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delirious-donna · 12 days

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My Lover’s The Sunlight [Higuruma Hiromi]

an: a wonderful thought that I simply couldn’t pass over when it was suggested to me, especially as a glasses wearer myself… Hiromi likes it when you keep your glasses on.

pairing: Higuruma Hiromi x female reader

warnings: reader is a glasses wearer, bit of domestic bliss, alcohol mentions, making out turns into much more, NSFW

The evening had been a pleasant one. Not often did you take the time to cook together these days, more often than not it was hastily thrown together hodgepodge meals or heated up prepackaged food for convenience alone.

It was understandable when you were both so very busy, and it wouldn’t go on forever, that much you knew for a fact. So, to have shared a delicious home cooked meal and a lot of laughter at Hiromi’s supremely lacking culinary finesse, it was a balm for your heart and soul.

With bellies full and good humour in abundance, settling into a nightly routine was as easy as pie. Your latest book rested on your chest, legs up on the couch with your feet in Hiromi’s lap. He massaged the tired arches, rolling his knuckles along the soles and pinching playfully at your wiggling little tootsies. The movie he had stuck on played quietly as background noise to the idle chatter you indulged in, everything was perfectly at peace.

“We should have evenings like this more often,” you mused out loud whilst reaching for your wine glass and taking a long, well deserving sip.

Hiromi agreed with a noise in his throat. His gaze moved from the screen to your face, dipping from your eyes to your mouth, watching as you licked away a stray droplet of cabernet. The hand at your foot moved to your ankle, thumb grazing over your ankle bone before grasping to tug you deeper into the cushions.

You offered a saccharine smile, dripping in honeyed possibilities. “Need something mister lawyer man?”

It had started innocently enough from that point. Discarding your book in favour of indulging in the spicy heat of your husband’s mouth. His tongue licked across your teeth to curl with yours. Your fingers ran through his thick head of hair, twisting the black strands near the roots just how he liked.

Soon you were sat on his lap, straddling him with your chest flush to his and your hips undulating to rut your pelvis against the bulge that was awakening impressively fast. Hiromi’s hands explored beneath your sweater. Broad palms glided along the length of your sides and his fingertips teased at the lace of your bra, dipping past the cups and tweaking at your nipples to hear your breathy little squeaks.

Hiromi’s kisses moved to your jaw, your neck and your décolleté. His hooked nose nudging insistently at the modest neckline whilst he grabbed at you more firmly, making you gasp.

“Off,” he ordered to your surprise. The bark of the word was so unlike him that you merely blinked for a moment, meeting simmering eyes that told rich tales of how he was going to devour you this evening. “The sweater, please… it’s in the way.”

“You’re lucky you added a please or else I might have said no…” you teased, knowing full well that was not the case. The arousal between your thighs had increased from his tone alone, causing you to clench in anticipation. There would be no refusals, but it was always fun to toy with him a little. A sleek eyebrow rose by reply, Hiromi questioned your certainty and gazed down to where you were mercilessly grinding into him.

Huffing at being caught in the obvious lie, you reached up to remove the glasses from your face only to be stopped. Hiromi’s hand encased your wrist, stroking over the pulse. “Keep these on. I like it when you wear them when we—y’know, when we… fuck.”

Oh.

A jumble of hastily discarded clothes surrounded you. Underwear sticky with arousal obscured the corner of the television, Hiromi’s tie decorated the side table lamp and a stray sock had managed to land in the plant pot by the window. None of it mattered, not when the man beneath you had a mouthful of your breast and was lining himself up for you to sink onto his cock.

You glanced at him over the rim of your glasses, eyes low-lidded and sultry. You were aware your glasses were perched further down your nose than usual, knocked slightly askew from the fervour of shared kisses. Hiromi bucked upwards without thought, his cock slick with precum lost its place at your entrance, slipping to your clitoral hood and adding such sudden pressure and friction against your pert clit that your nails clawed into his shoulders. The chain reaction continued; hot moans muffled around your breast, streaks of red decorated his shoulder down to his chest and you twitched in Hiromi’s hold, desperate to be stretched and filled.

“Hiro—dear god… you’re going to be the death of me! Come… here.”

Reaching between you, the velvet skin of Hiromi’s foreskin rolled back with little effort. Pumping him once then twice, gasping when his teeth sunk a little deeper around your areola, you rose higher and welcome him inside—welcomed him home with a low guttural moan of satisfaction.

You rode him slowly, careful to roll your hips and draw them back enough that only the tip of him remained lodged between your walls. Hiromi hissed through clenched teeth, finally withdrawing from your tender breasts to let his head fall backwards, sweat edging his hairline and the tendons in his neck stark in their strain. His hands pawed at your backside, spreading you further open whilst he watched you through near shut eyelids. Leaning in, your lips claimed his. His hot breath mixed with yours, spurring you to move faster when his stomach contracted, and he whined into the depths of your mouth.

“You—I… oh fuck—fuck! Look at me, lemme see you,” he wailed, his voice an octave higher and filled with urgency.

The second you pulled back to glance at him, he bit savagely into his bottom lip and his eyes travelled between your face and your tits that moved in time with your frantic bouncing. It made you smile, lopsided and punch drunk, seeing your husband still so affected by you after all these years. His cheeks were a ruddy pink, droplets of sweat running from his hair to his jaw and if eyes could look like hearts, then that would be the only way to describe the love and adoration following your every movement.

“Fuck—love you. So much. Fucking goddess… so beautiful,” he slurred enthusiastically.

Hiromi wrapped a hand around the hair he could reach, tugging it into his palm and driving upwards with sudden ferocity. Hiccuping from the unexpected change, you clenched around his length, letting him take over as the pressure in your belly reached the point of no return. Your orgasm broke over you more quickly than expected, the taut stretch of tension snapped in half as pleasure contracted your muscles and made you spasm over and over. He fucked you through it, holding your pliant body to take every impact of his cock drilling into you, angling you so that the soft tissue near your belly cushioned him perfectly.

He was lost to his desires, to his obsession of memorising every line and detail of your blissed out face. Your glasses squint and foggy, eyelids drooped and mouth agape. Your breasts jiggled perfectly, shiny from his spit, tender and swollen from his mouth and how he had bitten and suckled your skin. What pushed him over the edge was the reflection in your lens, his face reflected back to him and the raw adoration more than evident in his expression. He loved you. He loved you much, and he would never able to verbalise it as eloquently as he would like, despite his years of schooling and far from lacking vocabulary.

Everything was perfection to him; you were his everything and he poured the entirety of his essence into the orgasm that shot through him with a sound like a war cry. Only then did he loosen his hold, welcoming you to drape yourself against his panting chest. Boneless and dewy with sweat, your skin tasted salty when his lips found your shoulder and he licked at it like a kitten drinking milk.

“That was…” you panted, trying to catch your breath. “That was something, huh?”

