar a few minutes behind schedule. When she walked in, she saw Loki sitting at a stool at the far end of the bar. As she neared his seat, his face lit up in a smile.

“I was beginning to think you might not show up,” he said as Y/N slid onto the stool next to him.

“It’s a few minutes. No need to be dramatic.” Y/N made eye contact with the bartender and signaled for her usual.

Loki huffed. “I’m not dramatic.”

“Sure. Whatever you say,” she said with a laugh.

Loki found himself drawn to her smile and vowed to make her smile more. As the bartender set two glasses of bourbon in front of them, Loki leaned forward. With his lips near her ear, he whispered, “you look very beautiful tonight.”

Y/N smiled at Loki. “You look quite handsome yourself.”

Loki sat back on the stool. He felt an urge to pull Y/N into his arms, but knew that it would be considered too forward of him. He settled for resting his hand on the back of her stool. Y/N leaned into his touch slightly.

“So, tell me Loki. You never did answer my question last night. What is it you are looking for from me?” Y/N said with a lift of her eyebrow. She took a sip of her bourbon.

“I want to get to know you. I like your directness. I think you are quite beautiful. I find myself in a position I have not been in for a very long time, if ever.”

“What position?”

“Being interested in more than a quick evening. I want to know everything about you.”

Y/N looked thoughtful as she finished her drink. “Fair enough. So, wanting to know everything is kind of broad. Is there something specific you’d like to know first?”

“How did you end up with this bar?”

“I spent some years traveling, working at odd bars around the country. I like the industry and I wanted to spend time in different areas to see what makes a successful bar. I knew from around 13 years told that I wanted a place like this. I was so eager that I even came up with a sort-of business plan of what I wanted.”

“Is this place like you designed?”

“Nope. It’s better. At 13, I wanted a place that was more nightclub than bar. But I found of the places I worked in, the dive bars were the best. People seem to like having a chill place to go for a drink, but they can dress up and dance if they want too. I designed this place to feel like the best parts of a dive bar and swanky club.”

“You did a wonderful job. I have to say, in all my travels, I have never found a place quite like this. It’s probably why I come here so often.”

Y/N smiled. “I’m glad my design makes sense to at least one person. I saved up as much as I could. I had an insane number of roommates for years. I’m happy I’m at the point where I can live on my own and have this place. For awhile, I was living in my office.”

“That’d dedication.”

“Well, I mean, a pullout couch was all I needed for a bed and I have a full bathroom in the breakroom. You never know what will happen during a shift and there were times where I wished I could shower at work to get spilled beer off me, so it just worked out for my design. It wasn’t much of a hardship. This place is pretty great.”

Loki finished his drink. He stood up and held his hand out. “Would you like to go for our walk?”

Y/N placed her hand in Loki’s. His hand, while not freezing, was definitely on the cooler side. “I would love to.”

As they walked outside, they decided to head in the direction of a local park that was a few blocks away. The park was open at night to allow for stargazers. There was some light but there were plenty of spots to look up at the stars without trouble. They walked hand in hand, just chatting about whatever topic came to mind. They found a spot and sat down in the grass.

“I’ve always liked this park,” Y/N said, looking up at the sky. “It’s nice to come here during breaks early in the night.”

“You don’t come here late?”

“I’m a female. Of course I don’t. Nothing good ever happens after 2am.”

“Nothing? I can think of a few things,” Loki said with a leer.

Y/N turned and stared at him with her eyebrow raised. “Seriously? We were having a good time.”

Loki chuckled. “I was curious to see how you would react.” He nudged her shoulder with his. “I do not wish to make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry if I did.”

“We’re good, but no dirty talk until after the first date is over and we decide if we want to see each other again.”

“Well, I already know I would love to see you again. I have not felt this connected to someone in a very long time.”

Y/N smiled. “Well, I would love to see you again as well.” Y/N took Loki’s hand in hers. “Maybe you’ll explain to me why your hands are always so cold.”

Loki coughed to loosen the knot he felt grow in his chest. “You caught me, I’m a vampire.”

Y/N laughed. “You don’t have to tell me if it makes you uncomfortable.”

Loki stayed silent for a few moments. Y/N worried that she made a mistake. “I’m sorry if I touched on a sore spot. You really don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I do want to. I want you to know everything about me, but I’m also worried you won’t want anything to do with me if you know the truth.”

