#visage ༻ (business in the front; knife in the back.) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kisslandeds · 5 months

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[̲̅T]here's a stillness in the atmosphere of the auditorium, and a heavy languor that pervades the circumambient air. It's a rather lethargic Tuesday morning, a rather laid-back day for Bella, who'd been somnolent since she'd woken up. Despite her indolence, it was necessary she tackle the day. She had several errands to run after rehearsal, and she was more than nervous for them. Regardless, Bella is an early bird, and like usual, she's at work before anyone else.

Bella figured, as she ambulates across the stage of the regal opera house, that she might as well use this time to rehearse her lines again. She stands in the middle of the vast stage, in a field of light reflections. Being right in the heart of the auditorium helped her visualize an audience, perhaps serving as an incentive for her.

Before her were thousands of seats, vermillion in colour and sewn from the finest textiles. There were levels of seats, balconies of them, just waiting to be filled with people and ovation. Alabaster pillars and delicate marble pillars complete the architecture of the house, perhaps derived from works of the Renaissance era. The lambency from the balcony lights shoot diamonds from the gloss of the stage floor, it felt like a garden of crystals just right beneath her.

With a deep breath, Bella closed her eyes. Opening them again, she is greeted with visions of thousands of people filling up the empty seats in front of her, an animated audience clapping and cheering. Such a sight would never grow old to Bella. This view, after all, paid her bills and gave her a motive to keep acting. She loved it, adored it. Despite being a job, she never got tired of entertainment, she never grew bored of being on stage.

For a moment, the ambient was stentorian during Bella's reverie, palpable, even, before silence catches up with her once more and breaks the unreal utopia before her.

Just before Bella reached for her purse to retrieve her folded script, a bright light flashes in front of her, a luminaire so blinding she instinctively shuts her eyes and covers them with the palm of her hand. The main stage light moves across the stage, and the once still ambience of the auditorium was now completely gone.

Before Bella has a chance to react to the rush of fright that moments before filled her stomach, she notices a figure among the cavernous seats, juxtaposed between them. Gradually, it gets larger, as if moving closer to her. Given the events that had been happening in her life, she had every reason to believe she was in danger. A rather disconcerting emotion overtakes Bella.

"My Belladonna! I knew you'd be here, you're always here at 9:30 AM without fault!" A rather flamboyant masculine voice reverberates across the empty theatre. Just like that, the quiet atmosphere had been cut through with a knife.

"Simon," Bella gets up from the stage, a sigh of relief escaping her glossed lips. "Good morning. You're in a good mood today, aren't you? Why are you in so early? You're not here until 10." She inquires, walking across the stage and watching as Simon, her agent, trots down the stairs at the side of the auditorium to get to the pit. She pretends as if moments before she was completely shaken by his entrance.

"Oh dear," Simon's voice is high in several octaves, and his visage is rather grave. "Today has to be a busy day I tell you! We have to make sure you're on your A-game, baby!"

"You're making me anxious, Simon."

"You ought to be anxious," Simon finally reaches the pit before climbing up the stage as if to intensify what he was about to say. "Bella, those casting directors that watched your rehearsal yesterday were in awe at your work! They want to schedule lunch and talk business!"

"My Gods, Simon," Bella sighs. "You don't think a simple text could've sufficed? You know how much you make me nervous when you look so serious."

Simon gives out a small chuckle, his dark skin wrinkles as he smiles. "I'm sorry, Bella," his eyes twinkle, the gold eyeliner on his eyelid shimmers in the light of the luminescence filling the house. "You know how much your success means to me."

"Yeah, I'm sorry, Simon, I don't mean to get all serious," Belladonna apologizes for being so apprehensive. "Today's a big day for me. I'm finally going to see someone to talk about these weird things going on."

"That's great!" Simon adjusts his scarf. "You let me know how that goes," he clears his throat, "anyway, I'd like you to get ready for rehearsal. Your costar will be here any minute now. Remember, your A-game today, ma'am!"

Quick to brush it off, huh, Belladonna quips to herself. I guess I shouldn't share my business.

With a forced smile, Bella saunters off to get ready for rehearsal.

II.

"Beautiful, beautiful," Simon claps, he is as preppy as a schoolgirl. "Brava, bravissimo! I could shed a tear."

After enduring painful hours of wearing a tight corset and having to act out intense emotions, Bella was to say the least, exhausted. Her visage was glossed with sweat, her stage makeup fading away with the hours of wear. From arriving at the auditorium at 9:30 AM, it was now 3 PM. Despite this, it didn't matter to her. Her role had to be perfect, it was imperative she mastered her character. If that meant staying overnight rereading the same lines over and over again, it was a condition she was willing to endure. Of course, Bella's most critical audience was herself.

"I think I am moved," Simon wipes away doubtful tears from underneath his painted eyes. "Truly, I have never seen another Christine so remarkable!" Simon turns to Bella's male counterpart. "And you! You make a wonderful phantom!"

The play that had demanded so much of Bella's time and energy was the classic, 'The Phantom of the Opera.' To be frank, it was a rather challenging role for Bella, having to act out all these intense emotions from the protagonist she plays in such tight clothing and dry conditions of the stage. Not to mention, she was required to sing, and to project your voice across the massive auditorium was no easy task.

"Don't flatter me," Abel, Bella's male costar chimes. "If you're on stage with such a talented actress, naturally, the energy she exudes would motivate anyone to perfect this role." A big, teeth-y smile spreads across his profile.

"Oh, please," Bella laughs. "Don't sensationalize me."

"Don't be so modest!" Abel exclaims. "Although, that is what makes you so charming."

"Mhm," Simon hums. "Bella, I have to get going to meet with some directors. Please, get some beauty sleep. I need you looking youthful and energetic! You seem gloomy today, and we can't have that," Simon is already at the curtain to the backstage, "Don't forget to rehearse your lines, dear. It's not too long 'till opening night." Just as quick as Simon made his ingress this morning, preceded his egress in the same fashion.

As soon as Simon's presence had left the room, the air was much more desolate and did not seem so cheery. The preponderance of his aura now dissipated, and Abel and Bella are alone. It was already 3 PM and Bella had to get going to run her errands. The day was certainly not over here.

"I gotta get going, too," Bella gives in a breathy chuckle, she was starting to suffocate from how tight her corset was. "I'll see you tomorrow, Abel."

Abel nods and elicits a small smile, giving a small wave goodbye as Bella wastes no time to start heading back to her dressing room. The sound of her antique heels reverberate across the theatre, and before it could be gone, Abel stops Bella from sneaking away behind the curtains with a gentle touch to her arm.

"Hey, Bella," Abel says hesitantly, "before you go . . ." he smiles nervously, as if telling himself to confess something, "would you fancy lunch today?"

Bella turns around upon Abel's survey, observing a shy expression dominating his features. He runs his fingers through his quaffed hair, scratching his neck awaiting Bella's response.

"I'm so sorry, Abel!" she commiserates. "I have something today that I just can't put off. Maybe some other day, though."

"Of course." Abel chuckles nervously. "Have a nice afternoon, Bella." Finally, he waves her goodbye, to which she replicates, and that was that.

III.

After rehearsal, Bella had changed into her evening attire and decided to refresh her makeup. After all, she needed to look as presentable as possible today. Her mascara had drooped after hours of wear, and her under-eyes had begun to crease due to her exhaustion. With an anxious exhale, Bella powders her face, cleaning up her makeup to look as awake and fresh as possible. She runs a nude colour liner under her waterline, opening up her eyes as much as she can.

Bella was no stranger to anxiety. As an actress, living alone, she had many things to worry about. However, besides what a person usually worries about nowadays, she had something weighing on her shoulders that she just couldn't handle anymore. She'd been fatigued the past few days with a melancholy feeling reducing the quality of her life, and now she was finally going to get help.

The World's Only Consulting Detective, huh, Bella thinks to herself as she reapplies a pink blush to the roundness of her cheeks. Will you disappoint me, too? Bella sighs, reminded of the contents of the article she'd read on The London Times, the tabloid in which she'd discovered the office of this detective.

❝ Proficiency with observation, deduction, forensic science, and logical reasoning.

At 221B Baker Street

Approved by the Scotland Yard ❞

It was in Bella's best interest that this detective—Sherlock Holmes, would accept her case. She'd grown tired of rejection from local private investigators, brushing off the details as too 'trivial' or of lesser importance than their other cases. Bella would be referred to the Scotland Yard—and that was the last thing she wanted. She wanted to keep the details as private as possible.

Belladonna takes a profound look at herself, subconsciously deep in thought of what could come of today. Her brown eyes glisten with the bright white light of her vanity bulbs, a lustre glazing her pupils. Absentmindedly, she stares at herself, her conscience lingering with nothing but thoughts of the future.

A rhythmic knock catches Bella's unconscious thought. Bella, shaken up, reverts her glance to the door. That's weird, Bella gets up from her chair, I'm not expecting anyone. Could it be Abel again? Simon?

"I'll be there in a second!" Bella grabs her phone from her purse that'd been hanging from a clothing rack. She checks the time, to which it read 3:55 PM. Damn, it's late.

With a sigh, she places her fingers on the doorknob and cautiously opens the door. The door is barely open, but she can tell there is two strong, broad chests. Curiously, she widens the interstice that separates her and the two men.

The men, standing right before her, were none whom she knew.

The man, on the left, wore a white button-up and a black vest. His posture was relaxed, his hands inside the pockets of his dress pants. The man, on the right of Bella, wore a polished 3-piece. The fabric of his vest was deep navy in colour, his button-up was striped and pristine, and his tie was a refined silk, a deep red. Above it all, was a heavy, sculpted dress coat that hung over his robust shoulders. Peculiarly, an arm seemed to be hiding behind his back, as if concealing something.

Although it was impolite, she was rather compelled by his clothing—she couldn't stop herself from staring, and she hadn't yet seen their faces. What piques Bella's interest specifically is his lapel. Near his navy lapel is a brooch, a brooch of a blue rose with an intense hue. It was a beautiful rose, a rose that seemed so fresh in spite of the dry auditorium air. To Bella's curiosity, both men complimented their habiliment with the same brooch as if to insinuate their affiliation.

From first glance, without even a look at their face, it was very evident how well-dressed these men were. However, it wasn't just their vesture that made their appearance so captivating, but rather their very aura. Something palpable radiating off of them, something so tangible. Consider it a very emanation of their preponderant, puissant presence.

Before Bella could open her mouth to speak, realizing how impertinent she'd exhibited herself, her words are adjourned.

"Good afternoon, madam! How does the day find you?" The man, who she had been studying so intently, finally cuts through the silence. His voice is clear, as smooth as silk.

Finally, Bella looks up. The man she'd scrutinized the longest of both looks at her with a cunning expression, a perfectly fitting frame for his chiseled physiognomy. His eyes resembled that of sapphires. The bright, extravagant luminescence from the dressing room emits precious gems from his eyes. Even with such an alluring pair of eyes, it does not undermine the sheer amount of education expressed in them. Unconsciously, and uncontrollably, Bella is gripped onto his physical.

Though she wants to reply to his greeting, she can't seem to get the words out.

"Have I startled you?" The man's eyes, as blue as the brooch he had clipped on his vest, sink into his apricot skin with a chuckle that leaves his pillowed, pink lips. The man's large palm runs through his perfectly styled hair, wrecking his pristine haircut, yet seamlessly rocking the effortless look. "Or, is it that you find my face captivating?"

"I'm sorry. . ." Bella breaks her reticence. "I didn't mean to come off as rude."

"It's quite alright!" The stranger chuckles once more. "You're quite reserved, aren't you? It's rather charming."

In response, Bella reluctantly laughs. Although this encounter was very strange, there was no unnerving feeling that permeates her. In fact, although she was nervous, she felt comfortable. In other words, she wasn't worried for her well-being.

"In any event," he remarks, "I'm quite thrilled to meet you like this. You are much more beautiful in person, Ms. Demie."

"Thank you." Bella replies.

So they know my name, Bella thinks to herself. Although that would be a reason to be alarmed for someone, it wasn't anything out of the ordinary for Bella. After all, she was an actress. Although she wasn't by any means a superstar, she did star in small films that did well in the city, and she would often get recognized for them.

"I cannot express how lovely you look today. I almost wish I could frame you and look at you everyday." Again, the man expresses his adulation.

"Do you want her framed dead or alive? Whatever it is, I'll make it happen, James." The young man, who has not said a word until now, breaks his silence and makes a rather strange remark as his introduction.

Bella reverts her gaze to the other stranger, and she notes how much younger he looks from his affiliate. His face is slightly fuller, more juvenile, and is framed by a full head of brunette locks. The young man's eyes are a deep brown, almost amber when the light reflects it. Underneath his eyes are heavy-sunken circles, although it fits his demeanour. Propped in between his thin lips is a toothpick. "What do you say, James?"

"Oh, Sebastian," the man clicks his tongue. "You're going to scare away Ms. Demie. It was a metaphor. I meant that she's so pretty that I wish I could have her as a decoration. Like roses on a bedside table."

Although nothing but oddities have been elicited from this conversation, Bella gets a feeling they mean no harm. "Pardon me if this sounds rude," Bella clears her throat, blinking nervously. "Who might you two be?"

"Where are my manners? How rude of me, I apologize." The man on the right extends his unoccupied hand, seeing as though there is one hand behind his back. "My name is James Moriarty."

The two exchange a handshake, and Bella becomes cognizant of his skin, flesh that was rather cold, but soft. His grip on her palm was gentle, contradicting his authoritative demeanour. Her fingers brush against several bulky rings that adorned his fingers, encrusted by what had felt like some rough stone.

"I'm a maths professor. I teach at the University of London." James elaborates.

Never heard of him. Bella blinks in acknowledgment, a wavy smile framing her face.

"This is Sebastian," James refers to his cohort. "Go on, introduce yourself to the lady."

Sebastian clears his throat, picking the toothpick out of his mouth and holding it between his pale fingers before chucking it into his breast pocket. "Sebastian Moran," the man exchanges a rather firm handshake. "Former serviceman."

"I must say, you have excellent work, Ms. Demie," James exclaims, following Sebastian's brief introduction. "Your role of Irene Adler in 'Murder Mystery' was truly unprecedented. Marvellous indeed!"

"You mean that crime drama? I remember you forgot to record it once, and you were so mad that someone ended up dead!" Sebastian laughs in amusement.

Bella assumes what he just said is a joke.

"You were cunning, witty, graceful, and clever. You almost made Irene Adler seem like a knockoff when you, Ms. Demie, were on-screen." James has expressed nothing but reverence to Bella, although it's a kind of flattery that seems genuine, and not cheap or artificial.

"Thank you, Mr. Moriarty. I really enjoyed playing Irene. She was my debut character in TV," she states, "I'm really grateful I was able to play her."

"I can see how!" James exclaims. "As you can see, I'm quite the fan. I'd like to offer you something."

With that, James moves the hand that he had hidden away behind his back during the duration of this interaction, divulging a bouquet of an assortment of bright, blue roses, the same as the one he had on his brooch. They looked so fresh, with beads of dew still on them, as if they had just been picked from a vast field. The roses were the epitome of pulchritudinous, Bella had never seen such a thing even in nature. The colour, it seemed almost unearthly.

"Thank you," Bella accepts the flowers, sauntering deeper into her dressing room and placing them inside of a wide, empty vase on her vanity. "I have to ask. . ." she ponders, "how were you able to get in? The theatre is closed all day, unless you got in at the crack of dawn."

"Why, of course, we've been here since morning. Stayed until your rehearsal ended." James says matter-a-factly.

"That can't be. . ." Bella takes a long pause and recounts the events of her day; she woke up, got to the theatre, where there was not a single soul but herself. Bella could not surmise their claim. Before she can continue her statement, she is lulled.

"You think we're lying?" Sebastian has a smug expression plastered onto his face.

"No, I didn't say that," her gaze trails down to the floor, verifying a lingering thought she had in her head and gleaning to support her corroboration. "It's just that your shoes are wet."

James gives out a chortle, a hearty laugh upon Bella's examination. "It was sunny all morning," he pauses with a smile on his face, "and it's almost like we got caught in the afternoon London rain." James cedes, putting both his hands up in defeat, as if to elucidate that he'd been caught.

"Aren't you observant?" Sebastian quips.

"Oh, I am truly taken by you," James avows, "you have a truly excellent display of observation. It seems you are just as smart as you are beautiful." There's a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

"Truly. It makes me want to bite even more." Sebastian says this with a deep chuckle.

"You want to 'bite'? What?" Bella furrows her arched eyebrow, expressing a look of puzzlement upon acknowledging Sebastian's terse remark. Before Bella can further inquire Sebastian's obscene sense of humour, James adjusts his tie and clears his throat.

"Well, Ms. Demie, I must see you again," he takes a step back into the corridor. "Sooner, rather than later."

The door to the dressing room slams shut in an instant, in such a swift manner that Bella cannot even begin to process what has just happened. The two men are gone, and the presence that emitted off of them left with them, too. The room seemed so much more empty and quiet.

Bella blinks several times in confusion, staring at the white wooden door in front of her. Her eyes squint in thought, her mouth agape. What on Earth just happened?

IV.

After the afternoon rain, a cold front infiltrates the humid air in London. With the cold front came a gentle breeze, a mellow wind that mollified the incongruous events that had transpired during Bella's day. She'd spent the last 20 minutes or so on a leisurely amble to her prioritized errand, and while doing so, mentally delineating the unusual details of her afternoon.

Bella's thoughts linger to her unprecedented interaction with the 2 strangers in her dressing room. She thinks about the beautiful, bright blue roses she had been gifted, and wished she had been able to take them home with her. With those men, specifically the professor, Mr. Moriarty, was an undeniably prepotent endowment.

A huff escapes Bella's glossed lips, her tresses flow through the air. She digs her hands deeper into her beige dress coat, an effort to insulate herself, in spite of her legs being exposed from her skirt. Still, her ribbed stockings provide her with a sense of snugness in the cold. Bella clutches onto her purse, opening it and rummaging through her belongings to verify the address she'd been looking for.

Bella stops in her tracks, remaining stationary and leaning against a railing that separates the walkway from a small lake. She huffs once more, looking down and retrieving a folded paper from her bag. The paper unfolded revealed a ripped piece of a tabloid, the edged rigid and coarse. From inside her bag, she takes a look at the article. She leans against the railing and rereads the contents of it, refreshing her memory. The address is highlighted in a light blue.

221B Baker Street

During Bella's perusing, her sense of smell is pervaded by a faint aroma of herbal tea. She looks up again. Ahead of her was a quaint café, it was rather busy, too. Several antiquated table set-ups lined against the building, having a perfect view of the main road and the lake behind the black railings. It was a quite cute setting to sit down and enjoy a cup of tea.

"Fancy a cup of tea, Ms. Demie?" A virile voice calls out, to Bella's surprise. The voice, as Bella follows it, leads to a table where 3 friendly, besuited young men are sat. It was the second time a stranger had referred to her by her surname.

"How ill-mannered of me," the man in the middle says. "I shouldn't have called you by your name like that." There's a friendly tone reminiscent in his voice. From first glance, it was very apparent how tall this man was, despite being seated. His hair was dark, and his skin pale. The man's companions on either side of him were both blonde with an admirable smile.

"My name is Mycroft," he speaks again. "You're Belladonna Demie." Once more, Bella puts another name to a new face.

"I'm flattered you recognize me, Mycroft."

"How could he not?" The man on his right comments. "To not notice such an exceptional actress would be a crime, especially in broad daylight—where she's most radiant. My name is Arsène Lupin."

"It's nice to meet you, Ms. Demie. I'm Hercule Poirot," the man on the left extremity says with a charming smile and a small wave.

Hercule Poirot. That Belgian detective? I've seen him on the paper before, Bella thinks to herself. If she didn't know about Sherlock Holmes, she probably would've reached out to him to consult about her case. "It's nice to meet you all." Bella exchanges. "Call me Bella. I'll never get used to Ms. Demie. It feels too formal."

"Very well then, Bella," Mycroft presses his lips, analyzing her very character. "Why don't you have a seat? Considering we've introduced ourselves and whatnot."

Considering the men were so welcoming, Bella didn't feel like an imposition. In fact, she felt rather comfortable, not suffocated by flattery. She knew they were good people. Still, she felt she shouldn't waste anymore time. "Oh, I don't know. . . I have to be somewhere soon."

"Oh, I do know you're in a rush," Mycroft says, a sympathetic expression on his visage. "But, I do have some thing for you that you may find useful in this very moment. Chat over cinnamon tea? You like cinnamon, don't you?" Mycroft calls out a waiter and asks for a cinnamon tea.

How utterly strange. How could someone possibly deduce that from first glance, with less than a few sentences exchanged? It was alluring, impressive, even. "Y-yes, I do."

"Take a seat, miss! Enjoy a cup of hot tea in this cold weather. I think your company would be a perfect addition to our afternoon," Hercule adds. "I think we may have some information for you in exchange."

Reluctantly, Bella takes a seat on an unoccupied chair. Just seconds after, her cinnamon tea is placed onto the clothed table, along with a small dish of biscuits and a spoon. Her question, of how on Earth that man could know she liked cinnamon tea still remained unanswered. It all felt like some sort of magic trick.

"Your bag." Mycroft points at Bella's leather bag, which was still open from before. He takes a swig of his black coffee whilst doing so. "You have a pack of cinnamon gum inside. You were wondering how I knew you would like cinnamon tea, didn't you?"

"That's not the only thing we can tell from her bag." Hercule quips.

"Hercule, spare the vagueness on this poor lady. We're eating up her valuable time, aren't we?" Mycroft chastises his friend. "She needs to pay a visit to 221B."

Once more, Mycroft makes a sharp deduction. His sense of perception was keen, exceptionally refined. Bella had only just met these men, yet they read her as if it was a facile task. She expresses the shock she felt when he pinpoints her errand. ". . . How did you know that?"

"When you were in the corner, rummaging through your purse, you seemed to have been trying to figure out your way somewhere. You referred to a paper. Specifically, an article on the London Times. It's a rather peculiar thing for a young woman to be reading," Mycroft explains. "Which is why you didn't take out the paper, but rather, you read it through your bag."

But if I never took out the paper, how could he have known? Like a book, the man is able to read her, with finesse. Bella wondered if he was a dilettante for detective work.

"You're sure you didn't take the paper from your bag out," Mycroft adds. "So, how did I know? Your face tells me that's what you want to ask. Well, for that sliver of a moment you crouched down to sit down, I was able to see you ripped out a small section from the paper. There was a photo of a rather popular case that remained unsolved until recently, and from that I didn't need to look more than that to know you were going to 221B. Not even the address you highlighted."