“It was more than just something.” Hiromi kissed your cheeks before returning to your mouth, speaking with his lips ghosting yours. “You’ve really got no idea how sexy I find you, do you?”

His cock twitched, sloppy movements causing you to arch and stretch from the continued fullness of being impaled. Of course you knew, it was written all over his face, but it still made you flush to think about, not least admit.

“I have some idea.”

Hiromi sighed, a happy sigh though he shook his head. “Darling, you have no idea.”

#delirious writes #higuruma hiromi #higuruma x reader #higuruma hiromi x reader #higuruma smut #hiromi smut #higuruma fluff #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut

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vidavalor · 10 days

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The ineffable husbandry of Gabriel's outfit

It looks like that, when Crowley & Aziraphale finally got around to giving Gabriel something other than a tartan bedsheet to wear, they foraged him an outfit out of stuff that was within the bookshop, right? They were reluctant to miracle too much at the time and there's also no way Gabriel would be wearing something as normal as he was if Aziraphale had tasked Crowley with getting Gabriel something to wear lol. While Gabriel can pull off what they put him in, it's largely because Gabriel could pull off wearing a garbage bag. If you look at what he's actually wearing... while all the pieces are functional, they definitely look scrambled together from what was already there and don't make a lot of sense together otherwise. If one of them went out to get him something, the choices would have made more sense than the hodgepodge Gabriel ends up in... so, everything he has on is from within the bookshop.

If we presume that, then let your eyes go further than Aziraphale's spare work coat, trousers, and (the hilarious choice of) what is likely Aziraphale's Christmas Fair Isle sweater/jumper here...

There is no way on Earth that Aziraphale owns those sneakers/trainers. None. Zip. Zero lol. The tie is also 1970s/early 1980s-ish (and could not go less with that sweater lol) and is more Crowley's style than Aziraphale's. While the tie is older in style, the shoes are very current and even look relatively new. The only explanation here would then be that, if they foraged Gabriel's outfit from within the bookshop, when Aziraphale was pulling stuff out of his closet to make an outfit for Gabriel, his selection to choose from included random bits of Crowley's clothing going back decades.

Like the copy of 'The Crow Road' Crowley gives to Muriel at the end of the season, the shoes and tie are things that are hinted at in a way that makes them seem like they actually belong to Crowley and are mixed in with Aziraphale's stuff in the bookshop in plain sight. The Supreme Archangel-- who parallels both of them-- is actually wearing both of their clothes. What Crowley donated to the cause is especially amusing, symbolically, considering his early-season loathing of-- and history with-- Gabriel:

Crowley's tie:

and his shoes:

#ineffable husbands #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #aziracrow #good omens 2 #good omens meta #good omens theory #the archangel fucking gabriel

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cool-as-a-capybara · 1 year

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Guide to spotting AI art:

Hands: Missing/Extra digits, fingers merging, thumbs being on the wrong side. Normal artists struggle with hands too, but their mistakes are very different to the sort you’d see from AI

Symmetry: Armour, jewellery, clothes, anything like that. AI isn’t very good at making things match up.

Patterns: In the same vein as symmetry, anything requiring repetition or intricacy will be a mess. Engravings, lace patterns, segmented surfaces etc

Machinery: This is an easy one, AI is terrible at this. Factory machines, guns, that kinda thing will just be a hodgepodge of metal that make no sense at all.

Logos and writing: If there’s a company logo or a name on a badge, AI doesn’t have the skill to do it well. It’ll just be an illegible smear that looks like a child’s attempt at a real logo

Straight lines: Especially if there’s something in the foreground interrupting that line (an example could be a corner connecting a wall and ceiling). Sometimes they don’t match up.

Overall style: After looking at AI art enough, you can train your brain to recognise the style. Since AI takes references from all over, it ends up mixing it all together and becoming homogenous, like a cake batter of stolen art. AI art will always look a little oily or smudged, and you can pick up on that with practice.

#ai art #feel free to add more if you know them

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erisenyo · 8 months

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I'm living for the surge of jetko, it's delightful how you write both of them ^-^

for a prompt, maybe "please, put it DOWN"

or "let’s not go back. not ever." for Jetko (if you haven't gotten tired of these knuckleheads lol)

For this prompt game! (And also this one!)

(Can be read along with this and this and this and this and this)

Agni’s flaming balls, if Jet fucking sucks his teeth one more fucking time Zuko is going to fucking—

Nothing. Zuko is going to nothing, he tells himself, cutting off that thought and shoving it away and trying to replace it with the calming, soothing breath cycles Uncle always pressed on him as he jerks his focus back to the assembled governors and viceroys and Councilmen around him.

“Lady Tang,” Zuko says, paging through his notes and trying to force the grit of frustration out of his voice, “I really do think we should consider—”

“What we should consider is the way we’ve distributed water rights off the Earth Kingdom’s coast,” she cuts in, flapping a hand at him as she sips her tea, and Zuko sucks in another slow, calming breath and tries not to feel the way Jet’s eyebrow ticks up, amused.

“We should consider a more traditional governance structure,” Councilman Vukuq agrees like he always fucking does and there’s no way the two of them aren’t— “It’s ridiculous, really, how the current divisions are assessed.”

The gentle breeze to the ostrich horse may be a gale to the flutter bee, Zuko remind himself as Jet’s other eyebrow tick up, as Zuko yanks his inner fire back down so hard it stings because it was like trying to scoop fire into a ladle to get what divisions they have now. “Councilman, we all agreed just a year ago—”

“Yes, well, things change,” Vukuq says, flicking his eyes over Zuko. “Isn’t that what you’re always saying, Fire Lord?” he adds, snide, and Zuko’s skin feels tight from that look, from the way Jet props his elbow on the table and his head on his fist and smirks.

“As you should all be able to see in the report my scribes put together,” Zuko grits out, finally finding the report in question amongst his notes and pretending he doesn’t see the way Jet’s eyes go overwide and overly rapt, a mockery of awed attention that scalds after spending the past week thinking he was seeing flashes of the real thing. “The population shifts along the coast—”

“Reports, reports, always with the reports,” Lord Geheng rolls his eyes and the fact that Zuko is fucking wishing Kuei were here right now with all his cheerful, agreeable fumbling– “Sometimes a man just has to think with his gut,” Geheng continues, giving Zuko a haughty, pitying kind of look. “You’ll learn,” he adds, lips curled into something probably supposed to come across as kind, fatherly, and Zuko grips onto the edge of the table and shoves his flame down and tries not to light it on fire.