Y/N linked her arm through Loki’s and moved herself closer to him. She rested her chin on his shoulder. “Between owning a bar and working in some of the most shady places known to man, I’m not easily scared away. I want you to be honest with me.”

Loki looked into her eyes and made a decision. He smiled showing his teeth. His fangs were clearly visible. “I am a vampire. I was turned in the 1600s in Norway. I have a brother, Thor.”

“Were you named after the Norwegian gods or were the Norwegian gods named after you? I literally know nothing about Norway or its religious history, so genuinely curious.”

Loki stared incredulously at Y/N. “Are you not scared of me? I reveal I’m a vampire and you ask how I got my name?”

“Well, I figure if you were going to hurt me, you would’ve done it by now. Though I’ll admit, I really am confused as to why you are interested in me and curious as to what you want from me.”

“You are different from any woman I’ve ever met. I truly enjoy your company. I meant it when I said I feel a connection to you. You’re smart, beautiful, and you have the sharpest wit. What I want from you is a relationship.”

“Can I think about it? I mean, even though we’ve known each other for a while, it wasn’t really in any meaningful way until tonight. And you being a vampire is a lot to take in.”

“Of course. I do not wish to pressure you, I just ask that you don’t tell anyone of my true nature.”

“Yeah, cause people would believe me anyways,” Y/N deadpanned. “No, I will not tell people. It’s not my information to tell and I don’t need people thinking I’m crazy.”

“Thank you, pet.”

Loki stood up and reached his hand out to Y/N. “May I walk you back to the bar or to your home?”

Y/N reached out and took ahold of his hand. He helped her and she brushed off the back of her pants. “Thanks. We can go back to my home. I mean, you already know where I live, so it’s not like it’s going to do any harm for you to walk me home.”

Y/N and Loki walked in silence. As they reached her door, Y/N turned to him. “Give me three days. I’ll meet you at my bar at 10pm and give you my decision. I know we only had one date and that’s not usually much, but I think it’s enough for me to figure out what I want.”

“I think that’s more than fair. I shall await your decision in three days’ time.” Loki took ahold of Y/N’s hand and pulled it towards his lips. He gently brushed his mouth against her knuckles.

Y/N felt her face heat up. She definitely felt an attraction to him and she would normally jump at the chance to date someone like him. However, the whole vampire thing definitely gave her pause. “Goodnight, Loki. I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Goodnight, my pet.” Loki walked away, fearful that tonight was the last night he would get to be in her company.

#loki x reader #vampire!loki x reader #vampire!Loki

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the-wiresmarvelau · 3 years

Text

T.H.E. W.I.R.E.S.

Peter and his Friends are allowed to design the compound and couldn’t help but riddle it with secret tunels and hallways. While Peter installs said hallways he makes some new acquaintences who he has to help and gets help from.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2 - chapter 4

Chapter 3: secrets

The rest of the night was spent pacing about the compound.

Peter couldn’t stand even the thought of standing still but he knew that he was too wound up to be much good on patrol.

Instead, he took to walking up and down the corridors; until it literally drew him up the wall, how unproductive he.

Then he began distributing all the small things like pillows and decorations to all the Rooms he had roughly finished by then. Up to this point he didn’t have the nerve to do so much walking but right now it was exactly what he needed.

When he was done with the normal rooms, he did the same for the small spaces in THE WIRES he had built in for hiding or just chilling out.

The AI they wanted to install in there was almost finished and the young genius was eager to have him here.

They had decided on a male AI to even it out. His Name would be Manuel; since he was a manual for THE WIRES.

Ned loved this pun and they both were proud of their creation.

Peter tried to go through everything they had yet to code in his head in a desperate attempt to not think about Loki.

Yes, he wanted to save him and yes it had to be as fast as possible but the god had also said that it would take at least a day or two until he could contact his mother and right this moment the hero’s thoughts were too scattered to think of a solution.

As he went to bed, he was still more than a little distraught and didn’t think he would be able to so much as close an eye.

To his surprise, he drifted off fairly soon.

But it really couldn’t be called sleep as he was half conscious for most of the time and every time, he fell asleep properly, mere minutes passed until he was shaken awake again by sharp pains littering his back or threading through his mouth and lips.

Or he saw the god cowering in a cell, or being dragged out of it by his hair to be executed or to be whipped and beaten, again and again.