My Gods. Bella is at a complete loss for words.

"Oh, yeah, I know what case you're talking about," Arsène says. "The french nobility's daughter was getting married, but the groom went missing for quite some time."

"Shirley really went out of his way to solve that one," Hercule sighs. "Quite the shock since nothing piques his interest."

"Bella, you're going to hire Sherlock Holmes." Mycroft ends his spiel.

"There's the end of that soliloquy." Arsène chuckles.

To say Bella was amazed would be diminishing the emotion she felt. For the second time today, she'd been rendered unresponsive. However, this time it was from the sheer shock she felt upon this man's extraordinary faculty for figures. It seemed like she'd been a slave to his search for detail.

"Amazing! You're a brilliant mind, aren't you?!" Bella takes a sip from her tea, expressing her impression.

"You're too kind to Mycroft." Arsène laughs a hearty laugh.

"You mentioned you had something I would find of value." Bella remarks, taking a sip of her tea.

"Oh, yes," Mycroft clears his throat and presses a napkin to his lips to wipe off excess coffee, "hand me your phone."

"My phone?"

"You've got the default maps app, don't you? I just want to show you the way there." Mycroft explains he has no ill intent but to help.

Bella's intuition leads her to believe this man means no harm, and she has no reason to believe he'd do anything with malice from just a look at her phone. If it were anybody else, she'd tread with more caution. She trusts him. Bella hands Mycroft her smartphone. In just a moment, after a few swipes, he hands it back to her.

"Your destination is here." Mycroft points at a blue dot on a digital rendering of the map of London.

"Thank you so much!"

"I suppose you should get going. We've had you here for about 5 minutes, not too much of your time." Mycroft wears a knowing expression, satisfied with himself and the outcome of the brief conversation.

"Shame you can't enjoy some freshly-baked scones!" Arsène refers to the dish of pastries a waiter has just placed onto the table. Though they looked divine, she couldn't possibly waste anymore time.

"Mycroft's right, she doesn't have time to relax," Hercule supposes. "No time for afternoon tea."

"Yeah, it does seem I should get going now," Bella gets up from her chair and pushes it into the table. "It was fun talking to you all. I'm happy I got to know you."

"I hope you won't be disappointed in what you may find in there." Mycroft says this with a sigh, as if he knows something she doesn't.

"Oh! Let me pay for my tea." Bella retrieves her wallet from her purse, before Arsène makes her refrain.

"Let me be a gentleman and pay for it," he smiles, "perhaps a dinner with you too."

"Until next time." Hercule gives a wave goodbye, with a closed-eye, wavy smile. His blonde hair glimmers under the sun, that had now started to set. Upon that observation, Bella realizes how late it had gotten.

"Well, I'm off. Goodbye!" Bella dismisses herself, delighted with the help and conversation she'd gotten from the friendly trio. With that, she uses her phone to guide her to her destination.

It's about a quarter after 5 PM. The sun was setting, and the clouds had become to reflect the light from the horizon. Light orange hues emitted from the sky, a beautiful luminosity as a consequence for the afternoon rain. Although the day may have been nigh to an end, Bella was not yet completed with herself, despite her atypical day having her busier than usual.

Bella, with the help of the digital map Mycroft had set up, was able to reach her destination without getting lost in the vast array of streets in London. However, she had found herself loitering in front of the London residence. She'd come so far that she wasn't going to stop herself from going in, but she was still trepidatious, the lingering feeling of her trip being in vain made her feel tense. Intrusive thoughts of rejection worried her.

Don't be disappointed. Anything can happen. Bella responds to the mental thought of her case being shunned.

Bella exhales, trying to muster up courage to knock while observing the building in front of her. It was three stories, with a flat right beneath it. The residence was connected to several others, however, the architecture suggesting everything directly up and straight belonged to the detective. Embellishing every window, stacked on every story, was a container of flowers, a small garden of green. On the floor above the flat, was a balcony, composed of an intricate black railing and more flowers. The domicile seemed sophisticated, dapper in appearance.

It's now or never, Bella. Composing herself, Bella saunters over to the ingress of the building. The door is black, a glossy paint, she can almost make out her distorted reflection. The frame is rectangular, rounded at the crown. Reluctantly, Bella reaches for the copper door-knocker, her attempt to refrain from being abient. Her warm fingers touch the cool surface of the door-knocker, but before she could knock, she hears an extrinsic speaker.

"Oh, no! Did Sherlock keep you waiting, dear?" A mature, coarse voice calls out from behind Bella.

Bella turns around in response, inquisitive in the source. It's an elderly woman, a convivial expression on her aged mien. "I don't know what I'm going to do with him," she sighs, "how long have you been waiting for, dear?"

"Oh, actually, I was just about to knock." Bella felt discomfit rushing in her, her cheeks going red when she realized the old dame had likely seen her dallying and assumed that she'd been forced to wait. "Do you live here?"

"'Do I live here?' Aha! I'm the landlord, dear," the elderly woman explains, approaching the door with a ring of keys. "I live next door."

"I see," Bella enunciates. "Well, I'm here to talk with Mr. Holmes. I'd like to hire him, you see. I'm hoping he's interested in my case."

"In that case," the elderly woman smiles, her wrinkled skin does not cut her juvenile emotion short. "Welcome to 221B. The boys call me Mrs. Hudson."

"The boys?"

Mrs. Hudson has unlocked the door and pushed it open. "The boys. Sherlock and Watson, dear," she explains with a discreet tone. "Come in."

Watson, Bella thinks to herself, I think I read about him in the paper. He's Mr. Holmes' assistant.

Warily and with circumspect, Bella steps into the ingress of the hearth. Posthaste the door slamming shut, the ambience that carried over Bella outside pendulates to a warmer one. The scent of the breadth is woody, redolent to that of cedar. The interior of the edifice presents itself with an antiquated yet pleasant style, the walnut mahogany walls daubed with an intricate, vermillion wallpaper. The vestibule was spacious, a welcoming entrance. Before the front door was a staircase, the corridor that fared the voices that were upstairs to the first floor.

"Lestrade, you idiot! How could you possibly have this overlooked? My Gods, the Scotland Yard is useless! What do you even do?! Use up valuable taxpayer dollars?!"

A commotion from upstairs penetrates through the observation that had kept Bella so absorbed. She looks up at the stairs, to which Mrs. Hudson gives a quiet laugh, and says, "I hope you won't be disappointed by what you find today." That was the second time she'd heard those exact words today.

"Watson, tell Sherlock to calm down. 'Else I'll assign someone else on this case."

"For the last time, Lestrade, I'm not Sherlock's mother, nor am I his father. Not even the Queen herself could strip him of the arrogance he has."

"You wouldn't even think about having someone else on this case, George. The Scotland Yard couldn't be less oblivious to any crime networks going on in the cesspool of London. How could you even contemplate replacing me?! To have another idiot overlook such a crucial part of the autopsy?"

Several voices reverberate in the domicile, voices Bella can't put a face to. Suddenly, an anxious emotion pervades Bella, and she turns to shoot Mrs. Hudson a glance. "It seems they're a little busy. I can come back another time."

"Nonsense. You see, they're always chatting up a storm like this." Mrs. Hudson clicks her tongue, her voice is brimmed with unconcern. "Boys! Stop arguing! You've got a guest."

Following Mrs. Hudson's yell, Bella can't help but feel like an imposition. She fidgets with the backings of her earrings, a futile attempt to control the desperation that fills her. With a deep breath, she relaxes herself. Mrs. Hudson motions her up the stairs, and Bella acquiesces.

In the loft, the entire atmosphere is switched. It was a complete juxtaposition from downstairs, instead of being warm and welcoming, was contemporaneous to chaos and disarray. The lounge room, or rather, the office, had several items strewn about the space, disorder defining the character. In the middle of the study was a hearth, a dark mahogany fireplace with a dimly lit fire. On either side of the fireplace, in the center, were two leather chairs. A window, barely covered by a curtain, released a stream of sunlight into the room and reflected onto the intricate red patterns of the wallpaper, hints of gold adorning it. The office was mounded with books, literary works on the shelves of the walls.

Ambulating about the room were two men, whilst one sat at an escritoire. However, once Bella's presence had been acknowledged, their quarrel had came to a stop. Knowingly, and not wanting to exhibit herself as brusque, Bella takes the opportunity to introduce herself.

"Hello," she waves a small wave. "My name is Belladonna Demie."

Mrs. Hudson, not saying a word until now, dismisses herself. "I'll make you all some tea while you talk things out."

The man on the right of Bella wastes no time to extend his hand. His face, is carved wonderfully and to perfection. His skin is pale but golden, and his hair is flaxen and with a fitting coiffure. He's suited in a dark brown suit, except without the coat. The man's air lingered with tranquility and cordiality. "It's nice to meet you, Belladonna," he smiles, his white dentition framing his visage, he looked leonine. "I'm John Watson. Feel free to call me John."

Bella and John exchange a brief handshake, their eyes meeting and acknowledging the establishment of a standard familiarity. His eyes are amber, resembling that of a jasper. His physique is strong, bigger than the rest of the men in the room, however, it doesn't look vulgar, it looks fitting to his masculinity. It was impossible to deny his endowment in appearance.

"It's a pleasure to meet you John. Just call me Bella, I much prefer it," she says, "I believe I read that you're the assistant, aren't you?"

"The pleasure is all mine!" a small chuckles escapes his lips. "Well, I do suppose I've become an assistant. The papers write me out to be that way. I'm actually a doctor. I work as a physician at the local clinic."

"I see. So you're a Dr. Watson."

"May I take your coat? It's quite warm here," John offers, immediately approaching from behind Bella. Her beige coat is slipped off her back, and she is suddenly reduced to her brown skirt and cream cardigan. Her modest jewelry is exposed, a breeze of warmth immediately grazing against her chest.

Following John's statement, the man next to him takes a few steps forward, extending his hand to Bella. "George Lestrade."

George's appearance is more aged than that of John's. His jaw had a grey stubble, with an indentation in his chin. Grey hairs had already begun to sprout on his head of hair. He wore a navy trench coat with the buttons lazily put on. In the centre of his chest was a brown lanyard, which read George Lestrade with a photo of him.

"He may not look like it," John says, "but he's an inspector at the Scotland Yard."

"Could've left out the part where you said 'he may not look like it.'"

"It's nice to meet you, Inspector." Bella makes out the man who had not said a word through this interaction, he sat on the escritoire with a brooding demeanour. He wore a white button-up with a black vest, his tie was a plaid navy blue. His visage is clouded with the darkness of the corner, exhibiting himself as arcane. Through the process of elimination, she supposed that was Sherlock Holmes.

"By the way. . ." the inspector scratches the back of his head, "have we met before?"

John, immediately bears a look of disapproval on his visage. ". . .It's only been 5 minutes, George. Anyone can see where you're trying to take this."

"No, I mean it! It wasn't me trying to come on to her, I really have seen you somewhere, Bella!"

Bella, about to mention the fact she's a rather common face on local London TV, is interrupted by John's realization that he had seen her somewhere, too. ". . .You're right. Now that you mention it, I've seen her somewhere, too."

Before Bella could explain that she's an actress, the words are taken out of her mouth and thrown onto the ground.

"You've come to hire me? I'm quite busy today, so if it's less than trivial, I'll send you off," the man on the escritoire whom had not said a word until this very moment breaks his reticence with a brusque remark. Suddenly, the welcoming environment is cut through with a knife, replaced with a tension that was palpable. He gets up, a quiet creak following, striding on over to Bella. "You must know, I value my time."

Feeling reduced to an infant, Bella parts her lips to speak. Again, like clockwork, the words are taken out of her mouth and thrown onto the floor.

"Let us review," the man paces around the room, his hands inside his vest pocket attempting to look for something. He produces a cigarette from the aperture, setting fire to the butt of it and placing it on his lips. "You're an actress. You've been acting since a very young age. You're preparing for a lead role at this moment, a role you're nervous for."

"Maybe that's where I've seen her. . .!" Inspector Lestrade comes to a realization.

Well, anyone who watches TV can know I'm an actress. Bella does not express any amusement to his observation.

"You're Turkish by birth. You came to London in pursuit of work," he takes a puff of his cigarette, "you have Egyptian roots. You're religious."

Maybe that's a little harder for him to know, Bella thinks to herself. There was really no way to research her background, so it was more than a startle to Bella he'd been able to deduce such a thing. Before she thinks anything else, she listens attentively. Suddenly, she'd encountered an interest in someone recounting the mundane details of her life.

"You just had cinnamon tea. Specifically from the Crescent Café a few blocks from here." Sherlock attests.

"Wait, Sherlock, I think I know where I've seen her!" John exclaims, "She was in—"

"You're with 3 strangers. You're used to being around strangers, yet you're nervous now. You're hiding it, yet the smile on your face looks natural and not timid," he continues, "you don't like exhibiting yourself as shy, or nervous."

"You breathe from your abdomen. It's why your chest doesn't rise or fall, you were taught that since you were a child."

"It's a surprise to see you here, Bella, looking for Sherlock of all people," John wears a smile on his face, realizing finally where he'd seen her. "You must know, Sherlock is a fan of 'Murd—"

"You're modest," he continues, interrupting John again. "You don't wear expensive clothing, for the most part, and your jewelry is from your family," he blows out another puff of grey smoke and the room is daubed with an effluvium of menthol. "The symbols on your necklace," he insinuates to the pendant that fell between Bella's bosom, "it's an Ankh—a customary Egyptian religious symbol. It's a rather peculiar pendant for a woman in London to be wearing. It's gold, like your other jewelry, not because of wealth, but because of culture."

It seemed Sherlock was explaining the observations that led him to his deductions. With keen interest, Bella listens, making no interruptions. "Your other necklace has a blue eye as a pendant. That's the Nazar Boncuk, an amulet known to 'thwart' the bad energies from people by absorbing them. Although it doesn't come from Turkey, and it can be traced back to Ancient Italy and some parts of Asia, it is Turkey's most popular souvenir and tradition. It's not a big pendant, nor one that's very visible, but from the light reflecting it, I can notice the blue gemstones forming the pattern of a blue eye, despite the primarily gold component."

So that's how he knew I was Turkish, instinctively, Bella places her fingers on her pendant and fondles it as she continues to hearken to Sherlock's immaculate faculties of observation.

"Your bag is half-open, and there's a script visible. It's wrinkled, worn out, probably because you've been reading it every opportunity you can because it's a big role and you're careful not to mess up on any lines. You're nervous about it, that's why so many pages have the ears folded throughout the distribution of the pages. On the spine of the script, is the title of the play. You're playing the heroine of 'The Phantom of the Opera.'"

The detective pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and chucks the decay and presses on it with his foot. He puts down the cigarette on an ashtray atop the fireplace. "You stopped by the Crescent Café and had cinnamon tea. The Crescent Café happens to be the only place in London to serve Ceylon cinnamon, a strain of cinnamon grown in the fields of Sri Lanka. You carried that aroma with you."

It became very clear, that despite the imperious and haughty that lingers in his voice, there was an unfettered extraordinary mental power he was endowed with. With just the power of sense, visual and olfactory, he is able to retell the characteristics of someone and their exact steps. It was magnificent, unprecedented.

"I suppose I did make the right choice coming here." Bella says nothing more.

"You just now realized that?" Sherlock scoffs.

"What Sherlock meant to say is, 'I'm glad you think so.'" John corrects his companion, adding humanity to his statement.

Mrs. Hudson comes into the room carefully holding a tray with an arrangement of dishes. In the center is a porcelain teacup, releasing a pleasant aroma of herbal tea. "Have a seat, Bella," she insists, setting the tray down on a coffee table in the middle of the two chairs. "Come here." Bella sits on one of the leather seats, following Mrs. Hudson.

"You too, Sherlock," the woman says, "I made peppermint tea. Your favourite." The landlady talks to Sherlock with a low tone, displaying her respect and familiarity. It almost seemed kin-like, like a grandmother talking to her grandson. Shortly, she leaves the room.

With no protest, Sherlock seats himself onto the leather chair in front of Bella, on his side of his back faced the pouring sunlight. He reaches for a small teacup, treating himself to the peppermint contents inside the teapot. For a moment, he's silent, his eyes closed taking a sip of his tea. Not ambulating across the room anymore, finally stationary, Bella is able to get a better look at his appearance.

Sherlock's shoulders are sinewy, his build robust and fitting to his tall frame. His physiognomy was chiseled, a masculinity that contrasts to the softness of his appearance. His cheekbones were carved, the highest point complimented with the light that met it. His eyes, were a light, iced cerulean. It was a timid blue, an iciness that characterized himself. His lips, now wet with tea, were a soft pink that were pillowed, a keyhole effect. His coiffure was black, a deep obsidian hue, combed untidily, yet he wore it nicely. He was an attractive man, his prepossessing figure was yet another endowment to his many brilliant gifts.

"I've shown you the extent of what I can do," he gloats, "I would rather not waste anymore time and would like you to discuss the matter of today's visit. What is the matter of today’s visit?”

"Of course," Bella clears her throat and reaches for her purse. She retrieves a plethora of white envelopes, passing them to the detective before her.

Sherlock shuffles through the documents, before passing them back to John who'd been standing behind his chair. John studies the papers, a wary expression on his visage.

"'Give up the play or there will be the most dire consequences.'" John says, "'Give up the role, or you will regret it.' Christ, how have you been going to rehearsal with this? I'd be looking after my back. All the notes have the same handwriting, so naturally it's from the same person."

"They were always in my dressing room," she explains, "but that's not all."

"It's not?" John asks.

"A little while ago, one of my dear friends passed away," she continues, "it was ruled an accidental death by the autopsy. She'd died in a car accident. Her name was Flora."

"I'm so sorry to hear that."

"It's quite alright," she says. "The point I'm getting to is that she was also performing a play sponsored by the same people this play is being sponsored by."

"And, you think those things may be related?" Sherlock inquires.

"To be honest," she sighs, "I have no idea. It's been a lingering thought of mine ever since I've gotten these notes. Not to mention, it doesn't help the fact that I have no idea who the main patron for this play is. Anyway, Flora was also playing a main role. She never mentioned any threatening notes to me, but I was thinking it might've been because she was scared to."

"These people funding this event, do they have a company?" John asks.

"They're anonymous. My agent, Simon, got me this role because they whoever funded this play looked for me specifically," she sighs, "frankly, Dr. Watson, I feel that my life has been overtaken by strange, intangible little details that could very well lead to nothing. But, I do know one thing, which is that I am being threatened over this role that I refuse to jeopardize."

"I'm afraid I've got my hands full." Sherlock clears his throat.

"Come on, Sherlock, you're so bored you've started to shoot bullets at the walls." John reclaims, glancing over at the wall behind him which had been slightly dilapidated with holes remnant of gunpowder. He closes his eyes and frowns. "Much to the dismay of Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock says nothing in response. He settles himself deeper into his chair, taking another sip of the peppermint tea that had now gotten lukewarm.

Bella bites at the inside of her lip, accepting the defeat the end of the day had come to. It seemed the prescient conversation with Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft had foreshadowed the events occurred. They mentioned Sherlock was critical of his cases, and almost nothing piqued his interest. Although Bella was disappointed, she was not surprised. Sherlock was implacable. That's that.

"Well, I'm disappointed you won't take my case," she explains, clutching at her purse, "but the reason I came here was because I'm not giving up this role no matter what, and I hoped I could get this issue resolved. But, even still, I'm not going to let these notes stop me. I will ensure this production is a success, and I refuse to put my role in jeopardy."

Sherlock sighs an exasperated sigh, his gaze finally meeting Bella's.

"In any event," Bella gets up, "I'll be on my way out."

"No, please sit," John protests. "Sherlock, are you sure about this?"

Sherlock says nothing.

"Bella, how about talking with the Scotland Yard about this?" Inspector Lestrade commiserates.

". . .I want to keep this as quiet as possible." Bella explains why she'd sought after private detectives rather than the police department.

"You think someone on the inside may be responsible." John exclaims.

". . .Maybe. I also don't know who it is I'm dealing with. I also don't want to publicize my bestfriend's death, or sensationalize any of this." Bella explains.

"That's more of a reason to talk to Scotland Yard."

Sherlock, saying nothing more, gets up, retrieving his coat from the coat stand. "I'll need you to show me where you hold your rehearsals."

"Congratulations, Bella," John exclaims. "You finally got to him."

"We must start where the incident occurred," Sherlock says, "and looking for clues in the dressing room is indispensable."

"My Gods, thank you so much, Mr. Holmes!" Bella exclaims, filled with alacrity. "Really, thank you!"

"Don't misunderstand," he quips, "I haven't accepted your case yet."

"I know," Bella says, with a smile. "I'm just really happy you agreed to take a look and offer me your time."

Sherlock, almost fighting off a smile, wears an indiscernible expression on his visage. "Very well then. I'm sure the answer to this matter will take no longer than 1 hour to be uncovered."

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐍𝐃

//A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:

i'm extremely glad i was able to wrap this first chapter up. this really is just the beginning, and a way for me to establish some of the main characters. yes i know i took off jack stillman but i just don’t like him😣 maybe i’ll put him back idk 🥹

if this is well received, i will be more than happy to continue my writing :) i just hope this reaches the small, niche audience i want it to reach.

anyways

thank you for reading!

blessed be.

#guard me sherlock #james moriarty #sherlock #john h watson

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moonshrouded · 3 years

Text

character tags.

✦ ╱ canon div. — ❛ hell’s empty，the devils are all here.

✦ ╱ hc. — ❛ we’re all going to die，i intend to deserve it.

✦ ╱ aes. — ❛ not yet corpses，still we rot.

✦ ╱ musings. — ❛ a heart full of midnight thoughts.

✦ ╱ ic. — ❛ i’m meaner than my demons.

✦ ╱ character study. — ❛ hollow is our chest.

✦ ╱ visage. — ❛ darkness lives in me.

✦ ╱ tartarus. — ❛ the gang goes to hell.

✦ ╱ behavior. — ❛ business in the front，knife in the back.

✦ ╱ meta. — ❛ destruction is a form of creation.

✦ ╱ text. — ❛ not interested in being polite or heterosexual.

✦ ╱ crack. — ❛ in memory of when i gave a shit.

✦ ╱ solomon. — ❛ tba.

✦ ╱ risa. — ❛ tba.