“Thank you for your advice, Lord Geheng,” Zuko forces out, somehow harder than usual to do with Jet sitting there, watching, just smirking wider when Zuko’s gaze flicks over to him against his better judgment and mouthing ‘you’ll learn’ like it’s a joke, like it doesn’t matter, like he’s shoving his finger into a bruise and leaning into it and fuck, Zuko knows he shouldn’t have brought Jet into this, should never have even asked. He was almost more surprised to hear the words come out of his mouth than he was by Jet’s slow blink and drawling acceptance and now somehow they’re both here, when usually its only Zuko, everyone staring at Jet’s hodgepodge of clothes and the livid hickey still high on Jet’s neck and giving Zuko looks like he’s Viceroy Hoang again bringing his latest—his—like Zuko’s a fucking child, like—

Zuko takes a deep, calming breath as he drags his attention back to the conversation in front of him, trying to exhale the frustrated knot in his chest, straightening, trying to put on his most poised, polite expression. “Be that as it may,” he cuts back in, silently congratulation himself for how smooth the words come out, how reasonable and even and ignoring the way Jet straightens and mouths be that as it—fucking imitating him, fucking— “Given the population dispersion in the late years of the war and after—”

“Sure you want to go there?” Vukuq says under his breath and also not under his breath at all, everyone pretending not to hear. Except for Jet, who actually lets out a low, “Ooh, ouch,” at full volume and Agni, they’ve already been at it for fucking hours and Zuko just wants to fucking—

Just wants to take a deep breath, and calm himself, and shove down the roiling tangle in his chest, and remind himself something about ostrich hoses and flutter bees, and that a vessel already full of anger cannot have any room for peace, and—

Jet is watching him. Smirking, leaned forward against the table and clinking his fancy little teaspoon obnoxiously against the sides of his fragile little teacup and making a—making a fucking visible jerk off gesture at him.

“Irrespective of the reasons,” Zuko hears himself saying, aiming a kick at Jet’s ankles and barely restraining the urge to hurl his own teaspoon at Jet’s head when Jet easily evades it, just smirking wider, “Population movement did happen. And traditional governance approaches do not make sense given the increased demands of—”

“Interior trade routes can account for that,” Lady Tang says, dismissive, and Jet snorts out loud like Zuko wants to.

“It’s fish,” Zuko says, incredulous, fraying. “You’re talking about caravanning fish across the desert.”

“I’ve heard its pretty warm there,” Jet says in a thick north coastal drawl, grinning sharp and wide when the assembles lords and ladies twitch at the sound, chewing on a—on a stalk of wheatgrass that he must have pulled out of his fucking sleeve or something, like he has a whole fucking stash up there, except he doesn’t, Zuko’s tried to find it while stripping him down, though how else he keeps—

“Yes, well,” Vukuq says, expression edged with something Zuko at his most charitable can only call distaste, “Smarter men than you are working on it, dear.”

“Oh, gosh,” Jet says, voicw going breathy, sitting up all wide-eyed and attentive and polite as Zuko’s swallows hard, fire gulping in his chest as his breath control breaks. “That’s so good to hear, there’s no better time than now,” Jet says earnestly and so clearly mockingly and Zuko feels the thin remnants of the leash around his temper turn to ash.

“Now that that’s settled,” Lady Tang is saying, the picture of genteel amusement, “Let us go back to the discussion of tax rates on our merchant class, which truly are far too—”

“No, how about let’s not go back, not ever,” Zuko hears himself saying overloud, nearly shouting, frustrated anger suddenly boiling up out of his gut, “While I’m sure you’d love to renegotiate your own tax rates, I think we’re all sick of you wasting all our fucking time with your blatant profiteering," Zuko snaps, ignoring the gasps around the room, the shocked outrage on everyone’s faces—except for Jet's, who’s air of feigned indifference has dropped for the first time all day to give way to a delighted kind of eagerness.

“Now see here,” Geheng straightens, bushy eyebrows drawn in disapproving, “There is no need for such unseemly displays, young man, this is—”

“Fire Lord,” Zuko corrects, smoke on the back of his tongue and Geheng jerks back, shocked, “And I think there’s plenty of need after this travesty of a negation,” Zuko says, smelling smoke too, which probably means he’s damaging the table but he doesn’t particularly care to check right now with his fire stretching and spilling out inside him and Jet looking at him, rapt.

“Fire Lord,” Vukuq says, chiding, stern, “Just because the negotiations have not personally favored your views—”

“Are you sure you want go there?” Zuko rounds on him, spiting the words, “You?”

“Are you implying—”

“I’m not implying anything,” Zuko snarls over top of him and Agni, it feels good to not have to modulate his tone, to check his volume, to carefully watch of every lilt and bit of emphasis, Jet leaning forward, eager, and that feels good, “I’m saying I don’t know why we even fucking pretend at it anymore, when you’re so blatantly in each other’s pockets.”

Vukuq is choking, sputtering, furious. “I should have known someone of your—”

“What, someone of my what, Vukuq?” Zuko challenges, exhilaration thrilling in his chest at the edge of threat in his voice, at the way Vukuq’s mouth works, silent, soundless in the face of it. “And Lady Tang I can see you picking up that seal,” Zuko says, snapping his attention to her and feeling wild with his hours of frustrated anger, his months of stifled indignation, with the way Jet is grinning approving and sharp.

“Lord Zuko,” she says, huffy, drawing herself up and Zuko feels a seething kind of satisfaction at that Lord, more than she’s ever given him, “I don’t know how things are done in the Fire Nation, but around here—”

“They’re done a fuck of a lot better than this,” Zuko says, incredulous, incredulous that they think something as small as words, as chiding, as shame can rein him back where they want him and if it’s worked before— “And we’re a fucking mess,” he adds, laughing, Jet cackling along with him, the sound like sparks in his veins, “The bar is not high. And yet somehow, you continually manage to faceplant over it.”

Vukuq pulls himself up, scrapes his eyes over Jet and then Zuko, snide and ugly. “It’s just like the Fire Nation to attempt to trample all over—”

“I will remind you, Councilman, that Fire Nation reparations still require the Fire Lord’s approval,” Zuko spits, the words coming easy and right when he doesn’t make himself think over them, “And I am the Fire Lord—” It’s almost dizzying, the adrenaline and anger and clear, crystal sense of focus and Jet’s nearly triumphant grin. “— and I will not be approving shit until I hear meaningful concessions. Because I assure you,” he adds, turning to Geheng before the man can say whatever drivel he’s opened his mouth to say, “The reparations are not for you, Geheng. I think we are all very aware of how little you need them after the war.”

Zuko’s breathes hard as the room gapes at him, stunned, uncertain. His breath control is in some wild, seething rhythm and the urge to tug it back under more familiar control trembles through him, just like the instinctive, learned impulse to apologize, to rein himself back and be calm and polite, to offer tea and amends and be reasonable.

But Jet is looking at him eager and impressed and genuine for the first time all day, and Zuko’s fire is blazing and for the first time—or maybe not the first time, not really, though Zuko’s always felt shame for it, for these loses of control that were so improper and ignoble and nothing like the calm consideration and measured words Uncle tried so hard to impress onto him—Zuko’s thrumming anger feels like an ally rather than an enemy.