After a few hours spent half awake half dreaming up nightmares, he decided to get up.

It was of no use to torture himself also. There was enough pain already in this world.

Numb and slightly drowsy from tiredness he dragged himself to his bathroom.

While he showered, he tried to go through his options.

SHIELD was in ruins, therefore in no condition to house the god. Plus, they had been the ones banning him from ever coming back to earth in the first place.

They were out.

The government was similarly unprepared for this. They had neither the knowledge nor the resources to build a suitable housing and they would probably have to inform the public of what was going on, practically hanging a neon sign over the trickster’s head for Odin to find.

Mr. Stark was a whole other deal. He could build a safe facility and he wouldn’t even think about telling the media or government.

But as Loki had already mentioned. The billionaire wouldn’t hear him out in the first place.

He would berate the boy for talking to the Asgardian and threaten the god to leave them alone and to not play any tricks.

He wouldn’t see that just because someone was good at lying, didn’t mean they couldn’t also tell the truth.

And Peter knew that the New York incident offered enough opportunity for mayor grudges on his mentor’s side.

As Tony and him had grown closer both of them had opened up to each other.

The Inventor had told him about his childhood in Captain Americas shadow and the light of press cameras.

He had opened up about his time in Afghanistan, about Obadiah and Ultron and about what happened on the helicarrier and during the Chitauri invasion. Much of it during long nights, riddled with nightmares and panic attacks.

In return, the teenager had told him about uncle Ben, his guilt in his death and his sensory issues that came with his powers.

He told him about how the Vulture had found out his identity and how terrified he was when he almost drowned because of that guy.

They of course didn’t tell each other everything.

Everything Peter knew about his mentor’s childhood was pieced together from what he was told of the man’s nightmares and contextless rants.

Peter still didn’t know how Rhodes had become Tony’s friend and if Peter hadn’t seen the demolished suit, he wouldn’t even know half the extent of what went down in Siberia.

He still had no idea what exactly happened.

But that was okay. Tony was allowed to have secrets; besides, he was not the only one keeping them.

The teen had many himself.

He had never told Mr. Stark about Flash and Skip*. Or about the building, dropped on him.

Or that it was him, who he saved at the Stark Expo.

Or the meeting with DareDevil.

It was hard for him to talk after a nightmare. And other times he didn’t know how to bring stuff like this up with his father figure - because that’s what Tony had become for him at this point - even though he wanted the other to know.

Maybe that’s why he had made it a habit to look through old security footage now and again.

He wanted someone else to find what he couldn’t talk about, so he searched for hints of similar wishes and events in others.

During one of those searches he had come across the security footage of the day of the alien invasion as well as Loki’s arrival on Midgard (he didn’t want to know how and why Tony had gotten these from SHIELD) and with that, of Loki.

On that footage, something had been weird about his appearance, but back then he hadn’t really been able to name what it was, so he had let it slide pretty quickly.

After all, he was an alien.

But now, that he had seen how the god had presented himself, while he altered his looks to, what Peter assumed, was himself in a healthy condition; He was pretty sure he hadn’t been well back then either.

His pale skin had clung to his skull, the eyes sunken in and rimmed with red all around.

Keeping that in the back of his mind he decided that it would be best to keep the god somewhere close, so he could be protected.

And what was closer and safer than the very compound he currently resided in?

It was literally made to keep a hoard of super powered people safe.

There still was the part about Tony not hearing Loki out of course. But he was sure that helping the god was the right thing to do, he had to at least try and convince Tony to let Loki move in.

Unless.. he just wouldn’t know he was there.

Unsure about how good of an idea it actually was, he stepped out of the shower, went over to his closet and started to get dressed.

He needed to talk to Ned.

It was out of the question that his best friend would tell on Loki or him. He was the only person who knew everything about the superhero. And he trusted him with his life.

Together they would figure it out, though they had to find a way to get rid of KAREN.

Her Protocols would probably force her to relay all information about Peter and Loki to Mr Stark and that simply wouldn’t do.

Only problem: KAREN was still installed on his StarkWatch, hearing everything around him and simply taking it off would be a sure way to arouse suspicion, as he never took it off, save for when he showered.

Looking down to his wrist he cursed himself for how responsible he was. He had already put on his watch, first thing the moment he had towelled himself down.

He sat down for a moment to think about what he could do now.

The only reason to take another shower would be an extensive workout, after that he could pretend to have forgotten to put his watch back on again.