#✦ ╱ canon div. — ❛ hell’s empty，the devils are all here.#✦ ╱ hc. — ❛ we’re all going to die，i intend to deserve it.#✦ ╱ aes. — ❛ not yet corpses，still we rot.#✦ ╱ musings. — ❛ a heart full of midnight thoughts.#✦ ╱ ic. — ❛ i’m meaner than my demons.#✦ ╱ character study. — ❛ hollow is our chest.#✦ ╱ visage. — ❛ darkness lives in me.#✦ ╱ tartarus. — ❛ the gang goes to hell.#✦ ╱ behavior. — ❛ business in the front，knife in the back.#✦ ╱ meta. — ❛ destruction is a form of creation.#✦ ╱ text. — ❛ not interested in being polite or heterosexual.#✦ ╱ crack. — ❛ in memory of when i gave a shit.

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inhuman-obey-me · 3 years

Note

Hey hey hey! Congratulations for the 6⃣6⃣6⃣!!!!!

Mind if I ask for a prompt? It's just that

🕯️ - "Well hello, Death. I’ve been waiting for you."

Hit me really hard and practically heard Solomon saying it

If I can't, you don't want, doesn't spark inspiration or tumblr eats this ask it's still the same : I thank you, congratulate you and wish you a good night, hydrate and stay safe

Ahhh, THANK YOU for this combination, I was actually hoping someone would send it in!! Always down for some immortal sorcerer angst ❤️

"Well hello, Death. I’ve been waiting for you." - Solomon

"Well hello, Death. I've been waiting for you."

The warm glow of a burning candle lit the sorcerer's pale face in the dark cave, a wry grin across his features.

"How many times have I told you to stay out of my home," they hissed back instantly, the cold pallor of their visage spilling chill air into the dim room. "If you cannot die, you have no business here! Get away from me, you wretch!"

"Oh come now! Is that anyway to talk to an old friend?" he answered, smile never leaving his face. In the light of the reaper's candle, he looked gaunt, almost skeletal, as if reflecting his true age, an existence far beyond what his bones should have endured. "I thought you might be lonely after so long alone again. Besides, I have a present for you."

From within his cloak, he produced a thin, worn-looking dagger -- the same one he had taken from here just a few months ago.

"A present?! Thief! You are no friend of mine, you wicked sorcerer!" the ghastly spectre wailed back. "How many artifacts have you taken from me now? And what are you here for this time? Just to taunt me? Just to sit in front of your candle that burns but never melts?"

A cloudy expression passed over Solomon's face for just a moment, before he resumed his cheerful tone. "Actually, I was hoping you could help me with that."

Suspiciously, the reaper stepped closer and snatched the knife from him. "What do you mean?"

"Well...don't get me wrong, I still have a lot to live for. There's still a lot I want to accomplish. But...lately, you know, I've been thinking. Humans...aren't supposed to live forever. And just because I do, doesn't mean the ones around me will. And...it'll be lonely for them, to grow old and die one day while I stay the same. I was thinking....that it might be nice to grow old with them. To...expire with them."

Hideous laughter barked from his companion. "This again? You think if I could extinguish you, I would not have done it by now? You ask this every few hundred years, and you expect the answer to have changed?" Angrily, they picked up his candle from in front of him and threw it at his face, but it rolled right off him without even a moment's flicker, both candle and sorcerer unaffected in the slightest. "You are immortal, fool. Your candle has frozen. You will never grow old. And you will never die. No matter what."

#obey me #obey me!#obey me shall we date #obey me swd #obey me solomon #obey me angst #obey me fics #obey me drabble #666 follower celebration #writings #drabble #mod chaos in the devildom #obey me solomon x mc #maybe only solomon x mc if you squint but i swear its supposed to be

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sly-merlin · 4 years

Text

killing me - 5 | n.y

pairing : law student!reader + yuta

genre : angst , mafia au/ arranged marriage au , smut

warnings of this chapter : slight mention of weapons , cursing

summary : “life’s never fair y/n. realise it as soon as you can . it is the only secret for living a regretless life.”

“ curiousity got the cat hitched”

taglist :: (not tagging the old ones because they have read it already bt if u want , lemme know! ) @yiyi4657 @sorrywonwoo @sillywinnergladiator @suhweo @exfolitae @minejungwoo

{reposting because of the stupid tag problem}

K.M masterlist

k.m 4 k.m 6

tuesday

“How’s everything doyoung?” taeyong’s deep voice echoed through the spacious basement.

“I have double checked, just in case. CCTV’s are handled, there would be no interference, like always, but -”

“But!” taeyong raised his brow at doyoung.

“You can’t deny that yuta is best with knives so why not just let him join as well?” he verbalized his opinion. Despite only doyoung speaking, it was beyond doubt that every single men in the room agreed with him. Yuta paired well with his knives and pistols, proving to be an asset for the already well packed, trained squad.

“It sounds more like you chickening out than your concern for the assignment do!” taeyong replied, giving doyoung a smug smile. Doyoug would rather fix affairs outside the business than being involved directly but taeyong loved teasing him for choosing the more sheltered option.

“When have I ever done that!” doyoung’s high pitched voice earned him few laughs from the room. “But you know-

“I’m not going to fall for your sweet tongue. Save it for others!” doyoung sighed loudly, focusing again on his holster.

“I CAN’T FIND THE SUPPLEMENTARIES” mark shouted from other side of the room addressing no one in particular. Taeil grimaced at his voice, running to join him near the cabinets he was rummaging through since forever.

“What are you missing? And don’t shout next time!”

“Aah sorry hyung. I want some magazines. Last time I fell short of them.”

Taeil nodded briefly and went on helping him in finding bullets for his personalized gun.

Everyone was getting ready for some action at the centre of gangnam. Some protection fee disagreements had led to a clash with some other faction, needing immediate action. A strike at the centre of well-protected city was never easy but that was the reason that mafia in seoul was mostly underground and well hidden. People knew what was taking place in their surroundings but no one was aware of the sources from which it materialized.

“Am I not invited?” all the heads turned towards the rather small metal door. Yuta was standing on the stairs, his body leaning forwards, supported by his hand on the upper frame of door.

“No. you are not.” taeyong said while moving his head playfully, flinging a knife back and forth to show yuta what he was missing. thrill

“Oh come on, you guys can’t go without me. They are called dagger’s troop for a reason.” he descended the stairs, making a dramatic slow entry to the room. “And to handle them, you need me. The dagger king himself!” his exaggerated hand gestures were now irritating taeyong.

“It’s a no again. And besides we have our switchblade prince so we’ll hardly need you.”

“Ten has never handled them before and you need someone experienced to wrap up quickly. He is short-

“Short and skilled who taught you to use knives in the first place, yuta. Don’t make baseless arguments. If you want to do something, then go, sit with the techies. Maybe you’ll learn some tech from min or hyuck or you can join renjun and xiaojun in the med facility. Absorb their energy and acquire some patience! You need it more than they do actually”. Everyone was now focusing on their heated convo.

“Taeyong, I agreed to your proposal that is clearly not in any way beneficial to me, so now, you have to restore me here. I’m needed and you know that!”

“You are needed indeed. But that doesn’t mean we can’t do it without you. You are useful until you are not dangerous. This is underground yuta. An apology won’t make up for something that you’d lose forever and you understand what I’m saying. So please move out.” taeyong’s stern voice echoed in the room again. Yuta wanted to argue back but the words got stuck in his throat. His hands went through his already messy hair whilst he eyed a chair with infuriation.

Glancing one last time at taeyong with his hooded eyes, he hit the chair with extreme force, leaving the room immediately. Ascending the stairs he felt too many emotions at the moment. He has never felt like an inconvenience to his own people before, his most slips ups just going unnoticed by everyone. Others, rather than being seen as a trouble appreciated the expertise he acquired here. Until specific someone decided to barge in!

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

Wednesday

“We should eat here more often, I’m so glad the café was full!” yugyeom and yeong nodded their heads in agreement. The three of you were sitting in the garden next to the cafeteria, eating your sandwiches. The sky was filled with grey clouds, the cool breeze brushing your skin and shirts flowing in the wind’s direction. The weather was happy and so were you all.

“Give that scarf a break y/n. it’s been two days. This combination is an eye sore!” yeong told you off earning an eye roll from you.

“It’s the 3rd day!” gyeom corrected her.

“Yaaah! Who bought you the sandwich!” you huffed at him. As you expected, yeong pinched her nose, showing how disappointed she was in you.

“Y/n. you need to start the exercise again.”

“Noooo” you whined at her, wriggling your whole body. you’d rather choose staying in the dorms than doing her fashion exercises!

“Before leaving the room in the morning, you will send me a picture of your outfit. I don’t want to do this like last time so please don’t argue. Thank you and now please remove this fashion blunder” she said everything in a honey dripping voice, reminding you of the last time when you disobeyed her same order.

Yugyeom chuckled with the sandwich still in his mouth before responding to her demand. “Leave it yeongie. The scarf is hiding her sinful deeds. I’d prefer you see her with it, not otherwise. Maybe wonwoo gave a standing ovation worthy performance this t—-aahhh! Don’t hit me doofus.” But you kept attacking him with your bag, yeong was watching you both with a dissatisfied look but it was nothing she wasn’t used to already. He tried to dodge your actions but you were tougher especially with the weapon in your hand. He was sprawled on the ground now, laughs turned into recurrent coughs. “Sorry y/n. y/n

“y/n” you both looked at each other when you heard a third voice calling your name.

You straightened yourself, visage turning jovial, neck craning to face the visitor.

Your relaxed posture stiffened at the sight of the said caller.

Yuta.

Yuta was standing there, beaming towards you. He waved at you, which you couldn’t return because of the initial shock you were in. what was he doing here. Yugyeom and yeong were also staring at the stranger.

Yuta extended his hand for you to lift you up from the ground, but you didn’t move an inch. He inclined his head a bit, questioning you silently. You took his hand to rise up. Your friends were now curiously watching the awkward exchange.

Yuta gave others a toothy smile, waving energetically at them as if they were long lost friends he just found today. And he did indeed looked like one of you. with black polo tucked in his washed jeans, blond hair down and earnings adorning his earlobes, he looked like a normal extrovert student , who could turn people into friendly puppies just with a flash of smile.

“Can I borrow y/n for a minute? I won’t take long , I promise” he blinked his eyes at them , assuring your friends that he wasn’t abducting you , which was, you guess, his first instinct, assuring people of his virtuous intentions . He took your hand and started dragging you towards the concrete path. As soon as you were out of other’s eyes, he jerked your hand away making you groan loudly.

“Why are you so rash? Don’t you have sense? What the hell are you doing here and how the fuck did you find me in this goddamnit big campus!” you growled at him.

“Stop bitching at me! I’m not Johnny or taeyong, watch you fucking tongue in front of me!” yuta fiery eyes bored into yours. The previous cheerful expression already changed into one of frustration.

“Then don’t treat me like one yuta. Simple as that! You might not be used to this, but I am not a servile flatterer.” you retorted, mirroring his aggression.

You crossed your arms against your chest, titling your head to reciprocate his look. “Now say why you are here cause unlike you, I have work to do!”

Yuta scoffed at your words, his hand graciously fixing his now messed up hair. You took this time to give him a once over. He was distracted by the wind, and you by his face. At first blush, he looked devastatingly fuckable but your self-esteem was of far more importance right now. You hated men who had no regard for women and at this point, yuta’s behaviour was fulfilling all the essentials.

“What did u mean that day when you said you’d be leaving,” he was still giving you the same stern look but his voice came surprisingly calm “what is there between you and taeyong that I’m missing?”

His question confused you. You were sure that the conversation between you and taeyong was not so classified. So maybe yuta was there just to bother you.

“See! I’m not at all obliged to answer you. So you better ask your boss. And never show up here again, unless you are called, which would obviously never happen!”

“Just answer me! I’m not here for your bloody lecture!” he tiredly blurted at you. But you were adamant so you just turned away from him.

You were about to successfully dodge him when he caught your forearm and in a flash, pulled you against himself. You were now eyeing his chest, which was soon replaced with his face. He had leaned down to face you, his eyes scanning your now alarmed expression. His eyes lowered to your chest which was stuck due to the breath you had sucked in.

“Breathe baby. I come in peace. No need to be afraid.” he said softly and you’d have believed him, if you were blind to his capabilities. You struggled to step away from him but his grip was tightening enough to bruise your arm. He found your little effort very amusing.

“At least you are entertaining hmm.” he jerked away your arm again, this time you let out an audible yelp. “I just came to check your status, nothing else” he said looking particularly nowhere.

“my what?” You asked him, rubbing your arm to soothe the stinging sensation. You were also perplexed at how he simply forgot about the previous topic.

He feigned hurt, rubbing over his chest “don’t be so hostile. I wanted to know about your status with your friends. The one you were hitting so cutely! He’s one of your friends who know everything about you right.”

“You don’t need to be so friendly. Bear with my hostile attitude coz that’s what you’ll be getting from now on.”

“At least you are acknowledging this union.” his mocking tone was nauseating you. “So when are you going to introduce me or do I have to take the initiative!”

“Stay away yuta. I’m not your laughing stock.”

“Okay, so you are not going to do it!” he gave you a once over mid-sentence. “Fine. I’ll do it by myself.” he started walking down the path to the garden your friends were sitting in. but before you could stop him, you saw both of them coming your way. You hurriedly ran over to them, passing yuta. He was seriously enjoying your distress.

“Shorty, your bag.” gyeom handed you your bag. “We have to go to class .your sandwich is in the bigger one. eat it before going to library and we are going to 67th street again. Meet you there tonight”

“No I’ll pass”

“And who is that hunk? Your secret boyfriend?” yeong questioned wiggling her brows. Before yuta could take charge of the situation, you spoke to fit it to your own mould.

“n-no. He-he’s a junior’s older brother. Just here to talk about his poor situation.”

“Okay. But he’s so your type. You can try something you know” she whispered, your eyes widening in pure horror.

“He can hear us yeong!!!” but she took a back step before you could say anything else.

“Ok bye bye. see you later. And don’t wear that scarf again or I’ll increase the time period of exercise.” she shouted. You showed a middle finger to her which was returned with a flying kiss.

“The scarf! I totally missed it!” you rolled your eyes before facing his smirking self, his breath fanning your neck hair, his face being too close for your liking.

“You look quite fond of hickies. Just let these one disappear then I can decorate you myself.” he whispered, voice meant only for you to hear.

“Meet you on Saturday, babes. I think I’ll lose my sleep if I admired you anymore!” he whirled around leaving your fuming form behind. it was as if he was fond of having his last say in every conversation.

“These hickies would only disappear in your fucking dreams boy!” you murmured, glaring at his back.

The true intentions of his sudden appearance were masked by his fake excitement but that had struck a chord in you. You couldn’t avoid it for too long. Sooner or later, it had to be done.

starting with your roommate.

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

Your vision was almost blurry for the time you spent staring at your door, takeout from her favourite restaurant dangling from your arm. Chelin was inside waiting for you. She was busy these days like any other student but you always had some tricks up your sleeve to get her to agree. Today it was her favourite authentic Chinese dumplings. You shifted from one foot to another to calm your nerves, like it was going to make any difference. You had to tell chelin and this laborious task was to be accomplished today. Now or never, you decided finally, knocking on the door.

The door opened almost instantly.

“Why do you make me walk when you have the key!” she said, pretending to be irritated at you.

You stuck your tongue at her whilst shoving the food bag in her face. Sniffing the bag, her eyes widened, sparkle adoring her black orbs and lower lip trembling to form the most stupid fake emotional look she could muster. You lifted yourself up to flick her frowned forehead playfully. Both of you broke into laughter, the room turning lively.

“What is it this time?” chelin asked you curiously, making her way to the small corner you both called kitchen. You removed your bag and shoes meanwhile.

“I just wanted to spend some time with you and talk, you know. It’s been days since we have seen each other properly.” you replied gently. Chelin was 4 years younger than you in age but only 2 years behind in classes. Her intelligence was hard to be matched. That’s why even being younger than her classmates, she was the smartest. A deadly combo of beauty with brains.

“ohh.” she returned .you reached out for the food boxes and moved to let her sit on your bed. “Now tell me what it is. This restaurant doesn’t deliver inside uni and you have to wait 45 minutes for their delivery and unless you want something-

She trailed off, wiggling her brows at you.

You have always been the most amusing subject for her psychology projects, defying everything her books said. You were suprising, yet predictable.

“I’ve got an internship” you blurted out a lie, eyes setting on the food instead of facing her.

“Nothing new in that. You get them all the time without even applying, unlike us. But what happened to your mantra, Chois or nothing!!!” she declared her surprise.

The only way to make your story credible was to avoid her eyes and occupying yourself with dumplings was the best tactic at this point.

“Yes, but I’m not going to do freelance writing anymore. It’s boring and its paid internship and not a servant service so I’ll give it a try.”

“Hmm. good. But you didn’t spend your precious money just to inform me of another shot right! So get on the point.”

You chewed the food in your mouth, before putting an end to her queries.

“Umm. I might be moving out” you said sheepishly to gauge her reaction. The dumpling which she was about to put in her mouth was now messily dipped in the sauce pot.

“You are what?”

“I’m moving out!”

“But why and where?” she straightened her back at the seriousness of your statement, the food long forgotten now.

“It’s not finalized yet” you stated shrugging your shoulders. “I want a place near the northern or eastern court complex. It’s going to be easy if I start already. And chois are also located there.”

“Which company?” while bundling your lies, you had missed this. Nervously, you picked up the chopsticks again trumping up an answer to satisfy her.

“Aah umm moon industries!”

An audible gasp escaped her mouth. She was shocked at first but regained herself in no time.

“Anything is possible if it’s you.” you knew that this would work. you were a graduate so job offers were not anything suspicious.

“you can finally have your peace.” you made an effort to lighten up a bit but chelin went quite for a moment.

“So you are leaving me. Just like that.” her voice came out as a mere whisper. You looked up to find her glossy eyes, a heaviness in her voice. You didn’t expect her to be such responsive!

“You know I hate sleeping alone.”

“don’t do this chel-

“And who would buy me ice-cream when I breakup with jay again. An- and who will remind me to change my toothbrush. My hangover pills. And moreover how are you going to make your food. Your only source of homemade food is me. You are still scared of the beeping of the bloody oven. You always eat cold takeout’s when I’m not here!” as she ranted, you felt your own legs trembling at her voice.

“Take me with you” she said abruptly making you shook your head at her. You knew she won’t be easy but you hadn’t anticipated this at all. You had to lie again, for her own sake.

“it’s not feasible chelin. I’m gonna be an hour away. but my job demands that’s why I’ll have to move out. you can’t afford living outside of campus right now. don’t make this harder, please.”

And you saw visible stream of tears leaving her eyes. You wanted nothing more than to hug her tightly and cry out your own sorrows but you couldn’t. You were not allowed to express your feelings just yet.

“Why can’t you just stay? I don’t want to live without you!”

“It’s just a year more anyway.” you tried to justify your departure.

“A full year! And that’s different. I’ll also be leaving next year but now it’s just you!”

“Move in with jay, chelin.” you suggested. “He always nags at you for refusing him. It’ll make him happy and maybe your intermittent breakups would stop as well!”

“I don’t want to”

“You do want to. It’s me who’s been holding you back till now. You just don’t want to leave my grown up ass alone.”

“No! I’ve been refusing him cause I’ll chose you over that asshole any day.” she said while rubbing her eyes with the palms of her hands. You both were closer than sisters. She even spent some of her vacations in the campus just so you won’t feel like a loner. She was the closest to the family you could have at this point. And no, you were not ready to let her go.

“When are you moving out?” her sniffling was now replaced with soft breathing.

“Maybe next week” you lied again.

“Are you happy?”

“Leaving you? No. I could never be. But it has to be done.”

“I hope your roommate knows how to cook. Otherwise you’ll die from takeouts. And let’s spend the week together. We’ll go shopping for new skirts. You won’t be wearing any trousers this time!” she proposed, trying to smile again.

“We are still in the same uni and you’ll find me here all the time. The internship demands weekend working hours anyway so it’s manageable.” you reasoned as an attempt to satisfy the budding questions in her mind.

“But it won’t be same”

Nothing would be same from now on! you thought.

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

Saturday morning

The dreadful day came sooner than you desired. Sprawled on your bed, you looked around the small room, which has been your residence from the day you left the orphanage and that you still planned on inhabiting until the end of next year if nothing has changed but now it was better to dust it off and move on.

What were you even supposed to call it! Wedding day? Or effective date? You weren’t even sure of it being a contract or an arrangement! Maybe contract to keep your mouth shut! But it also requires a free consent that was hard to find in your current position. A legal agreement binding you with taeyong’s will or an arrangement! Arrangement to make your life easy while being driven away from the one you were somewhat content with!

You could make any assertion to console yourself.

You were alone this morning for chelin has gone to jay’s apartment. You were somewhat glad that she was gone. Moving out in her absence would be good otherwise she won’t let you go out alone with all your stuff and you weren’t ready to explain her anything yet. As per her knowledge, you were leaving next week. your all braincells were spent while satisfying her that packing a week before was just out of convenience and nothing else.

You got up from the bed to shower your worries away. Following a forty minutes of comforting bath, you opened the small closet to choose something from the clothes you were yet to pack. As if on cue, your phone made a very familiar sound.

Ping. The fine tune was now set for a very fine person.

Little shit: I can’t wait to meet you noonaaa! Please wear something white!

White! You gave your closet and packed boxes a once over. There was plenty of white but nothing white! There was a white dress –with cherry blossoms on it. Then there was skirt, with black stripes. The only thing you had in crisp white was 3 pairs of shorts and sneakers.

And you were definitely going to wear those. After all, jaemin did say something white! It’s not daily that you get to have fun with interpretation.

After contemplating for 5 minutes straight, you chose the red bell sleeved round neck crop top to wear with your white high waist denim shorts. from nowhwere were you looking like someone about to get married! But like your everyday chant- who cares!

You were brushing your hair when a sound from the phone distracted you from flattering yourself.

Johnny: are you ready?

As decided earlier, Johnny was going to pick you and your stuff from the dorm. He was more cordial than doyoung, parking the car just near the dorms.

You: yes, I am.

Johnny: good. Let me in.

And you did. But instead of one, there were two of them. You looked curiously at the shorter men who was glancing you up and down.

“He’s ten. And ten this is y/n.” the said guy waved, giving a sweet smile.

“Hi!”

“So how many boxes do you have?” Johnny asked looking around the tiny space.

“7 in total.” you started explaining. “Two boxes of shoes and clothes each. And other one for the accessories and random stuff. One medium sized luggage of my books. I have yet to pack some clothes from the closet and my desk space needs to be cleaned up as well. So I think it’ll take about 30 minutes to do everything.” you finished.