“So, Fire Lord,” Jet says into the stunned silence, drawl thick and syrupy, all faux, smirking sweetness, the curl of his lips undeniably feral as he taps his teaspoon against his lips, drawing nervous looks, “Do you have a list of concessions you’re seeking?”

“Yeah,” Zuko says, feeling his grins sharp and feral in answer as he takes in the room, feeling bright and invigorated and exhilarated by the sudden clear certainty that he’s going to fucking get this one, “Yeah, I do, actually. If you'll look at the report that was sent to you..."

#asks and answers #ask game #We do love to cut loose and stop holding back in these parts #fic writing #my writing #Zuko #Jetko #Jet

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foundtherightwords · 3 months

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The Firebird - Chapter 8

Pairing: Prince Paul (Catherine the Great) x OFC, Fairytale AU

Summary: When Paul, a spoiled young prince, spots a strange bird in the forest near his palace, he impulsively chases after it, hoping to both escape from and prove himself to his disapproving mother. Thus he is plunged into an exhilarating adventure across a magical realm populated by enchanted princesses, dangerous monsters, and powerful wizards, an adventure that may change him more than he can ever imagine.

Chapter warning: brief mention of blood and violence

Chapter word count: 5k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7

Chapter 8 - The Kidnapping of Elena the Fair

They came down the mountains the next day, and, after crossing a small meadow, entered a taiga full of pines. The forest here was wilder than those of Smorodina on the other side of the mountains, the pines growing close together, throwing dark shadows across their path, forming a near-impassable wall around a castle in the distance. Though also made of wood, this castle was almost free of embellishments and gilding, and as austere as Afron's castle was flamboyant. The trees were so thick that Paul had to leave the saddle and take the donkey by the reins, while Zhara flew ahead, her feathers gleaming like a beacon, leading toward the castle. The gloom of the forest made Paul anxious, and he tried to keep an eye out for wild animals, especially those with medallions around their necks, but so far, the place seemed to be quiet.

Finally, the trees thinned, and they heard voices in the distance. Zhara returned to her hiding place under Paul's cloak just as they came to a large clearing, where a lake lay rippling in the twilight, reflecting the pines and the castle. Women, old and young, were gathering flowers and herbs and ferns, singing all the while, their melodious voices undulating like the waves of the lake, like the soft breeze around the clearing. The song brought memories of childhood flooding back in Paul's mind, of songs his old nurses and the Palace servants used to sing while they worked, before they were reprimanded by the grand chamberlain for singing peasant music.

At the edge of the clearing, close to the castle, men were building a large bonfire and setting up tables for a banquet. A young birch tree was placed near the bonfire, and more women were busy decorating it with flowers and fluttering ribbons.

"Is there some fete going on?" Paul asked a woman sitting on the edge of the clearing, expertly weaving wildflowers and grass and herbs into wreaths.

She looked him up and down, eyeing his hodgepodge clothes with mistrust, before answering shortly, "'tis Kupala Night tonight."

This meant nothing to Paul, and he was about to ask what exactly Kupala Night was when he felt a tug from Zhara in his pocket. Not wanting to repeat the mistake of ignoring her warning, he thanked the woman and retreated into the forest. Here, he tied the donkey near a juniper bush full of ripening berries, and Zhara gestured that they should wait. When torches started to light up around the clearing, she emerged from behind the bush in her sarafan and approached Paul.

"This is perfect," she said, as a procession of torches moved from the castle down into the clearing like a column of fireflies.

"Why? What is Kupala Night?"

"It's the Summer Solstice. Don't you celebrate it in your world?"

Paul shook his head. Summer was the time for hunting and country parties; the Solstice, which sounded pagan, must have been forbidden. He had never heard of Kupala at any rate.

"Well, everybody is coming here to celebrate, and then the young people go into the forest in search of the Fern Flower to divine their future," Zhara explained. "Elena will certainly be there. We'll join the fete. She knows me, so I shall find an opportune moment to lure her away on her own. You'll lie here and wait for my signal, perhaps something like this"—she pulled at her earlobe—"and then you'll snatch her—"

"How?!"

Zhara's calm façade cracked. "I don't know!" she said in a furious whisper. "I've never kidnapped anyone before!"

Paul clutched at his head in frustration. "But her mother is protective," he said. "Won't she have guards?" The more he thought about this kidnapping scheme, the more harebrained it seemed to him. After the trouble they'd had with Afron, he was terrified of putting another foot wrong. In the tale, Prince Ivan manages to take Elena the Fair away, only to be murdered by his jealous brothers. Paul didn't have to worry about that at least, but what about Zhara?

"Not on Kupala Night. Kostroma will expect the people to protect their tsarevna." Seeing that Paul was still hesitating, she turned back and took his hands. "It'll work," she said. He nodded, feeling slightly more at ease, less because of her words and more because her hands felt reassuring in his. She tilted her head, regarding him for a moment or two, and added, "You may want to lose that wig though, if we are to blend in."

"What is wrong with my wig?" Paul grumbled, though by the glint of mischief in Zhara's eyes, he knew she was teasing him.

"Nothing. Only... why do you wear it all the time? Don't you have your own hair?"

"Of course I have hair!" Paul cried indignantly, snatching the wig off and throwing it to the ground to prove his point.

Zhara grinned, satisfied. "That looks much better," she said. "Now you look like a man and not a bolonka."

"What's a bolonka?" Paul asked suspiciously.

"You don't have bolonki in your world? It's an animal, a type of pet, I suppose. About the size of a hedgehog, with lots and lots of curly hair. I never like them because they have sharp teeth and love to bite, but they're very popular with the ladies in court." She looked at him again with appreciative eyes. "I like you much better this way." Without thinking, she reached up to brush Paul's short brown curls away from his forehead. As her fingers touched his hair, however, she seemed to remember herself and jerked her hand back, blushing scarlet. "Shall we?" she said and walked into the clearing, leaving Paul standing there in wonder.

A moment later, he recovered his wits and followed.

Most of the older people were standing around the bonfire, which remained unlit, looking up at the castle expectantly. By and by, a procession of young men and women came into the clearing, carrying tapers, singing the same song the women had sung. At the head of the column, riding on the back of a white horse, was a young lady that Paul immediately knew to be Elena the Fair—with her hair worn loose down her back like a sheet of gold, her skin gleaming like porcelain in the torchlight, and her perfectly proportioned features, no one else could have borne that name. With a wreath of daisies and ferns on her head, in a simple white frock, she approached the center of the clearing like a goddess, not looking at any of them but smiling upon all, as though graciously allowing them the privilege of admiring her.

All the men had their eyes fixed on her. Paul, too, found himself staring open-mouthed at this vision of beauty, thinking, Yes, I could fall in love with her. Easily. Then, as though she could read his mind, he heard Zhara's voice right by his ears, "Well, now that you've seen her, what do you think?"