Peter really wasn’t in the mood for training but he needed to talk to his friend without the AI.

“KAREN, could you invite Ned over please? I wanna work on Manuel today” he asked while getting out some sports clothes and changed into them, a little annoyed with himself that he hadn’t thought about what to do before pulling on his normal wear.

‘I will text him at eight thirty, unless it is important enough to wake him up now?’ It was reassuring to hear her usual sass.

“Yeah, sure.” He answered, “it’s not urgent or anything. Please also ask Happy to pick him up and make a workout plan for the meantime. I’ve slumped on training a bit lately.”

‘If you say so’

It felt like it took an unreasonably long time for his friend to arrive.

When he finally got the text from Ned, telling him he was only five minutes away, Peter sent a text back that they would meet up in the lab and went to his room to take a shower.

He deliberately didn’t take any clothes into the bathroom and took extra-long, by the time he had to get out, he acted like he was in a great hurry, leaving KAREN behind in his bathroom.

No AI had been installed in the compound itself yet. The update for FRIDAY hadn’t been Mr. Stark’s highest priority, since the accords were much more time sensitive.

Grinning, the teenager made his way over to his personal lab. The only reason KAREN wasn’t installed there was that he had set his mind on having Manuel in there as ‘Peter Parker’s’ AI while KAREN remained with Spiderman.

Ned was already at the entrance to his lab, vibrating with anticipation.

That came to no one’s surprise, the boy was even more excitable than Peter and that was no small feat.

Additionally: this compound was massive, and he had helped design it and the fricking Avengers would live here. That was worth getting excited for.

“Ouuuuuh! This looks already soo cool. Here and there is a bare wall butit’sallcommingtogether. I can’t believe I’m actually here” The almost forgot to breathe with all the eagerness to share his mood with his best friend.

It had been some time since they last met in person. Both of them had been fairly busy and the compound wasn’t exactly close by.

But even trough is excitement did the boy pick up on the worry in his host’s eyes. The faint bags under them didn’t make it better and now that he paid attention to it, he also saw the nervous twitch in his hands and the lack of pep in his friend’s strides.

Something wasn’t quite right; and he was gonna find out what it was.

“Good to see you too Ned.” Came his greeting when Peter had come close enough to be heard while speaking at a normal volume.

Ever since the two had become accustomed to his super hearing, Ned started talking the moment he could see the other, knowing he would have no trouble understanding him.

The image of an energetic puppy was nearly impossible to shake.

A faint smile stole its way onto his lips at that thought.

The first since he had noticed the illusion in the roof last night.

Just like that the smile was wiped off his face.

“Oh no.” the shorter of the two exclaimed. “I know that look. That look means bad news and nothing good ever follows bad news”

This statement was met with a dry chuckle. “Isn’t that kind of the point of bad news?”

“Maybe;” He replied. “Still doesn’t make it any better. But you tell me, you’re the one bringing the news after all.”

“Don’t shot the messenger though. That would help none of us.”

While they bantered, they had entered the lab and spread out a bit. Ned sitting down on an almost empty table; Peter walking around, pulling up holograms manually and occasionally putting away some scrap parts or tools.

“You know I couldn’t shoot you even if I wanted to. You psychic!” his best friend taunted

His answer was a theatrical gasp paired with the super teen laying a hand over his chest in the way his mentor always did. Bringing a grin to the other boy’s face.

“Enough joking around.” He announced, getting back to serious. “Whatever it is, Stark junior. I can take it.”

Clearly, he tried to keep the mood as light-hearted as he could, which didn’t go unappreciated.

Still. Peter couldn’t help his tone becoming a little sombre.

“I met someone yesterday.” He said “On patrol.”

He had settled down a little bit; leaning back onto a table, which automatically changed its hight to fit his needs. His Hands fidgeted with the hem of his science pun t-shirt.

Patiently; his friend waited.

“It was.. It wasn’t DareDevil. Instead... I met Loki.”

Only now did he take his eyes from the floor to look at his friend.

Quite clearly, he was in shock. Staring at the other, trying to figure out what to think about this revelation.

“Before you freak out: It was only an illusion, he is still in the dungeons of Asgard.” The super-teen tried to calm his friend down. Cringing at the thought of Loki’s location.

“oh. Yeah… That’s good right? He won’t come back?”