“Only 2 boxes of clothes?” ten asked, a look of judgement all over his face.

“Yup. I’ll take winter clothes afterwards. My roommate is going to keep them so I’ll collect them later and 3 boxes! I’ve yet to fill one.”

“Aah ok. Let’s do it then.” that being said you showed Johnny the side of the little hallway where you had placed your plastic boxes.

“Johnny, please be careful. The boxes are all rented and keeping upside down would ruin the shoe package. Just a li-“ you stopped midway when Johnny started giggling at your distressed tone.

“Don’t worry. Just pack the other stuff.”

You nodded and started with the packing. The closet was clear of your belongings. The only place left was your desk. You crowded your backpack with laptop, chargers and other stationaries that you kept out as an act to cover from chelin.

Johnny and ten made several trips up and down and finally after about forty minutes, you were finally done.

“Shall we go?” ten asked you. You didn’t reply instead choosing to walk outside silently.

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

You reached the destination in about 40 minutes. The area had a different ambiance than the city side. It was not secluded but wasn’t crowded either. The house looked more like a closed off architectural 2 storey building, giving a “enter with caution” feels.

You only took your phone with you as you were going to the new place in few hours anyway.

As you entered, déjà vu took over your senses. The couch in the hallway was jam-packed just like the last time. And if it was not enough, you saw few younger boys coming down the stairs from other side of the hallway. And one of them was too hard to miss.

“Noonaaa” jaemin ran down the remaining stairs coming to stand in front of you. He gave you an electric smile, your own lips curving upwards.

“I told you to wear white!? He whined at your choice of clothing.

You visibly rolled your eyes at him. “And this is white! The shorts and shoes are crisp white. What else do you want?” as much as you wanted to be polite but your nature didn’t allow you to take offense.

“Ok ok fine. I only saw red. This’ll also do. You look good.” he stated, eyeing your sleeves.

“Come inside.” he took your hand, swiftly moving you towards the centre of hall. Once he left your hand, you bowed a little in greeting, hoping you won’t have to do that again and again.

Johnny had told you the other day that few of them were older than you including him, yuta and taeyong. So you had to greet them with respect. you were a women with manners!

“No need for formality y/n. just sit down.” taeyong also descended from the same stairs. You sat at the only unoccupied chair in the room whereas taeyong sat on the arm of the bigger sofa.

“You got everything?” you nodded at his question.

“Ok then. Yuta is arriving in few minutes. Until then if you want, you can go explore the house.”

You shook your head at him. You were sure everyone could tell how apprehensive you were being. A roomful of boys was staring at you like hawks. It was confirmed to you by now that you were only girl in this house. You were fiddling with hands, crossing and uncrossing your legs to make yourself more comfortable but your fidgeting only made others awkward as well.

“Stop making her nervous!” Kun’s voice reached your ears before you could see him. It looked like he came from outside. At the lack of seat, he made a beeline for the space you were filling , sitting at the arm of your sofa. Maybe it’s a habit, you thought.

“I knew you were coming, so I made a special meal for you. Jaemin helped a lot though.” at your mere bob as an answer, kun realised that he couldn’t do anything to make you feel any better. the immensity of the setting was far more on your conscious than others.

“noona , this is jisung and chenle, you didn’t meet them right!” you saw two boys whom jaemin was dragging to stand in front of you. they looked quite younger than the other ones. their charming smiles directed at you finally turned your stoic expression to mirror theirs.

your little interaction was interrupted by light footsteps on the marble floor.

“Were you all waiting for me?” yuta’s voice resonated in the silent room. “why couldn’t you complete this mission in my absence taeyong. It’s not like you don’t have substitute!” he sneered at his leader, looking around to find a seat.

jungwoo got up from his seat, motioning yuta to sit.

“I have to be somewhere else, so the sooner we start, the sooner we’ll get it over with!” yuta offered. taeyong nodded at him, directing doyoung to get something from inside.

doyoung went away and came back with a bundle of files. he opened a file and placed it in front of you.

“you can read it first. i completed the registration forms, your bio data is filled. just check for any misinformation. there was no poof of your permanent residential address so jaehyun got exception for you because you are a student. but you both might need to visit district office as they won’t grant exemption from appearance.” doyoung pointed everything and explained it to you.

the papers were legitimate, you bio data including your identity number, parents name , everything was correct. the only astonishing thing was the name of your legal representative. you thought I’d be doyoung but you were wrong.

through counsel,

jeong jaehyun.

your fingers lingered on his name. it was not possible as johnny told you he was just about same age as you. you looked at doyoung with a raised brow.

“jae was chosen by our own company so he started working under taeyong immediately after graduation” doyoung mumbled and you snorted at his statement. obviously , he had it easy!

“where do I have to sign?” you asked in a small voice.

and you scribbled right where he marked.

he passed the papers to yuta.

with a frown on his face, yuta also did the same. throwing the papers in doyoung’s face, he rose up from his seat, turning towards the door.

“wait yuta” taeyong’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“what do you want now. do I have to kiss her?” his questioned carried a mocking tone, making you straighten your back. you were just as disgusted at the thought as was him. but you were not throwing tantrums like him.

“the rings. you have to make it believable right” taeyong extracted a velvet rectangular box from his pocket, placing it on the table. he signalled you to open it.

you reached out for the purple box. inside it were two platinum bands with a single diamond shining right in the centre. they were beautiful but meaningless.

“your hand yuta. why do I have to tell you everything?” yuta scoffed at him and snatched the box from your hand, pulling your arm in the way.

he took out both bands, tossing the box in taeyong’s lap. he wore the one meant for him, in his left finger and grabbed your hand to put the ring on. you flinched a little at the force but he didn’t seem to give a shit about you felt.

“oh the ring is loose.”he commented at the band being not of your size. you jerked away your hand to remove the ring, instead placing it in your forefinger.

“you are not supposed to have what isn’t yours baby!” he remarked slyly before modelling his way out. his mouth was acidic, that you were sure by now.

“CONGRATULATIONS ON THE WEDDING MRS. NAKAMOTO!”

and yuta’s words kept ringing even when he was gone. mechanically, your hands were balled into fists, anger rising. you were not feeling bitter at his words for didn’t expect anything better from him. but he shouldn’t have attacked your dignity in front of strangers.

only five minutes had passed and you were already encumbered with the weight of the ornament!

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

where do you think this is going?? do you like it so far? please lemme know if you get time to leave some feedback!

and welcome all the new readers! i hope you are enjoying this!

#nct scenarios #nct imagines #ncct fluff #nct angst #nct x reader #nct mafia #nct arrange marriage #yuta mafia #yuta arrange marriage #killing me yuta #yuta #yuta angst #yuta series #nct series

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goatbi · 4 years

Text

Pumpkin Carving

“Cowboys!” Joshua cried, bouncing in his spot on the floor, staring at the pumpkin in front of him. Gordon laughed softly, handing him the marker to draw on the face that he wanted. Joshua grinned, one of his front teeth missing, having lost it at school the other day.

“For sure buddy. You can do a cowboy.” Gordon ruffled Joshua’s hair, and he grinned that toothless grin again, turning to focus on the pumpkin with a single minded determination, getting marker marks on his fingers as he very carefully, or at least as careful as a six year old was capable of, begin to draw the face onto his pumpkin, his tongue poking out between his lips right where his tooth was missing.

Looking away from Joshua, Gordon turned to the group as a whole. Dr. Coomer had a line of pumpkins in front of him, six to be exact, and had a seventh in his lap, very carefully drawing on it. Bubby sat next to him, by far the largest pumpkin in his lap, as he too was doodling on his own, though didn’t seem as worried about it as Coomer did. Tommy was on Joshua’s other side, three pumpkins near him, two on either side and one in his lap. Benrey was splayed out on Tommy’s other side, drawing across his pumpkin in a pattern that Gordon could not follow for the life of him.

Gordon himself sat next to Joshua, separated from Dr. Coomer by his line of pumpkins. Gordon, at first, didn’t have his own pumpkin, as he focused on helping Joshua with his, but with Coomer and Tommy both having multiple, Gordon figured it would be fine to be a bit later than Joshua, as, when he got bored of it, Benrey would likely also be bored, and thus he’d have someone to distract him while the rest of them finished up.

The look on the person’s face at the pumpkin patch when the group had rolled up with multiple carts, carrying 14 pumpkins of various sizes and shapes, had been glorious. If Gordon had been thinking, he would have gotten a picture.

After a moment of deliberate, Gordon lifted his pumpkin into his lap, grabbing the last remaining marker to carefully draw on the face of it. He wanted to go for the effect of a cat, illuminated by the moon, though how well he had accomplished that in the end was... uncertain. He had to redraw the tail a few times as well, since it seemed too thin to stand up on it’s own. Relatively simple, he thought, setting it carefully in front of him to draw a circle around the top to follow when they cut them open.

When he looked up, Tommy had two pumpkins finished, working on his third, all three with traditional jack-o-lantern faces printed on them, Bubby had finished his, and Gordon was completely unsurprised to find that it had a drawing of flames on it. Benrey’s resembled the PlayStation logo, another thing that Gordon was completely unsurprised to find. The only thing that surprised him was when he glanced to Coomer, seeing that he had finished the first pumpkin, setting in on the side between him and Bubby-Coomer had taken a large area of the living room for it and its seven pumpkins-and the pumpkin that he had finished with having a rather realistic, for marker on a pumpkin, drawing of Gordon.

Bubby caught him staring at it, and grinned. “He does this every year with the two of us, but now, he has more to work with.” Gordon nodded, rather impressed, and recounted the pumpkins. There was one for each of the science team, and Joshua, though that was only six. He paused, before Coomer caught his eye setting aside a second pumpkin carefully as not to smear the marker, turning it to reveal Darnold’s visage.

Darnold would have joined them, but apparently had a rather severe allergic reaction to pumpkin guts the last time he had tried to carve one, and thought it better to wait until after the carving as done, and then see what everything looked like.

Joshua, at that moment, tugged on Gordon’s sleeve. “Daddy!”

“Hey buddy!” He turned, grinning, as Joshua turned the pumpkin to reveal a rather messy face, signified as a cowboy by the hat on top of it’s head. Gordon grinned, then carefully took one of the wet wipes from besides him. “Looks awesome buddy! Why don’t we clean it up a bit so that you can follow the lines easier, huh?”

Joshua nodded, and, carefully as not to ruin the face Joshua had made, Gordon wiped away stray marks and cleaned it up just a bit, though the integrity of Joshua’s cowboy pumpkin stayed the same.

“There? Still look good?” Gordon asked, and Joshua made quite the show of examining it carefully, before nodding, and Gordon set it to the side carefully. “Good. Now we wait for the wet wipe to dry a bit so we don’t smudge it up, and then we can cut it open!” Joshua grinned, nodding again, before turning to look around at the others pumpkins with wide eyes.

It took Coomer finishing drawing on a third pumpkin-Tommy this time- for Gordon to deem it safe to get up and grab the various carving materials. He had a large amount of smaller knives, as well as spoons to pull the guts out, which he wants to save for the seeds. Both he and Joshua loved roasted pumpkin seeds, and if the others didn’t know about them, then the two of them were going to teach them.

“Alright buddy. Come here and we can take the top off!” Joshua grinned, clambering onto Gordon’s lap. Gordon mostly controlled the large knife, but Joshua kept his hands on the handle of it, as if taking charge of it. The managed to get the top of, and Joshua giggle loudly as Gordon pulled the top of the pumpkin out, the stringy guts of the pumpkin coming with it. He crawled across the floor of the living room to grab the large bowl in the middle of the room-which Gordon had lay with various trash bags-and sat it in front of Gordon with a wide grin, so that Gordon could cut the bottom of the top part of the pumpkin off and set it carefully to the side.

Joshua, after the knife had been passed to Bubby, plunged his arm into the pumpkin, grabbing a handful of the guts and pulling it out, grinning, plopping it directly into the bowl. Gordon laughed softly, glancing around at the others. “You guys like roasted pumpkin seeds?” Benrey was the only one who looked slightly confused, as Gordon got a myriad of various yeses and nods from the others, as they were engrossed in their pumpkins. “Good. Save the guts, because we’re gonna have so many seeds from this.” He shot a look at Coomer’s collection.

Joshua grabbed a spoon, reaching his arm into the pumpkin to scrape the sides of it, while Gordon carved the top off of his own, gathering the pumpkin guts to set to the side in the bowl, which Gordon began to realize might not be big enough. It was the biggest one that he owned, but he realized quickly he might need to grab the other bowls as well, just in case.

“Hold on a moment.” He said, standing to go do so, grabbing three more bowls to set along the group, as they began to pull guts from their various pumpkins, as Coomer began his final pumpkin, which seemed to be the one of Bubby. The amount of pumpkin guts that were coming from the pumpkins in total, the amount of seeds was exciting, as he had only really had one pumpkin in the past. Fourteen pumpkins worth of seeds? It was a little overwhelming, but in the best way.

He settled back in his spot, going about removing the pumpkin guts from his, scraping along the sides to drag the last bit of it out of the pumpkin. Joshua climbed back into his lap so they could start carving Joshua’s pumpkin, Gordon’s hands over Joshua’s as they carved carefully, setting aside the pieces as Joshua reached in to push them out of their spots. Once finished, Joshua took it upon himself to clean off the remaining sharpie marks with a wet wipe, cleaning off his hands as well.

Just as Gordon predicted, once his pumpkin was done, Joshua grew bored, but Benrey finished rather quickly after, and managed to busy Joshua with removing the seeds from the pumpkin guts into a little pile. Gordon took that to finish his pumpkin quickly, tongue also poking out of his mouth in a similar way that Joshua’s had been earlier, as he carefully carved along the curved lines.

Bubby set his pumpkin next to Joshua’s finished one, quickly followed by Tommy setting one with triangle eyes and square teeth next to it as well. Coomer had finally begun to remove the pumpkin guts, choosing to do this step all at once with all of the pumpkins, leaving him covered with pumpkin guts, though it was grinning, so Gordon assumed that it didn’t mind at all.

Tommy passed him one of his pumpkins, one with a scowling, angry face, as Joshua was still engrossed in removing the seeds from the guts. Gordon grinned, pressing himself to Tommy’s side as they worked, Tommy working on another grinning pumpkin.

The group was mostly finished-excluding the obvious of Coomer, who was very carefully carving out Darnold’s face in the first pumpkin, Bubby leaning against it’s back as it worked, humming some sort of song that Gordon couldn’t identify. Once Tommy’s last two pumpkins were finished and set to the side, Gordon grabbed the small electric candles, setting them inside each pumpkin, before settling next to Joshua and Benrey, listening to them argue in a strange way that Gordon couldn’t fully follow, helping remove the seeds from the pumpkin guts, grinning along as Joshua seemed to be winning.

Hours later, the fourteen pumpkins sat all in a line in front on the porch, as the family inside roasted pumpkin seeds and threw the guts at one another, laughing.

#hlvrai #half life vr but the ai is self aware #gordon freeman hlvrai #tommy coolatta #dr. coomer #bubby #benrey #joshua freeman #darnold is mentioned but not here #also coomer is wild with pumpkins #Feelings In Various Ways

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lalahbug · 4 years

Text

Anything for You - Victor x Reader

Fandom: Mr. Love: Queen’s Choice Word Count: 997

My Masterlist

Warnings/disclaim: general None

Author’s Note: So eons ago, okay fine, being less dramatic, years ago. I held a contest for 500 watchers on DeviantArt, but life hit me and I stopped writing completely. It’s been years and I’m trying to uphold my word for the winners. So far, the only one who wants her prize is my dear sweet Venus. She’s been through everything with me, my thick and thin, my only true friend, my best friend. I’m so happy to do something for her for once, I hope you like this little fic you’ve earned it and so much more. I can’t wait until you’re out a school and being the amazing teacher I know you’ll be. You’ll be done with the woes and drama of idiotic professors soon, and upgrade to idiotic coworkers, but you’ll be where you want to~! I love you twinie and I thank I have you to always be there for me. I hope now that I’m more present in life, I can be there for you too.

For my twinie: @venulus

___ is a blank for your name/oc/whatever you prefer Written in 3rd person

Line/header is to separate paragraphs to indicate time skips, as Tumblr hates my formatting.

Story under cut

Victor sighed in relief the moment he closed his door, to be home, off of business, ready to find his lover. He usually had contact with her at least twice a day while he was gone on business trips. But she didn’t answer any of his calls for the past week. Relieved to be home and to get an answer out his wife about her absence.

He looked everywhere for her but to his dismay, she wasn’t home. A small fear built in his mind and he checked her closet. Clothes were there, but there was a small suitcase missing. As his thoughts raced at possibilities, he heard the front door and click of heels.

Victor walked calmly as his heart pounded to the rhythm he wanted to walk to. He was a bit thrown off to see his love, clad in black, and solemnly sitting on the living room couch.

Hesitantly he sat down next to her, she automatically leaned into him.

“I missed you. How was your trip?” Her voice was weak, weary, defeated. Yet the care and love was there. Victor put aside his anger at her ignoring him, forgetting it even.

“It would have been better if I had been able to talk to you those last few days.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulder lovingly.

“I’ll make it up to you,” her tone a bit playful, but the weakness was there.

“What happened?”

“My uncle passed away, the one I told you about. The one who watched us while my parents worked.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have gone to the funeral with you.”

“I know you would have. But it was a very small gathering, only people listed in his will were allowed. You were already gone, I didn’t want to bother you with it.”

“Dummy,” he pulled her into his lap and wrapped his arms around her securely. “You know better than that.”

She sniffed a bit before leaning into him more, allowing the peace he always washed over her, to drown her.

A few weeks had passed, Victor was swamped with work again, having to bring it home even. He didn’t mind normally, but ___ had been a bit distant with the family death weighing on her. Victor was getting ready to go home when he had a small glimmer of an idea. Taking out his phone he called Mr. Mills, asking him to do some shopping and to come in tomorrow evening.

“Victor?” ___ called out as she entered Souvenir. But she was greeted by the loving smile of Mr. Mills.

“Hello Mrs. Li, he would like your help in the kitchen if you don’t mind.” Mr. Mills offered to take her jacket as she came inside more.

“Thank you Mr. Mills, do you need any help out here?”

“That’s so kind of you, but no. Please just assist Mr. Li.” ___ gave him a small smile before going into the kitchen. Victor was already in the middle of his cooking. She put on her apron and tied up her hair before washing her hands and coming over to him.

“What are we cooking tonight?” She smiled at him, a small light in her eyes, she loved to help him cook.

“I need you to cut these potatoes, thinly preferably. The mandolin would be more consistent but you can cut them by hand if you want.”

“You’re letting me choose?” Her eyes sparkled a bit, he smiled at her gently before nodding at her. She took out the chef’s knife and started immediately.

Once she was done, she was rinsing the potato slices with cold water. She then cleaned the knife and cutting board. Next she laid out the potatoes in even layers to blot them with paper towels to get excess water.

“What next?”

“Nothing, the rest is a surprise.”

“But-” Victor cut off her words by picking her up and setting her on the countertop.

“You stay right there. I don’t need any more help. I’m almost done.”

“Okay. Don’t take this the wrong way. But don’t you have work to do?”

“Do you not want the food?”

“No, no! I do!”

“Then sit there like a good girl.”

“I think prefer when you’re my good boy,” she winked at him and his cheeks flushed. He was hovering over her in a blink. ___ gripped the front of his shirt and kissed him deeply. Victor sighed softly lacing his fingers into her silky hair. Tilting her head back to deepen their kiss before pulling away slowly.

“Behave.” He sighed heavily before stepping back. “Stay here. Keep your remarks to yourself for now. Let me finish then we can eat together.”

She huffed softly. “Fine.”

Victor had made a hearty dinner with au gratin potatoes with cream, roasted vegetables, and filet mignon. After he was done plating their dishes he took them out. Once back in the kitchen, he took off both of their aprons and hung them up. He took down her hair gently before placing her back on the ground. He offered his hand, she gladly took it, entwining their fingers.

___ gasped at the sight of the restaurant, fairy lights were stringed up everywhere. Flower petals scattered and a bouquet of freesia as a beautiful centerpiece. The restaurant was dimly lit, a classical piece was being played over speakers at a low volume. Victor guided her to her seat and pushed her chair in for her.

When Victor looked at her again, after seating himself, her eyes were closed. The happiest smile plastered across her face while enjoying the ambiance. “Thank you for this.” She finally said opening her eyes, to show the water that had been gathered behind closed lids.

Victor reached across the table to squeeze her hand gently. Smiling unintentionally from her contagious visage. “Anything for you.” He kissed the back of her hand. “Now, let’s eat. Before it gets cold.”

Her eyes crinkled as her smile widened. “My good boy.”

Victor coughed lightly before mumbling, “behave.”

#mlqc #mr love queen's choice #victor li #victor x reader #victor/reader #fanfic #fanficition #venulus #lalahbug #lalah writes #reader insert #xreader #self insert

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kukukape · 3 years

Text

Richard Malik x Operative: The Whistleblower

This the first time I've posted a fic in a while, but I'm excited! Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist 😊

Tags: @simping-for-sandayu-oda @luciewarrenx3

•••

Richard had to admit, he'd come up with more... enjoyable plans than this one. He grunted as the Albion thug's knee collided with his stomach, again. Wanker was enjoying this way too much.

His eyes flicked to the camera ever so subtly. Not that the bastard would've noticed, he was too busy trying to decide which way to assault Richard Malik next. But he could see it moving around a bit sporadically, as if its operator were trying to get his attention.

And even in the midst of great pain, he had to fight a smirk. Things were already going accordingly.

"U-ugh!" He grunted as the Albion guard pulled him up by his hair and punched him in the face.

Welp, time to fall back into character.

"I-I'm not who you think I am, I-I swear!"

A slap across the face. Backhanded. Richard had to admit, that hurt his pride more than it did his face.

"You're Malik! A SIRS officer and a leaky fucking twat!" Richard, with his forehead resting against the cold concrete, found himself wanting to smile at his own notoriety.

Malik. That name carried weight in SIRS. In London's infrastructure of justice and security. This scared, begging persona wasn't him. This was a choice.

He was a spy. Slippery, and willing to relinquish his true character for his mission.

His breathing quickened with faux fear as the Albion officer picked him up by the collar, bunching up his silken silver tie amidst the action. "That's not me, I s-swear to god, please- PLEASE-"

---

Angel's heart nearly stopped when Bagley cut the feed. "Fuck…" she whispered. She had half a mind to curl up on the curb and let a grey gloom consume her, but Bagley was too much of a dick to allow that.