He turned to find her standing next to him. As soon as he saw that freckled, elfin face, those twinkling amber eyes, and that wide mouth twisted into a playful grin, the spell was broken. He looked back at Elena and saw that her eyes were bored, her radiant smile was forced, and her perfectly symmetrical face was lifeless. He couldn't imagine that a mere moment ago, he'd thought he could fall in love with her.

"I—I don't know what to think," he replied. "She's very beautiful, but—"

He cut himself off, for a hush had fallen over the clearing. Even the music had stopped. Coming up from behind Elena, on another horse, was an older, regal-looking woman, with the same golden hair, though slightly faded, and the same features, though a little heavier and more severe.

"Tsarina Kostroma," Zhara whispered to him, but Paul didn't need an introduction. He could have guessed the lady's identity from her air of imperial dignity and her harsh, fierce eyes, which reminded him so much of his mother's. As she swept those eyes over the crowd, he almost shrank back out of habit, and got angry with himself for it.

The tsarina raised her arms. "Good people of Bryansk," she said, her deep, sonorous voice echoing all around the clearing. "Tonight, on the eve of the Summer Solstice, we are gathered once again to give thanks to the gods and goddesses of the forest and the field, of the river and the mountains, and pray that they continue to grace us with their blessings for another year. Let the festivities commence!"

Someone handed her a torch, which she put to the bonfire. A cheer went up along with the flames. The wreaths were handed out to all the girls. Thus adorned, they joined the boys and ran, giggling, to the lake, where they all plunged in, some in their chemises, others, more daring or practical, wearing nothing at all, shrieking in alarm and delight at the cold water, and started swimming around, boys and girls together.

Zhara had gone ahead and was already in the water by the time Paul arrived. "Come on in!" she urged, with only her head poking out of the water, duckweed scattered over her long red braid like tiny emeralds.

He wavered at the edge of the crowd, unsure. "But what about the—the rusalkas and the vodyanoys?"

"They dare not attack on Kupala Night. Come on, the water's delicious!"

And indeed, Paul could spy, in the distance, a group of those pale-skinned, sharp-teeth, green-haired young ladies, huddled together amongst the reeds on the lakeshore, watching the bathing humans with envy. He suddenly felt sorry for them.

"Poor things," he said, mostly to himself.

Zhara tipped her head to the side. "Why?"

Paul took off his boots and sat down by the water's edge, trying not to notice how her curves kept appearing and disappearing between the folds of her chemise, under the water. "They remind me of when I was a child, looking in at the balls and parties of my mother's court." Even as he said so, those memories were fading, their painful grip on him loosening.

Zhara waded closer and rested her arms on the grassy bank, peering up at him with those inquisitive eyes, searching for something only she knew. Then, without warning, she tugged at his wrist and pulled him into the water.

Paul surfaced, spluttering, to find her laughing at him. He was prepared to be annoyed, but the sound of her laugh, warm, infectious, playful, made him splash at her instead. He grinned at the look of shock on her face.

"Wait 'til I catch you, you rascal—" she yelled. A splash of water hit him square in the face.

"Not if I catch you first!"

Laughing, they chased each other around the lake, weaving in and out between the other swimmers, who were also racing each other like a flock of excited swans or a school of fish. Amongst all that laughter and all those bodies, so exuberant, so alive, Paul forgot about Elena the Fair, about Tsar Afron and the horse with the golden man, about elusive witches and murderous brothers. All he cared about was to find Zhara and feel her warmth against him. He managed to catch her once and hold her, before she wriggled away, slippery as a minnow.

Then, still laughing, dripping wet, the young people climbed out of the lake, pulled their clothes back on—Paul turned away so he didn't see how Zhara's chemise was molded to her body—and returned to the feast. Famished after their swim, they got stuck into the pies and cakes and porridge and the sweet, heady wines. Music started up from somewhere, perhaps from the very trees and field surrounding them, and they danced around the bonfire, all together in a circle and in pairs, to the wildly joyful sound of drums, flutes, and the lilting voice of the gusli, until their clothes were dry and they were breathless with singing and laughter. Paul felt as though he was in a dream, a vivid, wondrous dream, and yet, for all the vibrant music, the glowing fire, and the joyous laughs, it was the feel of Zhara's hand in his and the sight of her face beaming up at him that stayed with him forever afterward, more real than real.

When the bonfire began to dwindle, the decorated tree was taken down and fed into it. As the flames roared once again, the young people paired off and, hand in hand, started leaping over the fire.

"Anyone that fails or refuses to jump will suffer misfortune for an entire year," Zhara told him.

"Best not risk it then," Paul said, grabbing her hand. "Shall we?"

She smiled at him, half taken aback, half excited, and squeezed his hand to show her readiness. There was no hesitation. They ran at the fire and jumped over it in one single bound. Paul felt as though he, too, had been transformed and sprouted wings.

But wings he had not, for he stumbled as he landed and went sprawling on the ground, pulling Zhara down with him. They rolled over the grass to the edge of the clearing, giggling like two children caught at some mischief. Zhara's wreath fell onto Paul's face, which set off another fit of giggling. Paul picked it up and set it back on her head, tucking a strand of loose hair under it.

"I didn't realize your eyelashes were so long," Zhara said, hot breath ruffling those very lashes. "I quite envy them."

He realized they were in the same position they had been the morning after the avalanche, with her lying half atop him, her face mere inches from his. Only this time he didn't push her away. Something seemed to hang in the air between them like a strand of cobweb, fragile and almost imperceptible but unbreakable, while he let his hand linger on her cheek and she moved closer, closer still, whether because he was drawing her to him or because she was leaning down willingly, he couldn't tell. He only knew that she was now so close he could see her darkened irises surrounded by a ring of gold, so close he could count the freckles—all seven of them—that curved around the corner of her lips, could almost feel those lips brushing his...

"By Alkonost and Sirin," she muttered, and her weight on him lifted. "Elena. We must go."

Sitting up with more than just a little disappointment, Paul discovered that the fete had broken up. Some girls were floating their wreaths over the lake for the boys to catch on the other side, while others, in pairs or groups of three and four, were walking into the forest together, laughing excitedly about finding the Fern Flower. Elena was among these, more or less being dragged by the hand by several other girls.

He got to his feet and followed Zhara toward the pines. It was much darker here, with only the fitful flames of the torches carried by some of the boys shining through the dense trees, but that didn't slow Zhara down. She led Paul straight back to where the donkey was standing. "Wait here and stay hidden. Be ready to seize her when I give the signal," she said, before running off and melting into the dancing flames in the distance.

Oh, how he wished he could have seized her and held her close and pressed his lips to hers, to see if that sarcastic mouth could kiss as well as it taunted and teased. But this was no time for such thoughts. Paul glanced guiltily at the donkey, who was patiently foraging for grass around the juniper bush, as if it could read his mind. He tried to concentrate on the matter at hand. How does one kidnap someone? How can they subdue her? Afron would probably not thank them if they delivered his bride to him all black and blue. Paul looked at their supplies—they had some ropes. He could perhaps throw his cloak over her head, as he had done to the wolf, to disorient her, and then gag her and tie her up...