His concern was understandable for Peter. But he was also convinced, that the god meant no harm and was truly in need of help.

In that regard, was the sentiment of his friend not the most promising. Though he knew him well and was convinced that Ned would be on his side once he knew what they did to the god.

“That’s the thing.. It isn’t.”

A quizzical look from Ned.

“He sent his projection here to ask for help, which in itself speaks volume considering ho prideful he seemed to be; but that’s not the point. In Asgard, they treat him bad! Like I whip your back bloody and sew your mouth shut bad.”

He gave his friend a few seconds to process the new information; all the while staring him in the eyes to make sure he knew that this wasn’t a crude prank or something.

“We need to help him..”

“Wait what now!?” Ned squeaked. “They did WHAT!??!”

“Exactly.” The hero answered. “He needs our help, Ned. We can so it’s our responsibility. The plan so far is that he contacts his mother and she brings him here to earth; Our only job is to find a place where he can stay…

That’s why I needed to talk to you because this has to be thought out and I need your second opinion.”

Peter waited for his friend’s response.

After a few seconds of silence his friend looked up.

“Okay… what’s your idea?”

It took a great load off his mind to know he wasn’t alone with his opinion. If Ned was agreeing this easily it meant that he at least wasn’t completely delusional in his opinion on helping the trickster out.

“You remember that storage room slash hideout thingy at the exit to the lake? If I were to hide the entrance to the bunker behind a closet, nobody would find it; Even if we show them the entrance or have to get something from there.”

Originally, they had planned to build in there a kind of vacation home. Until they realised that the compound itself was more than enough novelty, a vacation spot was not needed.

Instead, they had made it into a small bunker in case the compound was taken over and they needed a spot to regroup while waiting on evacuation.

“Wait. Just so we’re on the same page. You really try to keep this a secret from Stark?” the shorter tried to clarify.

“He would never believe Loki. We can’t tell anyone before he hasn’t completely healed. Then we will decide how to break it to the others” The brunette got a nod in response.

“The only problem is to figure out where I will get some additional furniture from.” He added.

“And how to get his food to him.” Ned commented.

They spend some time trying to figure everything out, until they settled on ordering everything they already had and could use for Loki’s room to be brought to the compound a second time

To the millionaire, they send a message, explaining that they had managed to break one of the desks while messing around and used the occasion to reorder some stuff which had either the wrong measurements or they had forgotten to order them in the first place.

Tony replied within a few minutes saying it was no problem.

That problem out of the way, Peter began to bring the selected stuff to the hidden room, while his friend began to build a small service robot, capable of navigating THE WIRES and transporting things.

Not even two hours later, the room was done and they both turned to developing some protocols for Manuel, making sure he would be able to keep the secret.

Unfortunately, Ned had to go before they were able to finish the AI.

His mother needed him to babysit his sister but they would meet again the next day and probably be ready to install Manuel at the end of the day.

*A character from the comics. If you don’t know him, you’ll see. Don’t want to spoil a potential surprise for you.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2 - chapter 4

#peter parker #fanfic #ned leeds #chapters #chapter 3

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quickspinner · 4 years

Text

Meant to Be or Not to Be

I don’t even really know what to call this since I’ve gone kind of completely off the rails as far as the holiday prompts go, but anyway, this is Part 3 of the story that began in 18. Elves and continued in 19. Naughty and Nice. I’m planning a part 4, but it’s not even started yet, so it may take a couple more days.

ETA: Part 4 is here!

Juleka sat waiting, flipping through one of the fashion magazines sitting on the table, and reflected on how annoying it was to have to come back to work when she’d barely had a real vacation at all. At least she got to work with one of her favorite clients today, and not one of the annoying designers.

“Hi Juleka, come on in,” Marinette smiled, beckoning her towards the back. “It’s good to see you again,” she added as they walked back to the designer’s space.

“Same. How was your vacation?” Juleka asked, slipping out of her clothes and letting Marinette help her into the gown that needed fitting.

“It was good. I did some volunteer work and then I spent Christmas at my parents. How was yours?”

“Miserable,” Juleka grumbled, standing patiently as Marinette fastened up the dress. “We all got sick, it was horrible. If it weren’t for my brother and my mom I think we might have lost our will to live entirely.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Marinette said, with genuine sympathy rather than polite disinterest—one of the reasons she was one of Juleka’s favorite clients. She was a genuinely a nice person who was interested in everybody. “I’m glad you’re doing better.” Marinette shook her head as she helped Juleka up on the pedestal and knelt to start pinning the hem. “That must be going around. S-someone I met at my volunteer job said that his family was sick too.” Her shoulders hunched slightly and Juleka’s eyebrows rose.