"Fuck is right! And fucking dead is what he'll be if you don't hurry," he said in his not-so-robotic deadpan.

Dead. Murdered. Killed?

All words and possibilities that resonated with Angel. She took a deep shaky breath, squeezing the steering wheel of her Atterley. "Drop a pin please, Bags," she said.

"I already did, while you were having a little panic attack."

Instead of meeting his snark with her own, Angel kicked the car into gear, speeding towards the construction site. From first gear to third, then sixth... and she was skidding to a stop by the sidewalk before she knew it.

Her optik buzzed as someone got onto comm. It was Brian, the team's most senior hitman. "Scope the place out before you go in. This could be a trap for all we know, so-"

The soft patters of a silenced P9, followed by two separate cries cut Brian off.

"Angel! Bagley, what's she-"

"She's storming the place like the baboon cousin she is!" Bagley exclaimed, "You know for a spy, she's rather uncovert." Which only said the absolute least.

The bodies were shrouded before the spy moved on, picking off another soldier just as they were turning the corner. A bullet between his eyes before he even knew he was in danger, and cloaked to make his death even less apparent.

Pressed against a corner wall, Angel took her phone out and let the news drone above become her eyes. "Bagley, help me find him," she said urgently.

"There's a closed off room in the back. Try there," he said. Angel jumped from camera to camera, her heart squeezing a bit every time she didn't see Richard.

Just when she was about to crack her phone in her grip, she saw him. Wrists tied, on his knees, gaze trained on the floor as he tried to catch his breath.

Angel knew this picture of him. Years ago, in a dirt-floored cell where they huddled together for just an inch of warmth. The image made her shudder, so forcefully mentally that she did so physically too.

She flinched again when Brian came over the comm. "Alright, there he is. I suggest you take out the rest of the guards before you go in," he said.

From soldier, to spy, and now to soldier again. Angel nodded as she squeezed the hilt of her gun. "I'll get right on it."

---

Richard chewed the inside of his cheek as he stared at the floor. He could feel a pair of eyes on him once again, staring through that same metal lense. He didn't dare turn to look, didn't dare break character.

Until he heard the camera screech, as if it wanted him to turn. And, flinching in surprise, he did.

He looked at the camera, wondering why the DedSec operative who'd come for him wanted to make their presence so known. Richard eyed the camera for a moment, searching for something deeper beyond the blank, metallic lense.

Of course, he found nothing. But just the notion of the operative- who he was all too sure was finally here- trying to communicate you're safe, it's okay, made him want to chuckle.

He gave the camera an acknowleding smirk, and ever so slight tilt of his head.

"AHH!" A soldier just outside screamed.

Richard's head whipped around again, and he heard some indecipherable yelling, along with the heavy footsteps of Albion-approved military boots. Somebody was obviously getting their ass kicked outside, because he only heard one person grunting in pain as limbs connected with their target.

Then silence.

He never really liked the quiet. It meant that nothing was happening, and for Richard, something always had to be happening. He couldn't predict quiet. Couldn't scheme it, outsmart it.

Thank god it didn't last long, before the metal door squealed open and quiet footsteps pittered in.

Richard kept his gaze down, as would a man currently fearing for his life. He'd been that enough times to know how to imitate it.

The 'fwoop' of a knife unsheathing made him flinch genuinely. But a steady, smooth... familiar voice eased him.

"Easy. It's just me," she said. Just me, she said. As if he were supposed to know her.

And he did. Oh lord, he did. And the mixture of fear, anger, regret, and happiness in him was too genuine for somebody so used to lying in the face of everyone short of his mother and father's graves.

The fearful part of him was scared to turn around and look at her as she cut through his restraints easily. But he didn't have a choice really, as she walked around and kneeled in front of him, cupping his face with both hands and searching for any injuries to his visage.

Richard was a confident man. Strong, assured, and decorated from head to toe in awards that highlighted his ingenius.

But he looked like a dumb fish in that moment, his mouth slightly ajar and eyes wide.

"…Angel?" He asked softly as her calloused fingertips subconsciously brushed across his brow, stretching down to touch his jaw.

---

"That's my name," she said dryly as she searched his face, looking anywhere but his eyes. Her hand reached into the pocket on his shirt, where she knew he kept a handkerchief. "Hold still, you look horrible," she said. Not that a handkerchief was gonna fix that, but whatever.

She wiped blood from his jaw, and the bits that had gotten onto his cheek. She chewed on the inside of her cheek to keep more words than necessary from escaping her.

I missed you.

Are you okay?

I know this is a farce, so what are you playing?

All reasonable, but Angel couldn't utter any of them. Because Richard Malik, her friend for all of their youth, her partner in war, her lover for that one night back in college, was right in front of her.

She raked a hand through his hair, which was as close to saying I'm glad you're okay as she was gonna get. And he grabbed her wrist gently.

Brown eyes met a lighter shade. Both of them soft, affectionate, and untrusting.

"You're Dedsec," he said it firmly but quietly. Looking for confirmation. Hoping she'd say no, she just happened to be walking down the street and decided to shoot up a restricted Albion area for shits and giggles.

But she nodded. And a pride she never had while working at SIRS shined in her eyes.

Angel helped him to his feet and cleared her throat. They clearly weren't gonna do the whole "So what've you been up to the past six years?" thing, so she spoke first, "We got the call from you. What was that all about?"

A look of shock passed over Richard's eyes. And Angel could tell what he was thinking. Probably wondering where that smile she always used to greet him with had gone.

But he remembered himself quicklyc straightening his tie with a nervous hand. "I'll upload the intelligence onto an anonymous FTP. You can sort through it-"

"No, I want to hear it from you," Angel cut him off rigidly.

Richard inhaled as his whole "My name is Richard Malik, herdyderdyder," speech was thrown out the window. "I believe I've discovered who Zero-Day really is; rogue SIRS officers from the CT unit who then framed Dedsec for the TOAN bombings."

"Men working under you?" Angel raised one elegant brow. "I always got the impression the CT unit was always fiercely loyal," she commented.

And back to the games they went. This time, for the first time, against each other.

He let out a humorless laugh. "You know how good I am at making enemies," he said, reaching for the door handle.

"Wait, Richard," she said quickly. Angel's hand shot out to grab his arm. He looked down at her in surprise.

…Down at her.

Since when was he so damn tall? And handsome…

No, no, stop it, monkey brain.

"I…" Angel's jaw moved uselessly for a moment, before she simply yanked him into am embrace. Richard made a surprised sound. Way too many surprises for one day for him.

But this one, he could tolerate.

Hesitantly, he wrapped one arm around her shoulders while hers linked around his neck tightly. Her cheek was pressed against his chest, and he could smell the shampoo drifting from her hair. "It's… good to see you again, Angel," he said quietly.

Angel chuckled once, before inhaling sharply and slowly pulling away. Out of his reach once again.

"We'll, uh... check out the info," she said, nodding before moving to step by him. But she paused by the door, then reached back over to him. Richard watched dumbly as she fixed his silver tie, straightening it back up and patting his chest twice. And she smiled.

"You grew up nicely, Richard," she said, before slipping out the door.

Richard stood there dumbly for a moment, a thousand different things racing through his head.

But the one thing that stood out the most was the fact that his plans had definitely just been shaken.

~end~

#richard malik #watchdogs #watch dogs legion #wdl #give this man a GOLD STAR #for being HOT #richard malik x oc

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niqhtlord01 · 4 years

Text

Humans are weird: Death of an empire is the birth of a hundred more

The skies were burning. Dift watched the skies of the human homeworld in awe. Though the sky was covered with dense cloud cover and blotted out the rays of the nearby sun the sky was nonetheless bright with reds and oranges as if it was a summer evening on his own homeworld.

The streaks of burning human ships finally losing their battle to the planets gravity fell like fireballs racing across the sky leaving a trail of burning wreckage in their wake that gave the clouds their coloring. From atop the massive imperial palace which was located in the city Dift believed was once called “Cairo” he could not picture a more welcoming sight to mark the end of tyranny. The Terran Reformation had been the bane of the galaxy for decades. Ever since humans obtained faster than light travel they had spread like a plague across a hundred worlds and carved themselves and empire. Their leader, emperor Asher Galvoc had forged humanity into a single engine of conquest with dedication placed towards military service with the result being numerous border conflicts with the surrounding galactic governments. After several years of human aggression several systems banded together and forged the Union of Stars to counteract the human aggression. They combined all of their forces into a single massive strike force and used cloaking technology to sneak past the borders of the human domain until they had arrived at the very heart of the retched empire. They struck like lightning on a clear summer day and wiped away what orbital defense and ships guarded the planet before launching a full invasion force. Dift had led his Kavaran brothers into battle against the imperial palace that he now stood upon with the mission to secure the emperor himself. The stories of humanities fanaticism do not even compare to the madness he had witnessed. Countless humans, soldier and civilian, threw themselves at Dift and his brothers as they fought their way into the palace. At every hallway laid a barricade of blank faced royal guards, in every room a servant armed with a knife or pistol ready to take as many of his brothers as they could, he had even witnessed a human child no older than five solar cycles walk up to one of his brothers with a hand grenade and detonate it taking its own life and the life of three of his brothers. With each conflict Dift became increasingly worried as time was working against them. He had received reports from commanders in orbit that human forces were being recalled from all fronts to defend their emperor and that if they did not obtain him within hours then all would be lost. Several barricades later Dift and his brothers had finally stormed the throne room at the very top of the palace. The room was massive in size with high ceilings vaulting upwards and a long red carpet leading to the throne itself. Standing at the base of the throne flanked by the last remnants of his royal guard stood the emperor himself. He made no attempt to hide or cower but clutched a sword in his right hand. Before the two sides could attack each other the room exploded inwards as a shot down human fighter crashed into the outer palace walls. Whatever weapons the fighter had been carrying went off upon impact triggering a massive explosion that caused nearly half of the ceiling to collapse on to the emperor. As the dust settled Dift had his brothers begin sifting through the rubble until finally finding their prize. Dift knelt down to human leader, his once imposing visage now gone leaving a broken dying man. “Die knowing that your empire dies with you.” Dift had spoken as he saw the last embers behind Asher’ s eyes begin to fade. Reaching out and grabbing Dift Asher pulled him close and whispered back. “You...will...wish...I...had lived...” then took his final breath and passed on. Dift shook off the dead man’s arm and took a step back. From the gaping hole he could see transports slowly descending to retrieve the Union’s soldiers now that their task was complete. He should have felt a sense of victory, of righteousness, something noble in toppling the greatest threat to peace among the stars. But as Dift ascended the boarding ramp all he could think of was the dying words of the once emperor and if they were those of a last act of defiance, or a premonition of things to come... -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(4 years later) Dift shuffled in place, his honor guard uniform uncomfortable and itchy as he waited to appear before the broadcast. An attendant motioned for him and he stepped out from behind the curtain and on to the stage as the studio crowd began clapping and cheering. The camera drones circled around him as he smiled and waved to the crowd, his picture being broadcast not only across his homeworld but to several other Union planets.

As the applause died down Dift took a seat next to the shows host. This appearance along with several others were part of the propaganda tour he had been assigned to for the last few months meant to boost morale and encourage recruitment. He had been taken from the frontlines to perform this duty given his previous actions years earlier at the human palace. “Thanks for joining us commander Dift,” the host began outstretching an arm which Dift shook, ”it’s a real honor to have you on the show.” “Well I am a huge fan.” “Really now?” “Actually, not even a bit.” Dift smiled as he looked at the shocked host. “I will just use any excuse to come home and sleep on a real bed again.” That drew a round of laughter from the crowd and he smiled again. The two then began talking about the general state of affairs in the galaxy, pop-culture, and so on.

Despite the seemingly fluid nature of the discussion it was all a sham. A carefully laid out script made up by military command meant to show a sense of stability and calmness when the reality of the situation was far from it. The truth was the Union was on its last legs, desperately holding on to what territory it had left. Dift couldn’t help but let his mind wander as the host broke into a long story about how things could have gone so wrong. He wagered it was right after the human emperor died things began turning for the worst. The Union’ s forces were able to safely escape the encroaching human forces and return back to their respective territories. The Union’s leaders expected humanity would send a delegation to discuss terms of surrender or at the very least a ceasefire to the ongoing conflict. Months had passed without a single word from the Terran Reformation and the news their informants were brining back made no sense at all. Several members of Asher’ s inner circle had gathered after his death to elect a new emperor. Many of the Union suspected that the former emperor’s favorite general, general Qwint Javal, would be chosen without delay. Unexpectedly several other figures rose to challenge the general’ s claim to the throne.

General David Holden was one of the first to challenge Qwint’s claim. Holden was described as the new generation of generals that had now joined the old guard. He had gathered them into a strong faction and began motioning that the empire should be turned into a democracy. The industrialist Heather Windwall was the second challenger. Controlling nearly 75% of the empire’s industrial capacity she had been kept in check by Galvoc’ s political maneuvering to ensure she was too busy with her corporations internal matters to concentrate her power base. With Galvoc‘s passing Windwall had stabilized her holdings and solidified her power base across several dozen worlds whose entire population was employed by her companies. A surprising third faction was the remnants of the royal guard under their commander Jacob Hashmall. Many had assumed that the royal guard would stand with Qwint’s claim and were rightly surprised when their commander denounced Qwint as a traitor. Hashmall argued that the general had let their emperor die by leaving their homeworld so undefended and deemed him unfit to carry the same mantle. It was not long after before more claimants began appearing from the human leadership until where there had been one now there were dozens. The debates seemed like they would go on forever until General Qwint attempted to seize power by force by having several squads of troopers surround the gathering. The move backfired as each party had come prepared for betrayal. Hashmall had a private security force waiting nearby that rushed in and extracted her, several members of the troopers defected to Holden’s side and aided him escape the palace and back to his ship in orbit, and Hashmall’s guards were well enough equipped that they simply fought their way out. The result of the action was Qwint securing claim to the throne and homeworld of the Terran Reformation along with several surrounding systems. He made public broadcasts denouncing the other inner circle members as traitors and to be hunted down and brought before him. Things fell into chaos soon after the proclamation. From her headquarters and surrounded by her own private military Windfall declared herself the true empress and formed the Terran Conglomerate. Holden rallied several bands of Reformations armies and fleets to his side and declared the formation of the Terran Republic. His popularity ensure himself to be named the first president and his vows of fairness and equality captivated millions. As for Hashmall he took control of the former emperor’s flagship the Midnight Vail and set off into unknown space vowing revenge against all traitors and enemies of the true empire. That had all been three years ago and since then madness had ensued. The Terran Reformation split into dozens of pocket empires each fighting with each other. Where once the Union leaders had been able to predict humanities intensions under the leadership of Galvoc now they were confounded as they were hit by a hundred different threats.

The Terran Conglomerate had turned to increasing their workforce by enslaving surrounding alien species for their factories. Raider fleets prowled between stars as entire colonies and worlds would go dark with their passing. Without limitations now of the Reformation Conglomerate scientists have been conducting horrific experiments on not only aliens but on humans as well as they seek to push the bounds of their knowledge what ever the cost. No method has been deemed restricted to their expansion and Union worlds that did not submit to their rule quickly found themselves being bombed with various gas and nerve agents slaughtering millions.

The Terran Republic was at war with several other human factions along with dealing with intense internal struggles. President Holden had attempted to form a coalition of different parties for his government but found that they quickly became roadblocked and corrupted ensuring that nothing was ever done. Increasingly Holden has been giving himself more executive power in an attempt to bypass the congress which has resulted in a civil war within a civil war as his enemies now proclaim him to be making a crown of his own.

The remnants of the Terran Reformation under emperor Javal have remained the military autocracy it was before. Dissent is stamped out without hesitation and much of the populace lives in the shadow of enforcers weapons. Though not as popular as his predecessor Javal is still an ample military tactician and began making up for territory lost by other factions by conquering new star systems. With Union forces stretched thin to combat numerous threats the Terran Reformation was easily able to invade several systems before meeting stiff resistance which has now turned into a grinding war of attrition.

From his flagship Hasmall has formed the “Sons of Galvoc”. Much less a state the Sons of Galvoc operate more as a terrorist faction with fanatical loyalty to their former leader. The sons attracted a considerable following among the Galvoc loyalists who now worship him as a god of humanity. The group strikes seemingly at random targets of every faction. Devastating bombings of military and civilian installations have been claimed by the group as they appeared to only value the body count of their actions. With all that had happened Dift could not help but lay awake and think back to the dying emperor’s words. Humanity under him had been united and though a terrible force in the galaxy had at least not committed the heinous crimes its successors have. As the host stopped his story and looked to Dift for a response he saw the war hero smiling. Not a smile from the story that had just been told nor even a smile of happiness, but at the realization that as absurd as the man had been he had been right. Dift was wishing that he was still alive.

#HUMANS ARE WEIRD #humans are insane #humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities #scifi #story #civil war

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onyxiana-is-obsessed · 4 years

Note

Hi, can I get a shinsou x reader where the reader is about to get jumped by some guys and he comes and beats them up but also kinda gets hurt to. And basically she tends to his wounds and he just stares at her all the time and they confess to each other. Super fluff please and thank you.

This was adorable and I need to write for our mans more TwT I hope you like this!

Length: 1.8k

Pronouns used: She/her

Tags: @happynoodle @shiggi-trash @neon-tries-writing

Full Name: (y/f/n) Age: 24 Quirk: (y/q)

I Really Like You

(f/n) huffed as she wrapped her arms around herself. It was late at night, it was cold, and she was alone. She checked her phone for the tenth time on her way home in an attempt to seem busy or something.

(f/n)’s friends and family had been warning her about her late shifts at work, they’d asked her multiple times to have her shift changed and she tried but her boss said it wasn’t possible. So, she was stuck walking home at 11 pm all by herself. The neighborhood she worked in cleared out by 9 pm, so it was pretty dead silent at this time.

It was terrifying. If only she had a big, strong hero boyfriend to protect her. She scoffed at her own dumb thoughts as she turned down the street. Ok, so maybe not a boyfriend but she should’ve asked her friend Hitoshi to walk her home. He always offered to do so and it was the only thing that eased (f/n)’s friends and family.

Hitoshi was a newer hero but he was already climbing the ranks. He was strong and fast. He also happened to be (f/n)’s good friend and he was one who walked her home often. Tonight, neither of them asked. Hitoshi had been a bit busy and (f/n) didn’t want to bother him.

Besides, she was almost home and all she needed was maybe ten minutes and she’d be safe. She could see her apartment in the distance and she felt so relieved.

Unfortunately, lady luck wasn’t smiling down on her that night. She walked past an alley and immediately heard laughter. She panicked and started to run, but someone caught her arm. She felt herself get pulled back into the alley and immediately activated her quirk, but it wasn’t enough. As her back hit the brick wall, a scream erupted from her lips and it echoed down the darkened streets.

***

Hitoshi yawned a little as he walked down the darkened streets, keeping his lilac eyes peeled for any sign of trouble. He was on night patrol today and although it was boring, that was a blessing. Quiet, boring nights or days are what every hero hopes for when they go out on patrol. That means no villains were around and that’s always a good day.

However, that was not tonight. Hitoshi heard the scream coming from nearby and was already on his way to it. When he got there, he saw two women and two men hunched over a girl, who was cowering away. He immediately recognized her hair and voice.

“(f/n)!” They all looked up at him, immediately glaring at the hero. Two of them chose to run away, not wanting to take their chance with a hero who could brainwash them. However, the other two stayed and readied themselves for a fight.

It didn’t last very long. They refused to speak to him, so he was forced to rely on his hand to hand combat training. For the most part, the fight consisted of the villains trying to hit Hitoshi but he was able to either block or dodge, using his capture weapon effectively.

However, they were able to get a few good hits in. It wasn’t anything bad, until one of them pulled out a knife. Hitoshi tried his best, but he ended up getting injured. The knife slid across his arm, creating a nice sized gash.

Hitoshi was able to maneuver his capture weapon and quickly took out the two villains. While he waited for backup, he ran to his friend, who was still frozen against the wall.

“Are you ok?” He asked, kneeling in front of her. After a couple of seconds of blankly staring at him, she came back to reality.

“M-me?! A-are you ok?!” She looked down to see his arm bleeding pretty badly.

“I’m fine, were you hurt?” Even with those cuts and bruises, even with that bleeding arm, he was more worried about her than anything else. It was heartwarming and it was something that (f/n) cursed.

“Mindjack!” A voice called out, making the two look in the direction. It was another hero, his partner.

“I’m ok! Can you take them away?” The hero nodded, using his quirk to lift the two villains and walked to the nearest police station. “Let’s get you home.” He said, helping (f/n) to her feet and walking her back. He held his bleeding arm as they made their way to her house.

Hitoshi often came off cold and harsh. When he was in high school, it was worse. He seemed like he didn’t care, it seemed like he wasn’t interested, it seemed like he was heartless, but (f/n) knew better. Anyone who knew Hitoshi knew all of that was a lie.

Hitoshi was very caring and he was often always concerned about (f/n). He was always looking after her, asking if she’d eaten or had proper rest that day. It was something most people wouldn’t expect him to do. It was something most people wouldn’t believe unless they saw it.

Hitoshi was kind, soft, and gentle. He came off the opposite, however. (f/n) knew she was lucky to have met him. That’s why she cursed how much he cared. It made it hard not to fall. It made it so damn hard to keep her feelings in check and at the end of the day, she fell head over heels for him.

She didn’t know what to do, so she ended up doing nothing. She was positive Hitoshi wouldn’t see her like that, in fact, she was sure he only saw her as a little sister. It hurt, but it was something she had to come to terms with.

“You should’ve told me you were going to be working late again tonight.” There was that caring side she always cursed.

“I-I didn’t think anything would happen.” She mumbled, looking down.

“You should always be careful,” he answered, “You never know when something like this can happen. I… you were lucky I was patrolling here. I was actually going to go to the other side, but I chose to come here first.” So lady luck may not have helped (f/n) when she got attacked, but at least she sent Hitoshi!

As the two walked onto (f/n)’s doorstep, she looked back at him. He shook his head, already knowing what she was going to say, but she insisted.

“Please come in and let me treat those wounds.”

“You don’t have to, (f/n).”

“Please.” That look in her eyes… it was hard to deny her. So Hitoshi nodded and followed her in.

He was situated in her dining room as she slowly cleaned off his wounds. His lilac eyes were glued onto her, slowly trailing over her face. It was almost as if he were trying to memorize every little curve and divot of her visage.

He noted every little eyelash, he memorized the curve of her eyes and lips, her nose and cheeks. She was a beautiful girl, not that he hadn’t already noticed. In his opinion, (f/n) was one of the most beautiful girls he’d ever met. She was special to him, someone who’d broken through his barriers so easily.