For the love of all the Saints, was he really considering doing such things to a young woman? If only things were simple as in the stories! But if things were like the stories, then he must certainly fall in love with Elena, and he wasn't sure he would want that, not when Zhara's eyes and lips and smiles were all he—

Voices rose near, startling Paul out of his contemplation. He peeked through the juniper and saw Zhara and Elena coming toward him, clutching each other's arms, both speaking urgently. They stopped a few steps away from where Paul was hiding.

"—you shouldn't be here," Elena was saying. This close, she looked less perfect but more approachable. "There are those who believe you are an evil sorceress and a murderer—"

"But not you, Lena? Not your mother?"

"My mother has never liked Illarion. But if he comes searching for you, she will give you up to keep me safe. You must go, Zharissa." The two girls must be good friends indeed, for them to call each other by these pet names.

"I'm going, but I need your help..." Zhara gave a furtive look at the juniper bush and tugged at her ear. In the bush, Paul stretched the length of rope between his sweaty hands, trying to gauge the right moment to spring out. His movement caused the bush to rustle, and Elena glanced at it, frowning. "Please, Lena!" Zhara said quickly, pulling at Elena's arm to turn her back toward the bush. Paul's hands shook.

"Of course. What can I do?" Elena asked.

It was clear that Zhara hadn't thought this far. She mumbled, while still furiously tugging at her ear, "I—I need food and—and—some clothes—and—"

"Where do you plan to go?" Before Zhara could answer, Elena glanced at the donkey. "Is that yours? Be careful about tying him next to that hemlock, he may eat it and become sick."

Her comment about the donkey, incongruous as it was, made Paul realize that Elena was far too kind, far too trusting. He couldn't hurt her.

"You can come with us to see Tsar Afron," he said, standing up from the juniper bush.

At the sound of Paul's voice, Elena whirled around.

"Who in Veles' name are you?!" she cried.

Zhara glared at him. "He is with me," she said through gritted teeth. "He's—he's not from here."

"I'm Pavel Petro—" he started to introduce himself, paused, and corrected himself. "I'm Paul," he said with a bow, because old habits die hard.

Zhara continued to glare at him, her eyes wide, mouth working furiously in a way he'd started to recognize, so he turned to her, pleading, "We need not do this. She's your friend! If you betray her, you'll regret it for the rest of your life!" At this, Zhara's murderous look softened. Encourage, Paul went on, "We can try to convince her—"

"Convince me to do what?" Elena chimed in. "And what is this about Tsar Afron?"

Zhara let out a deep, wearied sigh. Turning to Elena, she quickly explained about their need for the Golden Horse and Afron's demand. Elena listened carefully, while her eyes, of a green so dark they appeared almost black, like the pine trees around them, glinted with a light that Paul found familiar. He recognized in it the impatience and eagerness he himself had felt, the impatience that had prompted him to chase after the firebird through the forest of Tsarskoye Selo.

"I shall go with you," eventually Elena said.

"You—you'll marry Afron?" Zhara asked.

"I said, I shall go with you," Elena repeated, "and talk to Afron. Perhaps I can persuade him into lending you the horse."

Zhara turned to Paul, and he saw his hope reflected on her face. Could it work? Could they appeal to Afron's courteous nature? Could it be that simple?

"What about your mother?" Zhara asked.

A look of worry marred Elena's perfect face for a brief moment. Then she pressed her lips together. "She is going to let me make my own way in the world, sooner or later," she said, removing the wreath from her head and tossing it aside in one swift, resolute movement. "Let's go."

"What, now?" Paul said, astonished. "Without supplies or preparations? It will take us a week to reach Afron's at least!" This was the one thing the tales never mentioned—what the hero ate along the way, where he slept, how he managed to survive months of traveling—but Paul had had first-hand experiences with it and did not wish to repeat the days of wandering the fields and villages like a beggar, not knowing where his next meal was coming from.

"If I go back, my mother will never let me leave again," Elena said. "We must go now."

Paul turned to Zhara, who only shrugged and untied the donkey. It appeared he was outnumbered. So he shrugged as well and followed the girls out of the forest. Well, perhaps they could live off the land again. He didn't relish it, but it hadn't killed him yet.

The fete was drawing to a close now. The voices from the clearing had faded, with only the occasional giggle coming toward them from some corner of the forest, and some moans as well, as they came across a blending of two shadows. All three turned crimson, and then the girls caught each other's eyes, burst into laughter, and went ahead, leaving Paul to struggle with the donkey, who was reluctant to leave the safety of the juniper bush to stumble through the forest at midnight. Paul couldn't really blame the animal, for he felt the same.

At last, they saw the familiar shards of Perun's Crown rising above the tree tops. Paul pulled the stubborn donkey forward, eager to be free of the oppressive forest. Zhara and Elena were a few steps ahead of him, Zhara holding up a small flame on her finger like a taper. They ducked under some low-hanging boughs and stepped out from the last line of trees separating the forest from the meadow.

Suddenly, Elena fell back with a scream, thrown by an invisible force, and landed on the forest floor. Letting go of the reins, Paul rushed over to help her up, just as Zhara ran back.

"What happened?" Zhara asked.

"I don't know," Elena replied, brushing the pine needles from her hair. "Something slammed into me..."

"Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm all right. Let's go."

The three of them went together. Again, Elena staggered back just as she reached the trees, while Zhara and Paul moved past them with no trouble.

"Something is stopping her from leaving," Zhara said, as they helped Elena to her feet.

Out of the corner of his eye, Paul spied some movement amongst the trees. A pair of glowing spots appeared on the pines, and the boughs lifted like arms. A leshy. No, not just one. Paul's stomach dropped when several more pairs of eyes blinked into life all along the rank of trees. A whole column of leshies, rising together.

"Tsarevna Elena," one of them spoke. "You are not to leave Bryansk."

Elena's nostrils flare. "What?! Move aside at once!"

The line of leshies took one step forward, bearing down on the three of them. "You are not to leave," the head leshy repeated.

"On whose order?"

"The Tsarina's," the leshy replied, and Elena went pale.

Zhara made a frustrated sound. "We don't have time for this," she said. "Paul, give me your sword."

"What are you going to do?" Paul asked, fumbling for the broken sword he still wore on his belt, for Afron had neglected to provide them with weapons.

Without a word, Zhara rolled up her sleeve, took the sword from him, and, before Paul could stop her, made a cut on her palm. "No!" Paul shouted, but she only calmly returned the sword to him and smeared the blood over both of her hands. Elena looked on, horrified.