“Ooh, would that be someone interesting?” she teased. “Come on, Marinette, give me the details, or I’ll just be bored to tears standing here like a doll.”

Juleka could see the back of Marinette’s neck turn red in the mirror.

“I met a guy,” the designer admitted. “He was really cool and sweet and we kind of hit it off but...I don’t know, we had dinner and we talked a lot, and then—and then he kissed me and I k-kissed him back, and it was...it was really good but it was kind of a lot, and it just felt like things were moving really fast all of a sudden, and when he asked for my number, I kind of panicked. He was really nice about it, he didn’t push me and he even told me where he’d be the next day if I changed my mind.”

Juleka raised her eyebrows. “Did you?”

“Yeah,” Marinette sighed. “I mean, I did like him and I thought, you know, maybe we could talk about it and slow things down a little. But, something must have happened or he must have changed his mind, or maybe I just missed him…he wasn’t there when I went.” She sighed, and tried to smile up at Juleka. “So I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”

“I’m sorry,” Juleka said sympathetically, and then she chuckled. “Guess that’s going around too, my brother said the same thing about a girl he met last week. He’s been pretty depressed about it actually. Maybe I should set you guys up,” she teased.

Marinette laughed. “I don’t know, what’s he like?”

Juleka smiled fondly. “You can’t tell him I said any of this, but he’s the sweetest, most honest and genuine person I know. He’s compassionate and caring, he’s always supported me even when mom was skeptical about some things, and he may look like a punk but he’s a softy underneath. You should see him with my daughter Angie, they’re adorable.”

Marinette froze and Juleka frowned. “Are you okay? Did you stick yourself?”

“I’m fine,” Marinette said, but she didn’t sound fine. She sounded kind of panicky, actually. “Um, what did you say your wife’s name was?”

Juleka blinked. “It’s Rose.”

Marinette looked up at her, white-faced. “You’re Jules,” she whispered.

Juleka frowned at the look on her face. “That’s what Luka calls me, yeah,” she said, crouching down very carefully to put her hands on Marinette’s shoulders. “Marinette, you’re not breathing.”

“You’re Jules and your wife is Rose and you have a daughter named Angie and your brother is Luka that I kissed and ditched and—“

“Breathe, Marinette,” Juleka said sharply. “Breathe with me. In...out…”

It took a few minutes to get Marinette to calm down. Juleka stood back up slowly and watched Marinette go back to mechanically pinning.

“So, let me get this straight,” Juleka said after a moment. “You’re the sexy elf my idiot brother hit on while she was working, invited to his gig, kissed out of the blue, and gave his favorite hoodie to?”

“It was his favorite?” Marinette gasped, looking up. “He said it was old!”

“It is old,” Juleka snorted. “He’s had it forever.” She looked down at Marinette and smirked. “Anything you want me to tell him?”

Marinette sighed, shoulders slumping. “I don’t know, Juleka, after I was so rude to him—“

“He didn’t think you were rude at all, in fact he’s been kicking himself for scaring you off. Rose and I gave him hell, too, because he knows better, jumping a girl like that.”

“But the park,” Marinette wailed, hands to her forehead.

“They hadn’t even been there half an hour when Angie had a bad fall. Luka panicked and he spent the whole day with her in the emergency room.”

“Oh, no, is she okay?” Marinette gasped.

“She’s fine,” Juleka assured her. “It looked bad, but the actual damage was pretty minor. Just some bruises and a cut near her scalp that was bleeding like crazy, but no stitches and no concussion.”

“Poor Luka, he must have been scared,” Marinette sighed. “I could see how much he loved her.”

Juleka was silent a moment, deliberating what she should say, and knowing Luka would rather she said nothing at all. Sorry, bro, I gotta check. “He’s actually her biological father,” she said quietly, earning another startled look for Marinette. “I mean, Luka being Luka he’d probably love her just as much if she wasn’t his, but...When we decided we wanted children, Rose really wanted to have the baby herself but neither of us were comfortable with the idea of a stranger, so Luka agreed to be our donor.” And Juleka liked Marinette but she wasn’t about to try and patch things up between her and Luka if Marinette couldn’t handle their slightly unorthodox little family.