She was kind, considerate, and she was willing to give him all the space he needed. She was overbearing, she didn’t try too hard, and she was always herself around him. That was something he loved more than anything. To see her be the goofball she was. One more thing that he adored was that she had never been scared of him. People often hesitated when replying to Hitoshi, a bit unnerved by his ability to mind control them. (f/n) wasn’t deterred by that, she always answered every question without hesitation. Even when he asked her if she would let him brainwash her. She immediately answered and she trusted him enough to do so.

As she cleaned his arm, his eyes slowly trailed down her jaw and neck. It looked so soft and inviting. His eyes fell lower, moving down her smooth collarbone before immediately shooting back up to her eyes. She looked at him, her cheeks turning red, making him look away with a small smile.

(f/n) had definitely noticed. She could practically feel those eyes on her, especially when they trailed down her neck. She wasn’t sure what to do or say, so she pretended to not notice. However, when their eyes met, her embarrassment was clear as day.

Hitoshi was a bit of a tease, nothing too excessive, but he definitely teased (f/n). He loved seeing her smile and red cheeks and after he saw her blush the first time, it was like he was addicted. He looked to make her blush once every single time they interacted. He never failed.

“Wh-what?” She asked, stuttering a little as she started to dress his wound. He shook his head, his eyes falling to his arm.

“Nothing, you just… look nice.” There it was, that blush he’d loved to see.

“Th-thanks.” She whispered as she continued to wrap the bandage around his arm.

“You’re pretty cute, you know that?” He said, his eyes not looking up. He knew he got to her, but he didn’t understand why.

“That’s not fair,” she mumbled, making him look up at her. “You tease me too much.”

“I wonder why.”

“Why?” He almost laughed.

“Isn’t it obvious?” (f/n) could feel the butterflies in her stomach, she could feel the anxiety building up. She knew what was going to happen, she knew exactly what he was about to say but at the same time, she desperately needed to hear it. She tried to tell herself otherwise, she tried to tell herself she was wrong and that her imagination was just playing tricks. But at the same time, she knew better.

“What?” She asked, making their eyes meet. (f/n) didn’t want to assume he felt the same way, then feel like an idiot after. She needed him to say it.

Hitoshi’s free hand trailed up her thigh, gently landing on her hips. The hero was about 98% sure that she felt the same way, but in case she didn’t, he wanted to give her a chance to back out. A chance to push him away before anything happened. But she didn’t, she didn’t make any effort to reject his advances.

Slowly, his arm wrapped around her waist as he tugged her closer. She moved towards him without complaints, placing her hands on his chest.

“T-Toshi…” She whispered as his face got closer. She closed her eyes, hoping it wasn’t some dream. Finally, she felt his lips on hers. They were soft and warm, gently moving against hers. Hitoshi’s wounded hand landed on her hip as her arms moved up to his shoulders.

The kiss was passionate and loving, but chaste. It showed the other just how much of their emotions they’d been holding back. It almost felt wrong they waited as long as they did. However, they were together now and that’s all that mattered.

They pulled away, gazing into each other’s eyes. Both of them were blushing and they smiled at each other.

“I uh… I really like you, Toshi.” She whispered, making him chuckle as he pulled her in for a hug.

“Well, I really like you too, (f/n).”

#mha #mha imagines #my hero academia #mha shinsou #bnha #bnha imagines #shinso hitoshi #hitoshi shinso x reader #shinsou x reader #hitoshi shinso imagine #bnha shinso hitoshi #my hero imagines #my hero academia x reader #boku no hero x reader #boku no hero imagines #bnha shinsou

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hidinghesperia · 5 months

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tag drop ;

#visage ༻ (business in the front; knife in the back.)#study ༻ (into a woman with more faith than fear.)#words ༻ (times are tough but i'm tougher.)#aesthetics ༻ (and i; at the door between two worlds.)#music ༻ (sound of the wind is whispering in your head.)#relationships ༻ (for those i love i will sacrifice.)#interaction ༻ (who knows my solitary heart as i do.)#answer ༻ (like the world had drained me for everything.)

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mythrilhusk · 3 years

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Our World - Chapter One

Technoblade-centric; obligatory Greek Pantheon/The Office AU, No shipping, Not RPF

2.4k words, slightly funny (maybe?), AO3 Link,

Features ND/Schizophrenic!Technoblade - (Written by myself, an actually schizophrenic/neurodivergent person... Neurotypicals/Non-psychotics should not attempt this.)

CW: Intrusive thoughts/visions/urges, auditory hallucinations

Elysium's smallest company branch rests unobtrusively in the town Oneiros, buried in some backwoods county. Technoblade reads through the list of employees once more as his taxi weaves through a mountain pass. His equipment sits on the seat beside him, while the rest of his luggage bounces in the trunk.

Elysium's CFO, some guy named Eret, hired Techno on the spot when he came to the interview. Seemed kinda desperate, but eh, so was Technoblade.

H's not entirely sure why they would only hire one guy to do this job. Eh, work is work, and they sure pay well enough. They're providing an apartment, too. An actual roof over his head will be nice, for however long Techno can keep the job. He bets a week, tops.

The narrow road crests over the top of the mountain, revealing the town beneath sprawling in the valley. The Elysium office building juts out of the south side of the town, an ugly block of concrete and glass. Technoblade wrinkles his nose in disdain, silently agreeing with chat as they mock the displeasing aesthetics.

When his taxi pulls up into the parking lot, Technoblade piles his luggage and equipment on the sidewalk before paying the driver. He adds a tip, too, though he can barely afford even that much. The driver's pale cheeks stretch in a nervous smile as he clutches the money; he's too afraid to protest the miniscule tip. Techno doesn't make an effort to smile back, too busy ignoring visions featuring the bloody crunch of the man's neck between his thirsty teeth.

The taxi peels away, leaving Technoblade alone in the chilly mountain air. With ringing ears and a heavy huff, Techno gathers his stuff and heads into the building.

The receptionist plays on his phone, ignoring Technoblade even when he raps his knuckles atop the boy's shaggy brown hair. "Tubbo," He grunts, recalling the appearance from the employee list.

Tubbo starts, staring up at Techno with wary intensity, like a tiger cub encountering a wild boar for the first time. Techno smiles wryly at the boy, who must still be younger than eighteen. Chat clamors for blood, urging him with the weight of his knife, but Technoblade doesn't entertain them.

"Technoblade." Tubbo regains his composure and holds out a hand. "I'm so glad you're finally here, big man, we've been waiting."

"Why the rush?" Technoblade snorts, ignoring the proffered handshake. Physical contact irritates him.

Tubbo drops his hand. "We just really like documentaries about ourselves, yeah?"

"K." It's not his place to question a gig, although chat goes wild with suspicion. "Where am I staying?"

"Oh, right, you'll be staying with Philza. Heh, try not to piss him off. Or do, it'll be funny." Tubbo waves to the rest of the wide room. "Phil! Your roommate's here!"

"Fuck off, mate, I told you bastards, I don't want a fucking roommate." Techno recognizes the man who speaks as the dude in charge of customer relations: Philza. His golden hair glints with hints of fire, setting off his blue eyes, as merciless as the stars.

Chat froths, raging for blood, blood, blood, but Techno mentally bats them away. "K, welp, I was promised boardin' with this gig. I don't really care where; just get me a place to stay." Technoblade shrugs, baring his teeth in a smile that's just south of friendly.

Philza smiles too, showing off his fangs. Tubbo holds up his hands, saying, "Woah, woah, here. Phil, it's your turn. It's not gonna last long, anyway."

"Heh? Turn?" Technoblade chuffs, even as the cacophony that is chat hisses, technodead, technodead, lmao, RIP- Shut up, chat, we are not dead yet.

Philza's grin widens maliciously. "Oh, did Eret not tell you?"

"That dude told me the bare minimum, man, I dunno, I dunno what you expected."

"You're not the first film crew he's hired," Tubbo says with a faux apologetic shrug. Before Technoblade can protest the use of crew to describe one man, Tubbo continues with the barest hint of a smirk. "But the other ones died, just like you will."

Technodead, technodead, EEEEEE, RIP, RIP, F, EEE, lmaooo, F, rainbowchat- "Get outta here," Techno drawls, narrowing his eyes. Not for the first time, he wishes chat had a physical embodiment he could punt. "Technoblade never dies."

"We'll see," Philza muses, his eyes twinkling with the apathetic amusement of an ancient god toying with mortals. Hazing, that's all this is. Phil hands Technoblade a business card. "Don't be late."

Techno scans the card, appreciating the flaming torch insignia etched into the bronze-inked paper. Ares, god of war... Chat hisses the allusion, seeming in awe of this man who has taken a god's symbol. Techno flips it over to find the address, and then raises an eyebrow at Phil. "What time?"

Philza picks up a stack of papers from the massive copy-printer and strides back to his desk. "Before evenfall."

Welp, that's that interaction over with. Technoblade notes how all the other office workers are studiously ignoring him. He turns to Tubbo. "Where's the boss?"

Tubbo puffs out his cheeks and crosses his arms, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Are you, are you going to complain to our manager, mister?"

"Yeah," Technoblade plays along. "I'm giving you a three star review."

"Oh, that's not bad."

"Out of ten."

Tubbo's visage darkens, and Techno gets an uneasy feeling like a hurricane is about to hit. The feeling passes, though, as Tubbo pouts. "I deserve more than that, man! Give me six stars, at least!"

"Tell ya what, if you show me where the regional manager's office is, I'll raise my review to seven stars."

"Done!" Tubbo cries, and points to an inconspicuous pair of doors on the other end of the room. "One leads to Manager Puffy, the other leads to Manager Schlatt. Choose wisely, good sir."

Techno hums approvingly, then draws out his pad of stickers from his coat pocket. Tubbo's eyes widen and he gasps, bouncing excitedly as Techno sticks a sparkly gold star to his forehead. "Good work, nerd."

Tubbo just stammers, plopping back into his chair with a blissful expression. Heh. Stickers work every time. Chat begs for stickers of their own, beg to be called nerds, beg for even a little taste of blood, but they don't deserve any rewards after being so bad all day.

Techno strides over to the managers' office doors. Each has a whiteboard on the front, with various scribbles over them. One has a fluffy sheep, and says in swirly script, //The captain is IN//. The other has various dicks doodled on it, and the only word written is, //Candice//. Chat breaks down in immature giggles. Technoblade opts for the former.

He knocks politely. A woman's voice replies, "Enter."

Opening the door, Technoblade scans the room. There's a full bookshelf covering one wall, and a low bureau across the opposite. A bay window sheds light across the manager's desk, tinted by the grey-green curtains.

A woman rises from her chair, her expression hidden by the sunlight behind her. Her waves of hair-- half brown and half silver-- sparkle with the dewdrop diamonds haphazardly woven in.

"District Manager Puffy?" Technoblade bobs his head to her.

"Call me Captain Puffy," Puffy replies, and her teeth glint in a wild smile as she tosses her head. "You're the new film crew Eret hired?"

"Uhh, apparently." Technoblade appreciates that she doesn't hold out her hand to greet him. "He never specified what kind of film he wanted, though, so-"

"Don't worry about that," Puffy tuts, "I'll give you instructions when you're settled in."

"K." Technoblade can respect this kind of person. Chat has been subdued and pouting for the past few minutes by his refusal to give them any sort of attention. He takes mercy on them and stares at the model ships on the bureau, letting them coo over the complexity and aesthetic.

"Uh, Mister Blade?" Puffy's voice intrudes on his appreciation of the ships.

"Just Techno is fine." Techno refuses to look away from the ships, since they're keeping chat happy for the moment.

"You'll be assigned a desk tomorrow, and you'll be given tasks around the office to, to acclimate and get to know your coworkers. Later, you can start filming random candid moments. We want a sort of documentary detailing our office lifestyle." Puffy hands a paper flyer to Techno.

Glancing through it, Techno frowns. "What exactly does Elysium sell?"

"We need a better PR team, which is why we've hired you. Elysium strives for the betterment of lives and the strengthening of minds." Puffy completely fails to answer the question. Chat calls her a sussy baahka, and Techno shoots a pointed glare at the bookshelves. He's definitely not giving chat any stickers tonight.

Puffy seems ready to dismiss him, so Techno bobs his head once more to her and opens the door. A strange noise, like the crashing of waves against a rocky shore, resonates through the air, halting him. Her eyes snap wide, glittering with something cold and unforgiving, yet somehow comforting and protective. "Pray to your god for mercy and it shall be given."

Technoblade chuckles, smothering the fire lit behind his eyes. "I'm kinda an atheist, Brizo; if there are any gods out there, they'll be begging me for mercy." He realizes too late that his extensive knowledge of the ancient Greek religion has escaped his tongue. Chat screams with excitement as they put together the allusions to the referenced spirit, Brizo, patron of sailors and prophecy. What a bunch of nerds.

Captain Puffy stares at him, her smile twinkling: sun rays piercing through storm clouds. "Of course, Hades."

Technoblade smiles back at the retort-- he's always been partial to the god of wealth-- and he bobs his head in deference to her once more. Any fellow partaker of old stories easily gets put in his good book. Puffy bows back, and Technoblade takes that as his cue to leave. He closes the door behind him.

Spotting the break room, Techno makes his way towards it, weaving through the desks. He pulls out his last, wrinkly dollar and slips it into the vending machine, then selects one of the bags of cookies. Sitting down with it, he inspects the coworker who's followed him in. "Tommy, right?"

The youth-- the sole employee in HR-- scowls, his ocean-blue eyes narrowing with scorn. "Who the fuck do you think you are, Technoblade??"

"Heh?" The teen's aggressive tone sets him on edge: hands itching and teeth aching and eyes burning for blood, blood, blood- no. No more of that. "Tommy, I just, I just got here? What are you upset at me for?"

"I'm just askin', Techno. Who do you think you are?" Tommy juts his chin out challengingly. "There can only be one boss man here."

"You wanna be the boss?" Technoblade rips open the bag of cookies.

"Well, obviously."

"Best me in single combat and we'll see." Technoblade is only jesting, of course. Even if the kid agreed to the fight, it would be unfair.

"Yes! Meet me in the parking lot in thirty minutes, idiot, and I'll fuckin' wipe the pavement with your ugly face!!" Tommy whoops and skips out of the break room before Techno can explain he was only joking.

Great. He's going to be fired for challenging a coworker to a fight, now. This will officially become the shortest job he's ever held, beating his last record by three hours. Technoblade munches his cookies and refuses to listen to chat as they bully him for making such a mess of his last chance.

When he's finished his cookies, Technoblade goes down to the parking lot, figuring that if he's going to be fired, he'd better do it in style.

Tommy waits for him, the breeze whipping through his blond hair. "No weapons, no magic, just me an' you, Technoblade."

"K." Technoblade shrugs, not seeing any point to telling the teen that magic doesn't actually exist. It was probably a sort of ironic joke, anyway.

Tubbo stands on the sidewalk, cheering for Tommy. Another teen leans on the wall behind Tubbo, seeming paler than should really be healthy, with a mop of black hair covering their ears.

"En garde!" Tommy cries and leaps to punch Techno.

Swaying to avoid the blow, Techno jabs Tommy in the gut with his knuckles. The youth staggers back, face distorted in pain. Technoblade remains relaxed, raising his hands. "Feel free to back out any time."

"Fuck you!" Tommy roars and charges, fists flailing. The picture of waves recklessly dashing themselves against an implacable cliff comes to mind.

Technoblade deflects the first fist and takes the wrist of the followup, twisting his arm behind his back. Tommy shrieks in rage and attempts to rip his arm away. Techno releases him and steps forward. "Sorry, but you ain't winnin' this."

"I will fucking end you!" Tommy once more flies into the fray.

Technoblade decides to go slightly harder on him. He sends Tommy stumbling with a single smack to his shoulder. When Tommy tries to flail fists at him again, Techno trips the boy. Tommy's back slams into the pavement, air whoofing out of his lungs.

"Y-you fuckin'-" Tommy wheezes for air. "I will not lose to you-"

"Looks like it's too late for that," Technoblade chuffs, watching the boy as he struggles to his feet.

Tommy sneers at him. "I, I'm feeling fuckin' merciful today. I won't kill you this time."

"I suppose I can return the favor." Technoblade smirks. He turns his back on Tommy to rub in how little of a threat the teen is. Not that Tommy will understand the gesture, but it boosts Techno's ego and makes chat jeer.

Tubbo and the other youth, a sales rep by the name of Ranboo, stride over. "That was sick!" Ranboo cries, eyes aflame with hero-worship as he stares at Technoblade.

Tubbo smiles implacably as he pulls Tommy to his feet. "Win next time, big guy. I lost five dollars to Ranboo on that."

"Fuck you, Ranboo," Tommy snarls, clinging to Tubbo's arm even as he's standing. "Bet on me, next time!"

"But you lost! I think that's pretty funny." Ranboo glances back up at the windows of the office. Several pairs of eyes seem to be peering down. Great. An audience to Technoblade's last few moments of employment.

Tommy grumbles as he storms to the doors, "I'll fucking beat you next time, Techno, see if I don't!"

The phrasing seems odd, in that it implies Technoblade isn't about to be fired for beating up his teenage coworker.

#long post #technoblade #dream smp #ao3 link #dream smp au #not rpf #2.4k words #fanfiction

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scribbleseas · 4 years

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The Indignant Pawn, Chapter I: The Princess of Germany’s First Kiss (Prologue)

Description: You are Y/n Y/l/n- formerly known as Princess Helena, the runaway princess.

You're an assassin for hire who only agrees to find the worst of London's criminals at the business end of your knife; until a mysterious woman hires you to end the likes of Ciel Phantomhive, the King of the Underworld. You find yourself trading your weapons for your abandoned family crest in order to infiltrate his home as none other than Princess Marie-Louise, your twin sister. What's to happen when you find that the young Earl is more than a callous businessman?

OVERALL STORY WARNINGS: sexual assault (once in the prologue), objectification, misogyny, death, detailed description of blood/gore, detailed description of murder, lying, impersonation, theft, weapons, detailed panic attacks, symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.

Author’s Note: If you have any questions or concerns about these warnings, please don’t hesitate to contact me! Otherwise, I hope you enjoy the first installment of TIP!

-Dan

⇠ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇢

. . .

DECEMBER 12TH, 1883

SCHLESWIG-HOLSTEIN, GERMANY

“Her Highness is missing again, haven’t you heard?” a woman spoke over the incoherent mumbling of men and women who were in the process of boarding the SS Mary- a steamship that was preparing to go to London, from the main port of Schleswig-Holstein. Their words were muffled to a girl as her lithe figure was contorted into a crouch between restrained boxes of cargo on deck. She trembled as they did nothing to compose the unforgiving draft of December air.

Her eyes were downcast, staring at the soiled silk of her petticoat. The sight of it caused her lips to twitch in amusement, the brown grime and recently melted snow did well to spread up the skirt, which made the elaborate dress more worthless than it had been coming out off the seamstress’s thread and needle.

“Who, Princess Helena? They ought to put her in her place when they find her- the rest of them are nothing like that hellchild,” another woman’s voice carried a heavy disdain, highly resembling Governess Lydia’s admonishing words- the verbal equivalent to the crack of a punishing whip. However, she missed the hateful German language as instead sported a thick, English accent, much like the first woman’s.

The girl’s grip on one of the thick gold chains in her pocket bag tightened as she twisted it around her finger and back again. Every bit of gratification the blemishing of her fine wardrobe gave her was quickly dispatched- made to be as bitter as the cold that stung at her nose. “How they managed to corrupt one of those children out of- what, four? Frightens me. Princess Marie should have a sure enough influence on her.

Naturally, the virtuous Princess Marie Louise of Schleswig-Holstein was a necessity to speak of to make a proper comparison. Though her visage was identical to Princess Helena’s, she couldn’t never have the grit that her sister’s character possessed. Marie was the perfect girl- obedient and soft-spoken, which was why she was so loved amongst the public and the royal family. She had the attitude of a sprouting tulip or a fleeting butterfly while her sister had broken nearly every custom a royal ought to obey.

The mere thought of Marie herself caused the girl’s features contort into a frustrated frown, as if she’d tasted something sour. Something undesirable, quite like herself, she’d come to realize.

“At least we’ve got on before the Peelers could start searching ships, heavens knows- that one is smart enough to climb aboard,” the woman continued, “what she’d do in the country of her grandmother is lost to me.” The woman’s doubt was quite an inspiration to the girl. There was plenty to do in London. How the girl hated being underestimated.

“Reckon the brothers will join the next massive search party?” The first woman asked, referring to the eldest siblings of the Germany royalty- Prince Christian and Prince Albert. Prince Christian was the heir of the throne, much to the public’s relief, considering he was the most disciplined- the most honorable, though he was only sixteen.

“Of course. They’re Princes. They must, no matter how fruitless the search is,” the second responded, her reproachful tone caused the girl to shudder again, perhaps pitying the small infant that was smothered in soft blankets. She could hardly make out them between the thin opening in front of her, her person was tall and slender, her skirts perky enough to suggest that they were made of light, shiny silk. It seemed he was militant because she was a noblewoman.

A deeper male voice interrupted, “shut your sauce-boxes! The princess doesn’t mean nothing to the royal family, so why would she be of any more public concern?” he asked, clearing his throat, the scent of his cigar sharper in the cold. The girl wrinkled her nose in equal part concern and disgust- gentlemen were never to smoke around ladies.

“Oh, Arthur. Put that thing away, you’re an embarrassment,” the tall woman gestured to the sleeping infant as she turned her back to the man who adjusted his grip on the detailed carpet bags as he followed the two women with ease before stopping to begrudgingly do as he was told.

“Of course m’lady,” he scoffed, putting out the cigar in the astray that was near the railing as other men seemed to do so in suit. The man picked up the bags again to follow his companions out of the girl’s earshot.

“Besides, you know Her Majesty fancies her grandchildren as much as her own summer home. She’s to make everyone care, you tool.”

. . .

DECEMBER 13TH, 1883

LONDON, ENGLAND

“Your name?” An officer demanded, his face stoic as he squinted at the girl, trying to get a proper look at her face as she concealed it with a burly scarf. There were dozens of officers by the port, each asking the same question to the incoming travelers. While most provided them with an answer, the girl simply stared at the man, her optics wordless as she pretended to claim unfamiliarity with his language as opposed to her own native tongue. “I asked for your name. Are you deaf?”