Fire erupted from Zhara's hands, but it wasn't the usual flame she used to light their fire or illuminate their way at night. This was a furnace, hot enough to scorch Paul's cheek even when he stood far back. Zhara advanced towards the leshies, the two fireballs blazing in her palms.

"Move aside," she ordered.

"We have no quarrel with you, Lady Zhara of Arthania," the head leshy said. "You and your mortal can leave."

"Not without Elena."

The leshy didn't reply, only took another step forward. Its comrades followed suit. Zhara threw a fireball at them. Fire roared, spreading quickly across the rank, swallowing the leshies in flaming red tongues. The creatures howled and beat at the flames with their boughs, sending up a spray of sparks and suffocating smoke. The donkey shrank away from the conflagration, braying in terror. Paul ducked his head, tightened his grip on the reins, and tried to pull Zhara back, but she shook him off.

"Go, go, go!" she shouted, throwing the other fireball.

Grabbing Elena's arm in one hand and the donkey's reins in the other, Paul ran for an opening between the trees. Behind him, the fire raged on.

"Stop!" a voice rang out.

Something caught at Paul's arms and legs, throwing him to the ground. Then, to his horror, he found himself rising, wrenched into the air on thick vines that snaked around his body, his throat, choking him. Next to him, Zhara was similarly shackled. More vines grew over the leshies, putting out the flames. Fire burst from Zhara's hands once more, only to be immediately quenched by the vines.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said Tsarina Kostroma as she approached them from the forest with a retinue behind her, her green eyes cold with anger.

Elena seemed to shrink in front of her mother. She clasped her hands in front of her and stood with her head hung low, like a child waiting for her punishment. Kostroma strode past her and came to stand in front of Zhara. "How dare you, Zhara Artyomovna?" she said. "You came here uninvited and received our hospitality, and this is how you thanked me? By taking away my Elena?"

"Tsarina Kostroma, please," Zhara began, struggling to speak while the vines encircled her throat. "I would never dream of disrespecting you, but I need help—"

"Help! And you thought Elena could help you? If you need help, why not come to me?" Paul noticed that Elena was wincing at her mother's derisive tone, and felt indignant in her stead.

"But Mother, they need my help, not yours—" she said.

"Silence!" Kostroma whipped her head around, and Elena almost visibly recoiled. "How are you of help to anybody? You know nothing! Do you even know where she is taking you, what dangers you may come across? I'm only trying to protect you—"

"You're smothering her, that's what you're doing," Paul blurted out. Kostroma's words reminded him so much of his mother's reprimands. They raised his hackles. He hadn't been able to stand up to his mother, but he was not going to watch Elena getting berated by her mother without saying something.

Kostroma turned to him with a look of utter disdain, like he was some sort of vermin, not worth her attention. "And who do you think you are, mortal, to speak to me with such insolence?" she said.

Paul felt the vines squeezing his neck, and swallowed hard. "Never mind who I am," he said with more bravado than he felt. "Perhaps you really believe you're protecting Elena, but you're only hurting her. If she knows nothing, then that's your fault—"

Kostroma's face contorted with rage. She flicked her hand, and the vines tightened even more, cutting him off. Zhara thrashed at her own bindings, her eyes fixed on Paul in a panic.

Elena, however, seemed to have found her strength. She raised her head, stiffened her back, and faced Kostroma. "He is right, Mother," she said. "How am I to be your heir, how am I to take the throne, when you teach me nothing and let me do nothing? Every year on my name day, I ask you to let me leave Bryansk, to let me see something of the world, and every year you find an excuse to say no." She was becoming more and more animated, her eyes brightening to emerald green in the torchlight. "I am going with Zhara to help her. You can't stop me. And if you don't let us go, I shall renounce the throne and never speak to you again!"

Kostroma flinched, as though Elena's words were barbs flung at her. She clenched her fingers, and vines curled up around Elena's feet, rooting the girl to the spot.

Elena remained composed. "Mother, please," she said, her voice softening.

Kostroma's lips quivered. "But—you're all that I have—Zhara Artymovna is being hunted—" Now she was looking less like an enraged tsarina and more like an anxious mother.

"I promise you, Tsarina Kostroma, I'm not going to let anything befall Elena," Zhara said. "I shall protect her with my life."

Paul, too, tried to put on an expression of confidence and trustworthiness, though he wasn't sure how much he succeeded. Kostroma looked from one face to another. Finally, she lowered her head and gave another flick of her hand. The vines retreated, throwing Paul unceremoniously to the ground next to Zhara, leaving them both wheezing and gasping for breath.

"Go, then," Kostroma said. "But don't come crying to me when you find life on the outside less than agreeable."

Tentatively, not quite believing it, Elena took a step toward the line of trees with Zhara and Paul, then another, and another. This time, the leshies stood aside to let her pass, before closing ranks and becoming a dark, impenetrable wall yet again.

Chapter 9

A/N: I had to make fun of Paul's wig somehow :)) A bolonka (plural "bolonki") is actually a type of Russian lap dog with curly hair. Kupala Night is a real Slavic festival. It was banned in medieval Russia for its association with paganism, but has regained popularity in Belarus and Ukraine in recent years.

Taglist: @ali-r3n

#prince paul #tsarevich paul #catherine the great #prince paul fic #prince paul x ofc #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic

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crowtrobotx · 10 months

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o fearless girl-dad-Karl-agenda leader, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble could we have Papaberg and Lottie having a tea party?

bisenberg agenda and the girl dad agenda.... i have so much responsibility i don't know if i can handle this!! regardless, nonnie, i was feeling inspired by this adorable scenario and decided to write a little ficlet for you. c: I hope you enjoy!! Long live Heisendad. Tea Party Words: 1201 Characters: Karl Heisenberg, Original character (daughter) Wife also makes a brief appearance just to troll him bc I couldn't resist Warnings: None, unless you aren't cool with swearing Note: This is an escaped/mechanic AU because I felt like it

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Knees up to his chest and forced to wear a moth-eaten bow tie he’d found at the bottom of the closet, Karl Heisenberg had never felt more ridiculous in his life.

It had been a normal Sunday, one he’d planned on spending working on that puzzling noise coming from under the hood of his truck. But when Lottie had marched into the garage and loudly demanded that he attend her prestigious tea party, complete with lip wobble when he’d almost declined, he knew he was doomed. And so here he sat, a person who had once thought of himself as the very definition of rugged manliness, in a cluttered bedroom at the mercy of a six year old girl. Karl was afraid to breathe lest the child-sized chair fighting for its life beneath him finally gave way.

His daughter sat across from him, carefully rearranging a hodgepodge collection of mugs and cups she’d stolen from the kitchen. There was a depressing plate of crackers with no toppings or sides sitting sadly in the middle. They didn’t own a fancy pot or teacups, so the whole production looked less like an esteemed gathering and more like the kind of set a community theater with a $3.00 budget might put together. The other two guests - Lottie’s ever present teddy bear, yet again missing an eye and covered in faded marker doodles, and what was once a doll given to her by Alcina that now lacked a head and whose arms had been replaced by pipe cleaners - stared back at him in silent horror.