There was a moment of silence as the two women looked at each other, one shocked and the other measuring.

“That’s...that’s so beautiful, Juleka,” Marinette whispered, eyes gone glassy. “You guys must love each other so much.”

Juleka relaxed. “Yeah. We do. All of us. We’re pretty tight.” She hesitated. “I’m not trying to pressure you or make excuses for him, but he really likes you, Marinette. Luka’s an insightful person and good at reading people, which makes him a great friend. At the same time, it means he can be kind of intense, especially when he‘s got a crush. I promise, he’s normally got excellent boundaries and he would have backed off the instant you asked him too.”

“I know, I knew that,” Marinette groaned, folding her arms on the pedestal Juleka was standing on and dropping her head onto them. “I’m so lame, why couldn’t I just talk to him. He was so nice and when he kissed me—I mean it was sudden but it’s not like I pushed him away, I kissed him back, and...it was all really good...it wasn’t until he went to get his things and I had time to think that I started to freak out, and then when he asked for my number I couldn’t get anything out. After we talked for almost two hours and we kissed and I...oh. Juleka, I’m so lame.” She covered her head with her arms and moaned. “He probably doesn’t want to talk to me anyway. He probably thinks I led him on, but I didn’t mean too—”

“Hey,” Juleka said, nudging Marinette gently with her foot. “Stop that. Nobody blames you, not even Luka. Like I said, he’s good at reading people, he knows he came on too strong and you were overwhelmed. If you’d rather never see him again, that’s fine. I don’t have to tell him I know you. But if you’re really regretting the way things went down, I know he’d love to see you again.”

“You really think so?” Marinette asked, raising her head.

“Guaranteed.” Juleka smiled. “You might have to be the one to make all the moves for a while though. He’ll be scared of screwing up again.”

“I didn’t mind it,” Marinette sighed.

Juleka rolled her eyes. “Yes, you did. Even if you enjoyed the attention, he clearly made you uncomfortable. I promise, though, he’s not normally like that and he’s not the type of guy to be offended if you tell him no or ask him to slow down.” She caught herself. “But again, I’m not trying to pressure you either, and now I’m the one making you uncomfortable at work. Sorry. Why don’t we just finish this up before we both get in trouble, and you can think about it? You don’t even have to decide today if you don’t want, you know how to get in touch with me if you need to.”

Marinette smiled up weakly at her, picking up the hem again. “Thanks, Juleka.”

Juleka mulled the whole confrontation over on the metro home. She glanced at the time as she went up the stairs to her apartment. Rose was still at work and Angie should be napping, so hopefully she could catch Luka alone.

Sure enough, Luka was propped up against the arm of the couch, snoring lightly. Juleka rolled her eyes, walked up to him, pulled the throw pillow out from under his head, and whacked him in the face with it.

“Ow,” Luka complained, rubbing his face. “The hell was that for?”

“You’re an idiot,” Juleka deadpanned. “And you owe me.”

“I just spent two weeks taking care of your kid, fixing you soup, and holding your hair,” he said grumpily as he sat up. “How can I possibly owe you?”

She chucked his hoodie at his chest. Luka caught it and held it up, staring at it for a moment, and then looked at Juleka, confused.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

“You owe me,” Juleka repeated, smirking as she held up a pink envelope between two fingers. His name was scrawled across the front in very feminine handwriting. “You owe me so big.”

Luka’s eyes grew round. She held the envelope out to him and let him take it.

He opened it quickly and pulled out the note inside, pink and white with a monogram M on it. He looked up at Juleka. “Marinette?” he whispered. Juleka folded her arms and watched as he opened the note and read it.

“I owe you so big,” he agreed, awed. ”Wow...Jules, how the hell...I mean...” Juleka walked behind the couch toward the kitchen, and he winced away from her hand when she reached for him, but she just patted his head lightly.

“She’s a designer, I’m a model. Do the math, bro. She’s a cool person, but kinda jumpy. Slow the hell down and don’t screw it up this time.”

“Right,” he said absently, still staring at the note—and the phone number written at the bottom.

Part 4!

#quickspins #lukanette #i am lukanette trash i admit it #miraculous ladybug #miraculousladybug #marinette dupain-cheng #juleka couffaine #mlfics #luka couffaine

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