Under her scarf, she pursed her chapped lips. “Ich spreche kein Englisch,” (I don’t speak English) she mumbled, her ears reddening with the lie, though they were concealed by her elegantly braided bun and the limp hood that covered her head. She watched the guard, his stance straightening before shaking his head in disdain. His old face was keen, though he evidently lacked the energy to question her any further.

“Wait for your mother next time,” the officer commented, impatiently gesturing for her to move along. His frown passive enough for the girl to assume that her passage into the city was acceptable.

London was crowded, the cold air stale with the far off stench of horse muck and smoke. Carriages passed through the streets, the sound of the hooves of horses sounded on the uneven cobblestone. The conversations of pedestrians polluted the atmosphere, boys with the latest papers were sure to badger each passerby. News of the missing Princess came to London faster than SS Mary had been able to, which meant that Her Majesty had to have been notified of granddaughter’s disappearance already.

The girl followed the pavement, appreciating the lack of cracks and the polite, genuine society around her- until she was interrupted already, within a matter of minutes of leaving the sport the SS Mary had docked in.

“Buy one of me papes, Miss, please!” A freckled boy scurried over to the girl, whose hand paused as she considered pulling down her scarf. It was too soon, though she reckoned that exposing her bun like a proper lady would do well to keep her inconspicuous. No one would know that her dress was of German make and housed heavy, jewelled accessories under the multitude petticoats she sported.

The boy was shivering, his cheeks red. He was too thin for his jacket, and his gloves were fingerless. The girl had no money, yet she found herself fishing a certain ring out of her pocket bag, it was emerald- her birthstone settled in a polite rose gold. It was likely worth more than the company that managed to produce the paper that the boy was distributing. His eyes followed her gloved hand, widening considerably as she offered the ring to him. Selling a paper for a few coins was no use to anyone.

“Sell this, for no less than... fourteen hundred pounds. And wait a week, at least,” the girl ordered, her accent was more pronounced than what she would have preferred, but her point was deliberate enough to make up for it. The winter was too harsh for such a young boy (who couldn’t have been much younger than herself) to only look out for himself during. No heedful mother would allow her son to leave home in such ill-fitting clothes, which suggested that he was alone. When he hesitated, she pressed the ring into his palm.

“I-I..I can’t take this,” he protested with a regretful sigh that was visible as his warm breath collided with the air. He tried to give it back, his hand still and outstretched, but the girl led his fingers over the ring with her own hand. “Just buy some pap-”

“Spring is months away. Buy yourself an overcoat that fits,” the girl was smiling under her scarf, though it was only visible through her eyes as they squinted around the sides.

“With...fourteen hundred pounds?” the boy repeated his voice in a dramatic whisper. His brown eyes were welling up with grateful tears as he pulled her into a cordial embrace. It was inappropriate, though they were around the same age. He gave her a tight squeeze, trapping both of her arms in it before letting go and running off, his satchel dropping papers in his wake with every bounding step. “Thank you!” he exclaimed over his shoulder with a half-wave, though he’d nearly bumped into a woman in his ignorance. He stumbled to the side of the pavement and took off his hat for her, since she was escorted by a man in a tailored coat and cane, statues of wealth.

. . .

DECEMBER 27th, 1883

LONDON, ENGLAND

“I saw Princess Helena! She was here, in a scarf-” the girl’s eyebrows were knitted as she stared to the side, away from the Peeler that she attracted with her concerned screeching. Her apron was in a muss of batter and the remnants of an egg yolk. To match, her hands were caked in the unidentified substance as their wild gestures failed to exaggerate her point. She too, was young, not too much older than the girl who was currently hiding herself between two buildings, her scarf hanging low around her neck. She could feel sweat beginning to perspire through her shift and her stay was too loose and floppy with each significant move she made. Dressing herself had proven itself to be more of a challenge than she anticipated, especially with navigating the cross ties that required the deftness of fingers she did not possess yet.

“Please Katherine, all of that sugar has made you delusional. Get back to work and wash your face, would you?” the Peeler scoffed, gesturing to any onlooker to carry on. He rolled the girl’s paper into a thin coil, resembling his own wooden truncheon as he tucked it into his boot.

“You bloody mutton-shunter! She came in wanting a loaf of bread! I swear it!” Katherine defensively rubbed her cheekbone, unconsciously spreading more flour on it. She gave the street adjacent to her one more long look before returning to her parents’ shop. “Don’t give me that rubbish.”

“Her Highness has been missing for…’bout two weeks. If she was going to show up, she woulda done it by now. See yourself off, now,” he waved the adolescent away from his post at the end of the street. Vaguely, he could recall a comrade of his speaking of a strange girl in the port, alone- her face covered. Perhaps...he shook his head. The media ought to stop this witch hunt for the poor girl, it seemed to be getting into his old head.

Meanwhile, the girl found herself in a difficult position. For two weeks, she had been able to live off of the wealth her jewelry had sowed, renting a room along with new petticoats and boots, while vendors in the market square had time to ruminate amongst themselves. They refused her further business unless she unraveled the uncouth scarf that concealed her nose and lips and in spite of her protests (the damning weather, potential ugliness), but to no avail. Concealing her face was unseemly and unladylike. Evidently, the result of her obediently removing her scarf was having to dash off and hide, all because of the papers. It would have been effective to fake her own death before she had boarded that bloody steamboat.

In her hunger, she could hear her stomach protesting in a chorus of low growls. The scent of bread in the bakery had been too tantalizing to describe as her most recent full meal was nothing but a distant memory. She rested her head against the bricks of the building, strands of her hair clinging to the porous material and causing her bun to fall more than it had previously. Her chest rose and fell as she stared at the grey sky. Snow was going to fall again, for the second time that morning.

“Ey- you there,” a male voice was getting closer, his silhouette unveiled as he entered the girl’s sightline. A smart grin was playing at his lips, pronouncing the smile lines that were on either sides of his eyes. “You gave that girl a serious fright, didn’t ya, Your Highness?” He was holding a paper, the headline facing outwards: PRINCESS HELENA OF SCHLESWIG- HOLSTEIN; YET TO BE FOUND. The man was scruffy and as he drew closer, as did the trailing scent of a cigar. His suit was plaid, the jacket unbuttoned to reveal a white undershirt.

The girl’s first instinct was to start off again, though she knew in her state, she wouldn’t get too far. Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest and stood up straight to face him. “What’re you, eight?” He continued, “I ain’t much into the royal scene, but I remember old Helena getting married to old Christian a coupla years ago.”

The girl tensed as he stopped at a respectful distance before her, while he disrespected the parents of the missing princess. Their eyes met, his being a deep, confusing green. His hair was a russet brown that slicked back, exposing the aged wrinkles in his forehead as well, a matching set to the lines near his eyes. “Ten,” she corrected him, her arms reluctantly uncrossing. This man was intelligent for a commoner, she could see it in that childish stare of his.

“You’ve got a gift, then,” he commented offhandedly, “well, Your Highness,” he laughs at the wry pleasantry, his shoulders jumping along. “I reckon we can help each other out a bit.”

The girl raised her chin, a request for him to elaborate as he continued to speak, each word visualizing in the cold air. Around his mouth and over his jaw was the making of a beard, barely poking out of his skin. It managed to suit the indigent man. “Have you heard of a confidence trick?” The girl was silent, which he took as a discreet ‘no’. “You’re gonna need to take off the scarf and play ‘long, then, alright? Come with me,” he gestured towards himself as he led the girl out of the alley.

It was unwise of her to trust a strange man, yet the girl’s ample intellect was undermined by her curiosity and inevitable starvation. She unwrapped her scarf, wrinkling her nose as it was exposed to the biting wind. Small snowflakes fell, wetting her hair and face before leaving trails down the beige stomacher and gown she dawned. The man lingered at the foot of the alleyway, merely watching the street before fixating on a pregnant woman and a man, presumably her husband. He led the girl to the pair, his face contorting into a desperate, doleful look of despair.

“Please, good sir- good lady, my daughter has fallen ill and I’ve…” the man looked down at the girl, who had the sense to cough into the sleeve of her shift, her shoulders tense as if every breath was hard to take in. “I’ve lost me position to the boss’s son.”

“You have our sympathy, good sir,” the husband started, only to be interrupted by his wife’s glare. Her hand was on her distended belly, sourly reminding him that their own child could be ill in the girl’s place in the future. Their exchange was wordless, yet brief. The look the woman shot at her husband was akin to the look the girl’s own mother gave towards everyone around her. With a sigh, he offered the man a large bag of coins, “today’s wages. You best get to the physician before he closes for the night,” he dismissed with a nod, arm in arm with his satisfied wife.

“Do find yourself a tenement. This cold won’t be doing your girl any favors,” the woman frowned, shouldering her furs as if they’d disappear suddenly.

“God bless!” the man simpered with a bow as he waited for the couple to show themselves further ways down the street before turning his attention back to the astonished girl. “Well?” he asked, “call me Baxter. And your name, kid?” There was a knowing smile defining the old lines in his face as he handed the heavy bag of coins to the girl, who was silent for passing beats as she tried to decide if Baxter was the man’s first name or his surname, if either. She’d never know.

“Y/n,” she mumbled, accepting the heavy bag in her small hands.

“Pleasure’s mine, Y/n,” Baxter laughed, “let’s fetch somethin’ to eat before we starve, yeah?”

. . .

OCTOBER 11TH, 1885

LONDON, ENGLAND

“A lady is more than capable of giving a man a good collie-shangle,” Baxter said, his sleeves rolled up as he faced the girl. “The world’s all chuffed with this idea of stronger, faster, fatter- whatever,” his baggy shirt was billowing in the gentle wind as they were fixed in the shielding wood of their shabby home. The wind was feeding through the open window to the side. “This is what matters, Y/n,” he gestured to his forehead, with the intent to help her see that he was adhering to his brain, or intellect, “understand?” Her natural English was still a work in progress.

The girl was twelve, and this was about to be her first of many defense classes. The conman had finally decided that she was ready as in the streets, a proper knowledge of fist to cups was as necessary as breathing. She nodded slowly, digesting each syllable the man had said. It was the complete opposite of the royal way, where she’d be shoved into dresses and ignored, like an abandoned toy. Baxter never ignored her; he was more of a father than hers ever was.

“Your mind is always gonna be your greatest weapon,” the girl’s eyes traveled down to his belt, where there was his usual handgun sheathed to it. Baxter had taught her how to shoot it, though she had yet to lay so much as a finger on it. It was for emergencies- life or death situations. Baxter cautioned that violence was always the last resort- the ‘time out’ in a hopeless situation. “This is just training you how to apply it to useful combat. How you’ll be able to take out someone bigger than you.”

At the time, this would apply to nearly the entire world’s population, considering the girl had hardly rounded out from the higher quantities of food she’d been consuming, and only grew a few inches since the day she departed Germany. “I- that’s...have you gone mad?” she asked, her eyebrows furrowing. The crown of her head was hardly adjacent to the midline of his bicep.

“How’d you go about it, kid?” Baxter asked, crossing his arms over his chest as he waved his hand dismissively. “Think.”

There was no thinking about it. Besides their height difference, it was his strength versus hers. Even his arms were longer, which meant that he could defend himself simply by using her own force against hers. Biting her lip, she was pleased to comprehend what he had meant by her strategic rationale being her primary weapon, though next to a fist of a hand that could cover the entirety of her face, she couldn’t see how it was relevant. Her only virtue would be her agility and speed, which were also useless in a spar.

“Draw ‘em in by giving ‘em an opening to come in close,” Baxter said. “You’re small, so they’re gonna try n’ use that against you by getting in real close and pushing you around,” he explained by example, starting towards the girl and gently pushing her back by her shoulders. It wasn’t enough to force her to move, but it was enough to demonstrate.

“Won’t they be pushing to injure?” The girl questioned, her nose wrinkling in frustration.

“No one pushes to injure- not in the streets. That’s for ol’ church-bells in their fancy skirts and we ain’t having none of that. ‘S a waste of our time,” the conman shook his head, as if the fact was obvious. “Pay attention now,” he gestured for her to step away again. “You’re gonna use your height to your advantage. You’ve full access to vulnerable points, like me throat n’ me torso. Now come back in.”

“Use your hand to drive me back,” Baxter directed, merely pointing her into the right direction. She’d recall the answer better if she found it by her own hands.

The girl’s small hand curled into a fist for a moment. He told her to drive him away, not to strike. With an open hand, she surged her arm upwards, spreading her thumb and index finger to accommodate the stretch of Baxter’s throat as she gave the hold a short push so as to not hurt him.

Baxter was smiling now, “brilliant, ‘n right after, you’ll wanna finish it with a knock er two. Since you’ve ‘em stunned, they’ll be mindless weight that you’ll be able to draw in. Drive in, push the throat, pull in ‘nd bring your knee in, ...where, Y/n?”

The girl followed each step, visualizing it as Baxter explained them. Drive in, push the throat, pull in, force her knee...if he was mindless weight, he’d be slouching at his waist...leaving his whole middle defenseless! “Your midline,” her lips turned up at the sides as she smiled. He liked to say that she inherited his ‘troublemaker’ grin while she told him that they liked to call her the Devil Child behind her back in the castle. It’d made him laugh.

“Exactly. Now try it,” Baxter directed, bracing himself as the girl drove her small hand around his throat, the other pulling his arm away by the sleeve, a welcome addition. With a huff, she (attempted) to pull him in, but for model purposes, he allowed her to, which left him open to getting hit in the upper groin area with a surprising amount of force. “Good,” he grunted, planting his shoes into the ground to avoid putting his full weight on the girl. “Go high again,” he instructed.

“Your throat is at a poor angle,” her hands were getting clammy as it clutched onto either of his sleeves.

“Then don’t use it. Unnecessary movements can be suicide,” he scoffed, but it came out as more of a wheeze when her palm forced his face back, causing his tall frame to arch back as he moved with her, suddenly. “You’ll finish off with your elbow and other hand.”

“Right,” the girl nodded in confirmation, pulling his body down by the sleeve with one of her hands as she used her other arm to simulate butting his head with the bony joint of her elbow. She released the conman, who stood up after bending himself back to crack his spine, vertebra making consecutively loud exclamations. He was beaming at her again, the wrinkles on the outside bits of his eyes curling with his lips.

“Now we ought to run it until you break me into bits. Buck up,” he said, extending his arms to his starting point.

. . .

AUGUST 12TH, 1887

ALFRISTON, EAST SUSSEX, ENGLAND

Spending the summer out of London was an understated relief. In Baxter’s shoebox of a countryside home (he said he’d inherited it from his father), the girl was able to let her hair down from its bun and loosen the tight strings of her stay, even going as far to muddy her boots, all of which would have caused a riot within her former life.

By then, the German princess, Helena had been missing for nearly four years. Her Majesty had been heartbroken to establish her granddaughter’s funeral in 1885, though it seemed she was the only individual of royal blood to truly mourn. Even Princess Marie-Louise, the twin of Helena’s, was quite stoic as they lowered the empty coffin. And thus, it was quite simple for the girl to remove her scarf and freely introduce herself as Y/n L/n, the foreign girl who stood at the side of the cunning conman- who was also the kindest of anyone she’d ever encountered.

Baxter, within their four years together, had aged considerably. His dark locks of hair had begun to gray as it fell past his eyebrows that morning, the wrinkles next to his eyes were more defined with every squint as he took a long drag of his cigar. He exhaled, blowing the dark smoke into the cloudless atmosphere of Alfriston as they reclined against the cool stones that made up the walls of the building behind them. It was a textile shop, but it wasn’t open quite yet- the owner was on his way.

The girl was staring at her cream colored boots as they peeked out from under her skirts. They were the cleanest pair she owned, and thus, employed to help orchestrate their plans for that morning. Dimly, she could recall stealing them from a whining daughter of a baron. Her crying was more shrill than a highest soprano in an opera house. It was Baxtor who told her that any spoiled maid could be distracted by something better than they already had. He was proud to watch on as the girl waited for the baron’s daughter to remove her boots in awe of a new pair.

Now, they were worn by the girl under a first hand gown, bought with an abundance of coins from different pocket bags and wallets. The gown was a gloomy shade of blue, enlightened by the gold lining that kept it secured to the stomacher. It was regal enough, given the pretenses of the meeting.

“Remember, liars stare off and shrink away. You’ll do neither,” Baxtor affirmed, to which the girl nodded, steeling herself. “You’ll look right into the bloke’s eyes... and take all he’s worth,” the man chuckled derisively as he coughed from the dryness that the cigar had put in his throat. The girl smiled, the corners of her lips twitching. “He’s gonna be mad as hops too, thinking he can outsmart you because you’re a girl.” Baxtor always spoke in a way that resided between both a common man’s tongue and that of an aristocrat, which naturally influenced the girl’s own English- in addition to her accent that tended to turn her ‘th’ sounds in most words into a noise akin to a ‘d’, ‘s’, or ‘f’. ‘Their’, as an example, tended to verbalize as ‘deir’, which was nearly impossible for the girl to differentiate. In short, her English accent would never be completely flawless, despite the conman’s efforts.

You’ve taught me well enough not to waste your breath on filling silence,” the girl moistened her lips, her grip on the large envelope in her hands was tight as she accidentally wrinkled it.

“Have I?” She could feel Baxter’s meticulous gaze on her for the moment.

He was more than aware of that fact, seeing as the girl was quite astute to begin with and paired with his wide field of knowledge, the incoming baron simply couldn’t stand a chance.

Speak of the devil; a dark carriage rode up to the building, rolling to a stop as the driver pulled back on the reins of the horse. He proceeded to open the door for a top heavy man, suited in a high top hat with a matching jacket. His mustache twisted at the ends, in contrast to the unconvincing smile that his thin lips twisted into. Baron Steven Wright- the owner of one of the most competitive textile companies in Europe, for the time. His factories were working double time as he was desperate to find a way to edge out the rest of his opponents.

His desperation was what made him a viable target for this sort of schematic. Baxter liked to compare ravenous businessmen to the little, cattish girls of ruffles and pink. All they wanted was more- they took and stole until they could find something better. Tricking them out of their own fortune was easy enough- it was blameless, considering they were the ones stupid enough to let their own greed drive them.

“Lord Wright,” the girl lowered her gaze and dipped into a proper curtsy. Though it had been years since she followed the proper social etiquette of addressing a titled man, the movement was still of second nature.

“Miss Hartmann,” Wright moistoned his lips, his steely gaze meeting the girl’s as she returned to her proper stance. “Pleasure,” his hand was in the deep pocket of his jacket, it was a heavy fur and the beads of sweat that dripped down his forehead were signs that he was merely wearing the burly thing in the middle of the summer to show off his status. They were quickly dabbled away by a handkerchief before he continued to fish a key out of the pocket.

“Johanna, please,” the girl corrected with a smile, immediately attempting to lower the man’s weak guard. She was a girl, and she’d merely use that to her advantage. Baxter was silent at her side as he played the role of a defensive escort for a clueless daughter of a German baron whose body was recently dug into the earth. The girl was to sell him a false land deed in Dosenmoor under the pretenses of his erecting more factories within the industrializing country. By the time the man traveled to make note of his spoils in the flesh, Baxter and herself would be back in London- knee deep in new plans.

“What a shame it is, your father passing so suddenly,” the man started, pushing his key into the padlock of the shop’s door. “Your grieving must’ve been cut short, being the head of his trade now. What is it, agriculture?” It seemed the man thought he was cheating a thoughtless, grief-stricken girl out of prime land.

“Of fodder beet and potatoes, yes, my Lord,” the girl nodded, her lips relaxing into a content line as the baron turned his back to her. Briefly, she met Baxter’s eyes as he nodded once, a prompt for her to go inside after the chubby man. “My mother...didn’t fancy the truth,” she was less cautious in watching her accent for evident reasons.

The baron was laughing, though it sounded like a series of strangled wheezes- likely from too many cigars. The girl noticed that Baxter must have finished his off between Wright’s arrival and then, as it was improper for a servant to be smoking in the presence of a female. “True love at its purest, my dear. Being unable to cope when he parts first. Deciding to join him for fear of being alone. My, you’re so young, running such a manly business in your dainty hands.”

There was a bitter taste in her mouth as she bit her tongue. At least the walls of the shop took them out of the rising sun and humid air of the countryside. She appreciated the scent of old wood as the baron led them up a rickety flight of stairs to a room at the end of a hall. In the room, there were shelves of books and in the middle of it all, a neat desk, as opposed to the tables of assorted fabrics, threads and partially woven clothes on those they had passed.

“Perhaps you’d consider handing it off to someone,” Wright mused, the implication as conspicuous as his mustache, or even the pink in his face that surfaced with the effort that took him to climb the short staircase. “Johanna,” he urged, the girl’s lack of eye contact leading him to believe that her attention was elsewhere.

“My Lord,” she needed to bring the matter of their meeting back into focus, though easily, she could weasel the man out of more of his fortune. This wasn’t about being greedy. The girl allowed the man to pull a wooden chair out from under the table for her to sit in. Baxter was lurking behind her. The girl smiled again, in order to mask the directness behind her next comment, “what keeps us from the matters at hand?” Wright sat himself on the opposite side of the table, a grunt passing through his lips as he gauchlessly righted himself. He was making a show out of what needed to be a five minute meeting in order to try to rouse the girl, an acting beneficiary of hundreds of free acres of land into giving him more than he paid for. Little did he know, Wright would be getting much less than he was emptying his bank for.

“Right, stay the course,” the man was too amused with her, as if he was cooing at a cute stray kitten. It was a mockery that caused the girl’s blood to curl in frustration. “Why don’t we start with sorting those out?” He requested, gesturing to the envelope in the girl’s hands with his chin.

. . .

FEBRUARY 3RD, 1888

LONDON, ENGLAND

There was a loud knock at the door, truculent and intrusive. “Johanna Hartmann!” Each knock was stiff, causing the door to wobble as it threatened to give in. “Open in the name of Baron Steven Wright! This instant!”

Their home was small, hardly larger than the first floor of a tenement within the heart of London. The main room served as the kitchenette and Baxter’s bedroom as he gave his (the room down the short corridor) to the girl. The fireplace was on, the heat crackling and filling the vicinity with warmth as it fought off the frosty draft of February.

Baxter stirred from his light slumber with a start. Johanna Hartmann? Vaguely, he could recall the name form one of their older scams- from the summer their offseason. They made quite a profit off of his greed, more than triple what they made off of working class pedestrians. The fallout was late in meeting their doorstep, however.

Baxter was confident that he could diffuse the situation without waking the girl. She needed her rest after their long day of practice- teaching her how to unarm a gunman was a necessary skill, especially for a girl as she strode into her adolescence. He wouldn’t always be around to guide her, after all.

Baxter stood from his arm chair, quickly looking from the empty hallway and to the door again. Thankfully, she wasn’t awake yet, which gave him time to turn this man away. Opening the door, he was met with three men, each much younger than the baron. By the way their hands lay protectively on their belts, he was able to conclude that they were carrying some form of a Remington shotgun. The lights were too low for a proper shot.

He forced himself to smile, his shoulders dropping as he mirrored the body language of the other men. Improper posture was telling of their backgrounds- it was something he had to have the girl unlearn to survive the streets, amongst many other things. “Is there something you lot needed?”

“Put away y’re gigglemug, if you know what’s good for ya,” the man in the middle said, his words thick with a cockney accent. “Where’s the lass?”

“Lass?” Baxter repeated, moistening his lips as he feigned contemplation. “I haven’t the slightest-”

“Don’t sell us no dogs-” the man scowled, a wrinkle forming between his bushy eyebrows. With the slightest nod of his head, his accomplices pushed past Baxter, causing the door to slam against the plaster wall. “Just hand over the money and we won’t have to blow no one’s brains outta their skulls,” he continued, pulling out the gun that Baxter had predicted. It was pointed in his general direction, a threat. Vaguely, he could hear the soft whining of the wooden floor as the girl started down the hallway, her lantern chasing the dark away as it revealed her face.

“Johanna Hartmann,” the man laughed dryly, cocking his head, an arrogant smirk contorting his tan face. “Well? Cough it up. Every coin of it,” he ordered, aiming at her, rather than Baxter. “Before I get angry,” he added.

“Y/n, get out of here,” Baxter ordered, fixating his assertive stare on her as her lips set in the indignant pout that she assessed situations with. “Now.”

“One step and I shoot this bloke. Then yourself.”

“Sir, I don’t know anything of a Miss Hartmann,” the girl started, biting the inside of her lip. “Perhaps you could go to the Peelers?” she suggested, purposely widening her eyes in false innocence as any simple girl would advise a stranger to go to the police. “Her name sounds...quite German?”

“If anything, you lot seem to be more likely to steal- barging in during the wee hours and waving them guns about,” the conman started, tutting in disapproval. Evidently, he was switching tactics, since the men were not buying into their act of innocence. It wasn’t wise to challenge three impatient men with guns in their hands, and the girl knew this as she communicated through her eyes in a warning side gaze.

Met with angry scowls, he continued in his play to distract the trio. “I’ve got our papers. I’ll prove that she ain’t no Heathmen or Hartman, or whatever-” Baxter rolled his tired eyes before turning on his heel. He was in nothing but his nightshirt, similarly to the girl, who was merely glad in a sheer shift. It was improper for her to be so exposed in a knee-length, cotton gown.

The girl watched on as the conman stalked towards their cupboard over the kitchenette. She assumed he was after a knife to defend himself, though it was fruitless. These men were well into their twenties at least- likely paid off by the baron to do his bidding as he sucked on a silver spoon.

“I’ve had enough of this. He’s insolent, Pete. Let’s just shoot ‘em and search the house,” the man on the left flank said, moments before he was shot in the side by...Baxter, whose face was steely calm, his lips in a dead serious line as he recoiled from the force his gun exerted against him. The sound of the bullet rang throughout the small house as the man’s body fell in a cursing heap.

Baxter wasn’t quick enough as immediately, the favor was returned to him by so called Pete- the snarling man in the middle. “Y/n!” the conman yelled, as before the gun went off, he’d assumed the bullet was to fix itself into her flesh, rather than his. Thankfully he’d been wrong as instead, the white-hot pain in his stomach spread through his body as blood began to soak his clothing. He was grateful that he was able to keep from eating his words- an unecessary movement was suicide. At least the girl was able to learn that firsthand.

Screaming, the girl was trembling more than the conman as she thrust herself to his side. The sound of her anguish was almost as deafening as the dispatching bullets were.

Her breathing was labored- she could feel her heart racing in her ears as unborn tears stung her eyes. She balled up his shirt, pressing it into the bleeding wound. “You can’t,” she urged, her accent flaring as it tended to do when she was stressed, or upset. “Don’t please-” her hands were shaking as through the dirty lens of his new glasses, Baxter could see tears running down her cheeks. He hadn’t intended to leave her like this, but their time was limited. His time was limited while hers was a mere bullet away from being so.

“Y/n, listen here,” Baxter’s voice was weak, though his eyes carried the same impish spirit that he had met her with all of those years ago. He whispered, gesturing for her to come closer, her ear to his lips, “trap the gun,” he said, in which she nodded, a lump forming in her throat as his cold hand wrapped around her wrist, pushing it away from the fabric of his with a confident nod. “Trap the gun, Y/n.”

“I-” she started through labored breaths as she wiped her eyes, staining her face with his blood by accident. There were too many words. Too much admiration and respect...familial love, but not enough time.

“I know,” he said, tears pooling his eyes as he weakly waved her away to face the two standing men with shaking legs and tears that left tracks as they fell down her face. Her heart was heavy with grief because not even Baxter, the strongest of any man could survive such a wound without care and she- a mere girl could survive two men with guns to her back, as it seemed.

Trap the gun.

The girl mustered the remnants of courage and rationale in her panicked conscience. She was this conman’s legacy, as far as she knew. She wasn’t going to die in their hands. They were not going to take her. Rage began to run through her veins in the form of adrenaline.It caused her heart to stammer faster, her hands to curl into fists as she faced the two remaining men, the third being dead on the floor. Neither of them seemed to care about him- poor bastard.

Trap the gun.

She wiped fresh tears off her flushed face with the back of her hand, choking on a sob. Draw them in. “I’ll..I can do anything- please don’t sh..sh..shoot me,” her breathing was labored as she focused on formulating a plan, throwing her heart into every tear, each new gasp for air that was unpracticed, unlike the pathetic script of words that escaped her lips.

Trap the gun.

“James, I reckon we can find a way to get this little tramp to pay back every bit of the coin she owes the boss,” Pete smiled, his cold eyes exchanging a sick smirk with the standing accomplice. “We oughta show her the ropes right here. Sweet thing’s beggin for us in that getup.”

Draw them in.

They were trailing forward, the hair on the girl’s arms standing standing at attention from both the cold that the open door was inviting in and the intensity at which the men were staring into her flesh. “Look at her, she’s a beaut...even with all of that blood on ‘er. She’d go for a pretty penny after we break her in, Pete,” James agreed, the girl only comprehending pieces of their words, half listening to keep herself from moving too soon. They weren’t close enough.

The man who had shot Baxter- Pete- was less than arm’s length away as the barrel of his gun was dipping and he didn’t stop his pursuit until the muzzle of the gun was resting on the girl’s hipbone as a looming threat. James, meanwhile, scoffed, “don’t be coy with us- take this off,” he ordered, tugging firmly on the soft material of her shift. He was behind the girl, his own prowling fingers working on top of her bloody ones to do so.

It was cold between the clothed bodies of the men, they were damp with melted off snow and rough with the common material they were made out of. Pete was playing with the necklace around her neck, twisting it around his finger whilst James’s calloused fingers continued to wander; grazing from the girl’s sternum, down her stomach- until it was between her thighs, gently caressing. His hands were cold. Everything was cold.

James’ lips were attached to the juncture between her neck and shoulder, suckling the skin after pushing her hair out of the way. The pad of his finger was insistent on rubbing around a specific margin of her womanhood, causing her to exhale, the sensation growing warm as it was hard for her tremulous legs to carry her. Pete was kissing her, his lips predatory and slick with saliva.

“Hmm, Pete, feel her,” James praised, his coarse hands on either of her thighs, urging them apart as he supported her with his thigh. “Wet already.”

“Has she already been broken in? Lord knows what she was doing here with that old bum,” Pete mused before grunting in approval as his fingers ran from the spot James had been rubbing, down to her lower entrance. His gun faced the floor as he was more occupied in exploring her formerly sacred womanhood.

“Doesn’t matter, she’s ours now, isn’t that right?” James asked, forcing one of his fingers past the girl’s saliva-slick lips. “Speak, whore,” he forced another slender finger into her mouth, pressing down her tongue.

The girl choked on the two digits as they threatened to touch the back of her pharynx, her face flushing in equal parts embarrassment and rage. Reflex tears formed in her eyes, rolling down her cheeks. The man retracted his fingers with an amused laugh. Her nails dug out small crescents in her palms where they dug in.

“Oh, she’s crying. What a little princess,” Pete sneered, “wanna bet she tastes like one?” he asked, his own laugh was shockingly similar to James’ as he brought his intruding fingers into his mouth with a groan. Princess. If only they had known- the looks on their faces, the fear would have been invaluable.

Trap the gun.

Adrenaline sprinted through the girl as she ignored any lingering hesitation in her body. Her bloody hand took hold of the barrel of Pete’s gun as she forced it to the side, trapping it in her grasp. The man faltered, yelling in surprise as the unclothed girl stepped in (away from the line of fire), forcing the firearm down to face the floorboards. Her arm was completely straight as her other hand came around to help pull the gun away with all of her strength, paired with the strongest knee to his groin that she could manage with her shaking limbs.

Dammit, James, shoot ‘er!” Pete yelled, his face pale with fear as the girl unlocked the gun, her heart beat growing rapid as she met his eyes for the first time that morning. The sun was rising behind him, painting his skin a luminous orange and enlarging his shadow behind him. He would have made a fine man- tall and broad, his facial hair kept to a clean fade. The girl was doing him a favor.

She could hear James pulling out his own gun again, mumbling a curse under his breath. They should have killed her when they had the chance as in her stead, she shot Pete without further hesitation, the first bullet digging into his stomach and the second, his jugular as he fell. The sound again, reverberated throughout the room, the scent of gunpowder at a new peak. As it had before, the recoil of the gun caused her to stumble back, her arms involuntarily being forced up.

“You bitch! You’ll, you’re going to bloody p--” James screamed, glowering at her as he struggled to get his fumbling hands in place. But he was too slow.

With another fearsome blast, the girl was pushed back again, causing a stinging pain within the muscle of her shoulder. James was evidently, in worse shape as he fell to the ground. Blood began to blossom near his lower ribs, which was far off from where she had initially aimed. The sun was shining on him, his ashen skin and closing eyes. For the next few moments, she could hear his labored breathing, growing rapid before it stopped, suddenly.

The girl was breathing heavily herself, struggling to recollect her thoughts as she felt a warm, unidentified slick run down her thigh, Baxter’s blood drying on her hands and under her nails, making her skin feel stiff. Her ears stung, as if someone had forcefully shoved fabric into them. Her arms were heavy and the air was thick with gunpowder.

She pulled her shift back over her head, her eyes reluctant to leave the corpses of her attackers, as if they could reanimate and try to impose themselves on her again. Her fingers rubbed at her tear-stained cheeks, the lump in her throat was finally beginning to settle down again.

Someone had to hide the bodies.

. . .

Tags:

#ciel phantomhive #ciel x reader #black butler #strangers to lovers #anime fanfiction #sebastian michaelis #murder #angst #historical romance #historical fiction #victorian era #black butler fandom #black butler fanfic #the indignant pawn #ciel phantomhive x reader

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apocalypsewriters · 3 years

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Not-a-Damsel in Distress: Hallway Edition

Summary: Victor-Hecate's first public short story! Their many protective layers concealed too many features, so a patrolling teacher hehe that rhymed decided to lecture them on it and subsequently put them in danger. A somewhat mysterious girl (Aster @pagesofcursive character) comes to the rescue, which may lead them back to a path they abandoned long ago for the safety of them and the mental peace of those around them.

“Miss Ernesh!” The teacher’s voice rang out across the hallway.

Victor-Hecate Ernesh jumped, their head halfway in their locker. Sighing, they tugged at their scarf, one of the many layers of clothing they wore, and closed their locker. “Yes?” they answered, their voice muffled by the cream bandana they wore.

Coldly, the teacher demanded, “Take off all those… accessories. You know the school policy.”

Victor-Hecate said nothing and began unwrapping their copious layers of clothing. Under the severe gaze of the teacher, they shrugged off the overcoat and laid it on the tiled floor, grimacing at the thought of all the grime from day to day usage getting on the soft leather. They tugged off their grey beanie, a mop of tightly coiled chocolate brown curls spilling out and hanging halo-like around their head. After trying and failing to unwrap their scarf, they tugged off their treasured gloves and added them to the slowly growing pile at their knees.

“Hey!” a voice echoed sharply from one of the nearby lockers.

A pale girl stormed over, her dark, choppily cut, chin-length hair framing her face. A scar traced down the left side of her face, through her eyebrow to halfway down her cheek. Her dark clothing contrasted starkly with her fierce blue eyes. Victor-Hecate’s eyes widened at the impressive figure she cut; they’d heard of her before - Aster had dated Dawn, one of the more popular girls in schools, and was in and out of detention so often, no one could keep track of her misdeeds. “Can’t you see they’re obviously uncomfortable? Why can’t they just wear what they want?” Aster’s icy tone matched the teacher’s.

The teacher raised an eyebrow at the fuming girl. “She wasn’t adhering to the dress code, so she had to change. And frankly, it’s none of your business, so resume getting ready for class.”

Victor-Hecate turned back to their pile of clothing, their spirits lifted a little - they’d finally managed to unknot their scarf, and someone was trying to stand up for them. They stole another look at the girl, who rolled her eyes at the teacher. Stealing a hidden smirk, they got to work untying their bandana, which had gotten caught in their short hair.

“Dress code is stupid anyway,” she snapped, her eyes blazing brighter than before, and she narrowed them at the teacher. “Are their clothes personally bothering you? Because I don’t see how a few extra layers do anything but help them feel comfortable.”

The teacher’s visage grew haughty at the fiery girl’s insolence. “It’s a matter of security. It is hard to identify the student, and he or she could be smuggling something,” the teacher said snidely.

“A matter of security?” she said with a snicker. “Did you know that four of the doors leading into the school and the front gate all have broken locks? There are malfunctioning cameras everywhere, and at least half the windows are cracked. Why don’t you focus on those instead of targeting an innocent student?” As Victor-Hecate ripped their ashamed gaze from the pile of clothing on the floor, they caught a flash of fire curling around Aster’s fist.

“Mind your tone, young lady,” snapped the teacher.

Finally, Victor-Hecate plucked up the courage to say something. Apparently, their mumble was inaudible to the pair standing above them, as the teacher abruptly asked, “What was that?”

They swallowed and tried to muster up their drive once again. “It’s not that big of a deal. It’s fine, really.”

The teacher turned and smugly addressed Aster, who was still standing there, boiling with barely checked rage. “You see?”

Aster’s voice hardened, her eyes growing steely as she reeled back her temper. “You’re terrifying them, do you see that? Although I’m sure that during the dark ages, when you first became a teacher, it was fine to mistreat students, but it’s a different time now.” If looks could kill, the teacher would be dead on the floor. Rolling her eyes once again as the teacher opened her mouth, she quickly said, “Just let them go the rest of the day with the layers they’re comfortable with, and then I’ll help them figure out a new wardrobe after school.”

The teacher huffed before stalking off down the hallway, leaving the pair alone in front of the lockers. Victor-Hecate spoke up again, their voice filling the silence that now permeated the area, “Thank you. That was really brave. I would never be able to do that.” Their cheeks rushed with blood, giving them the color they desperately needed.

Aster’s expression softened a little. “It’s no problem. I hate when teachers do stuff like that.” She paused for a moment. “Hey, do I know you? You look familiar.”

They shrugged, “Maybe. But probably not. I don’t know a lot of people, and as you can see,” they said, gesturing to their backpack, which was bursting at the seams with their shredded layers, “I don’t show a lot of features. But I know you, though.” Victor-Hecate paused, doubting their previous observation. “You’re Aster, right? You’ve caused quite a stir at school. Even I noticed.”

Aster let out a laugh, her features alight with memories of mischief. “Yeah, that’s what I’m known for. What’s your name again?”

Victor-Hecate smarted, startled by the question. “Sorry about that. I’m not really used to people asking me. I’m pretty good at fading into the background.” They smiled weakly, pulling on their backpack. “I’m Victor-Hecate. Take your pick of nicknames; I don’t mind. It’s a bit of a mouthful, I know.” Once again, they wished they didn’t have their powers, or at the very least, were wearing gloves – this seemed like a situation that needed a handshake. Memories of normal greetings, normal interactions with people had faded over the six years of having powers.

“Well, Victor-Hecate,” Aster said, nudging them. They stiffened at the contact, preparing themself for pain, but none came. Thankfully, Aster hadn’t managed to brush any skin. “I think you’re pretty cool. And I’m sure I know someone in your family- any siblings at this school?”

“Thanks. My cousin goes here, actually. You’ve probably heard of her; she’s pretty popular. Violetta?”

Aster’s eyes widened for a moment, a slight blush rushing into her cheeks. She cleared her throat. “Oh. That explains things then. She’s in a bunch of my classes.” She chuckled. “I don’t know if she mentioned, but we kinda have a rivalry going on.”

Victor-Hecate shook their head sadly. “I don’t see her that much. We don’t run in the same circles. Like I said, I don’t know a lot of people.” They shuffled their feet awkwardly, tugging at the sleeves of their light green turtleneck. “Thanks again for rescuing me.” They started walking away, leaving Aster behind, still a little flushed.

“Well, tell her I said hi, I guess.” Her face went red again as they stopped, just shy of a chewed pencil that lay unseen one pace away from the tips of Victor-Hecate’s grey converse. Aster’s hair bounced slightly as she shook her head quickly. “Actually, don’t.”

Victor-Hecate twisted around, taking two steps towards the darkly dressed girl, raising their eyebrows, a smirk spreading on their face. “So, don’t tell her you say hi?”

Aster avoided their eyes, somehow blushing brighter. “Just ignore all of that. Uh, so am I coming over to your house to help you pick out new clothes, or did I straight up lie to that jerk of a teacher?” Fire licked out from her fists at the memory of the argument.

“You can if you want to. But I’d understand if you don’t. I’m not the most sociable person,” their smile faded.

“No, no,” Aster reassured. “I would love to hang out.”

Victor-Hecate brightened, “Awesome. Here.” They swung their bag around and fished in a pocket, searching for stationary. After a few agonizing moments of scrambling, they pulled out a pen and paper. “Write down your number so we can organize this later.”

Aster stretched out a hand. As soon as her fingers brushed the paper, they let go. The pen clattered to the floor, the paper drifting to the rest moments later. Victor-Hecate shot Aster an apologetic look as she bent to pick up the fallen materials. Aster leaned against the lockers, writing out her phone number in chicken scratch, the numbers barely legible. Stopping for a brief moment partway through writing, she aggressively shook the pen, which revolted at being used sideways. Handing back the paper, Aster blinked as the other student snatched the paper out of her hands. Victor-Hecate cringed at the situation, worried their fear was warping another potential relationship.

“Well, text me then,” Aster said, thankfully not mentioning Victor-Hecate’s odd mannerisms.

“Thanks! I will” They turned and started walking away. Suddenly, their foot slid out from underneath them, a pencil flying up in the air – the culprit of the tumble. They fell to the ground, hard, their wrists smacking against the grimy tiled floor. Anyone else would have let out a cry or grimaced at the fall, but Victor-Hecate’s high pain tolerance allowed them to brush off the injury.

“Here, let me help.” Too late, they heard Aster walk up to them, her boots clumping across the floor, and grab their hands to try to pull them up. Pain bloomed in their abdomen, their eyes flashed black as their power flared up. They snatched their hands away, falling once more to the floor. They curled into the fetal position, wrapping their arms around their middle as the phantom wound lingered. By their best guess, it would be a knife wound- and an ugly one at that. They let out a whimper as the pain surged. Finally, finally, it faded, allowing Victor-Hecate to recover and sit up.

Their voice was strained, “I’m good, but thanks.”

“Are you okay? What happened?” Concern was etched on Aster’s face.

Hauling themself to their feet, they replied, “My awful power happened.” They wilted at the worry, the pity on Aster’s face. It always happened. They were maybe, finally, respected as a person, a whole person without issues. And then, inevitably, their power surfaced and put them below everyone else again. They hated feeling weak, but the only thing worse than the pain was the looks they got. No one ever saw them as competent after witnessing a breakdown. Victor-Hecate watched curiosity light in Aster’s eyes. Maybe pity wasn’t the worst. They dreaded her horrified reaction to the reveal of the morbid powers they never wished for.

“Oh, uh- what’s your power then?” The question spilled out of Aster’s lips.

Straightening their backpack, they muttered, “I’m so sorry for the way you go out.” They brushed themself off, relishing in the final moments of ignorance before horror soured the air. Clearing their throat awkwardly, they explained, “Whenever I touch someone, I feel the pain of their death.”

With their gaze fixed on the floor, they didn’t see Aster backing up, but they heard it; her black leather boots squeaked twice on the tiles before her hand pressed against a locker, the metal letting out a crack as it warped under her weight. They imagined the shock on her face, just like the dozens before her. “I- What hap- No, I don’t want to know. Is that why...?” She stammered before trailing off.

Victor-Hecate's shoulders tightened from their slumped position. They were distraught but tried not to show it. “Yeah. That’s why I wear so much clothing - to cover any skin.” Swallowing back tears, they knelt back on the ground and pulled a jacket out from their bag. They slipped it on, jamming their thumbs in the holes by the base of the sleeves and zipping it up as quickly as possible. They forced themself to meet Aster’s gaze before continuing, “If you don’t want to come over, I understand. Nothing like a stranger knowing how you die.”

Aster chuckled weakly, the shock slowly fading from her face. “No, no, it’s- it’s okay.” She smiled at Victor-Hecate, who stood, shell-shocked in front of her. “And, exactly, I’d rather a friend know how I die compared to a random stranger. So, I’m still welcome to come?”

“Oh,” they said, caught off guard. “Of course.” The words were quiet, not quite out loud, but not quite to themself either. “I’d love that.” The pair stood in silence for a few moments before Victor-Hecate piped up, “Just, be careful around knives, okay?”

Aster’s jaw dropped at the statement. It hung open for two counts before snapping shut. “I’ll do my best. See you after school.”

“Yeah,” they said, perking up at the prospect, “Yeah…” As they made their way down the hallway, making a point to avoid the pencil, which sat innocently three feet from where it had been five minutes earlier.

Aster laughed under her breath, before starting on her own way in the opposite direction of Victor-Hecate, who now almost had a spring in their step. That day, they counted down the hours left of school for a completely different reason from their classmates. The only time the wait slipped their mind was lunch – they pulled out their phone, pulling up the number of a person they hadn’t talked to face to face for a long time.

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