Karl tugged at his collar awkwardly. “So, uh, what’re we supposed to be doing? This might blow your little mind, but your old man hasn’t exactly been to one of these before…”

Lottie opened her mouth to speak and then paused abruptly. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “But I think we’re s’posed to talk about stuff. Y’know, gossip.”

“Gossip?” Karl chuckled. “What kinda gossip you got in first grade?”

“Sarah from art class said that Veronica’s mom chased her dad with a golf club because he kissed our gym teacher,” Lottie said without even a hint of concern.

“W-” Karl nearly choked. “W-what? Are you fuckin’- I mean, Lottie, honey. Don’t think we should uh, talk about that.”

She shrugged. “I thought it was funny.”

“It is. It’s real fuckin’ funny.” He was absolutely going to have to snoop out if there was any truth to this information - he always hated Veronica’s dad. White collar prick. He steeled himself, willing his mind to stay in dad-mode and not shift into catty-bitch-Karl. “But we shouldn’t say stuff we’re not sure about, okay? We should wait until we’re certain before trashing folks to hell and back. It’s only fair.”

Lottie gave no indication she’d been listening. He noticed she hadn’t deemed it necessary to put on a nice outfit herself despite insisting he don his “fancy clothes.” She wore her usual old knit sweater beneath her overalls, permanently stained from endless romps through the muddy woods out back or whatever projects she helped him out with. He felt rather overdressed, to tell the truth. She rummaged around on the floor, muttering incoherently to herself, until she produced a pitcher that wobbled precariously in her grasp. It was overfilled and practically as big as she was. Karl made to reach for it, freezing in place when he heard his chair creak ominously. “Tea, Papa?” Lottie said sweetly.

He nodded, not cognizant of what came out of the jug, so focused he was on not unintentionally destroying any more furniture. He still wasn’t forgiven for the incident with the porch swing, he was pretty sure. Karl slowly lifted the “#1 Dad” mug to his lips, and swallowed with a surprised flinch. He coughed awkwardly.

“Is this…. Mountain Dew,” he didn’t even need to ask. There was no other substance on earth with that unnatural neon green color. “I thought this was a tea party?”

Lottie huffed. “The tea is too high for me to reach! You people act like everyone around here is a giant. I can barely see out the window to scare the mailman when he shows up….”

“You could’ve asked for help, Butterfly.”

“No,” she said defiantly, pouring herself a cup and splashing liquid across the plastic table. “I don’t need your cherry.”

Karl blinked. “You mean… charity—“

“WHATEVER!” Lottie threw up her hands in exasperation. “Ugh! This whole idea was a mistake! I don’t even know why I thought this would be fun. This sucks. Even Carlos said so.” The teddy bear gazed forward, dead-eyed. “Hon,” Karl started, leaning forward again only to stop with a FUCK when his shins banged into the table. “Jesus…. Fuck that hurt. Okay, what I was going to ask was why you wanted to do this in the first place? This ain’t exactly your style if you know what I mean.” Lottie sank down in her seat until all that was visible were two little messy buns peeking over the table. “I dunno. I saw it on TV. I think it’s supposed to be something little girls like to do but man, this is stupid.” Karl frowned. “You don’t have to do something just because you ‘supposed’ to. You know that. I do stuff I’m not supposed to all the time and look how I turned out!” Kris’s choked laughter from down the hall - of course she’d been listening - had him ready to shout something snarky back, never one to give up a verbal spar without a fight. But Lottie spoke again before he had the opportunity. “Maybe I just wanted to hang out,” she admitted with a twinge of embarrassment. “You’ve been so busy lately.” Guilt gnawed at Karl’s insides. He had been working longer than normal this week - business was good, but by necessity it meant he was away from home more often. Every time he felt like he’d gotten the hang of this Dad thing, it turned out he’d managed to mess it up again. Not on the level of his own abysmal upbringing, of course, but it was a nagging fear all the same. One that still kept him up some nights. In spite of his messy exterior, he was a proud man - and he was not going to let the title on his mug fall to some other asshole. “I’m… f-flattered you wanna spend time with me,” he said, searching for the right words and finding none. Lord, he was bad at this. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Let’s do something you’ll actually like. You wanna go burn some of those leaves your mom made me take earlier instead? And we can bust into my good candy stash she doesn’t know about–” “Keep telling yourself that, babe,” Kris called again. “...instead of eating bland ass crackers.” Karl made a mental note that he would need to change his hiding place yet again.

“Fuck yes,” Lottie bounded to her feet. “Oh, Papa, can we also torch that awful dress Aunt Alcina sent? Please please please–” “With pleasure, Butterfly.” Karl enjoyed a hearty laugh for a few seconds before the chair finally decided that it had had enough.

#asks #karl heisenberg #resident evil village #heisendad #ficlet #karl heisenberg x oc

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timeforelfnonsense · 4 months

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Read Sunshine & Starlight on Ao3 Read the previous chapter on Tumblr Pairing: Dafni (F!Tav) x Astarion Rating: M (Later Chapters will contain explicit content) TWs: depiction of mild anxiety Tags: Cubby elf oc, Cleric!Tav, fluff Elvish Translations: N'Tel'Que'Tethira - City Elves

Dafni sat cross-legged beside the fire, elbow-deep in her heavy canvas pack, plucking out anything of use she could find amidst the collection of random objects that had taken up a semi-permanent residence there over the years. Her mother had always said that her organizational skills left much to be desired. She could picture her golden brown eyes as they rolled in response to Dafni's insistence that she was simply well prepared.

Dafni yelped, her finger finding the sharp edge of a knife. She pulled her hand free of her pack, examining the tiny laceration. A bit of blood had welled up at the tip of her finger. She popped the finger in her mouth, gently sucking on the wound. Her face scrunched in displeasure as the smell of iron stung her nose. Frustrated, Dafni grabbed her pack, dumping its contents into a heap atop her bedroll.

She immediately pulled out her father's compass, her crinkled map of the Sword Coast, and the offending knife, sorting them into the 'useful' pile along with a few other adventuring essentials she'd found mixed in with her clutter.

She separated her clothing next. One by one, Dafni tossed each article to the side save for a single length of translucent azure cloth. She pressed the peplos to her nose, drawing in the sweetness of elven laurel and fertile soil. It had been over a year since she last returned to her village, but the smell of home still clung to her vestments.

Her chest ached at the thought of home. If she had just been able to content herself living among the wood elves— If she had never left the Feywild in the first place, Dafni might have avoided the dire situation she'd found herself in altogether.

She signed, kicking out her crossed legs and flogging to her back.

There was no use dwelling on the what-ifs. A part of her would always belong to Gwynneth and the kaleidoscopic splendor of the Feywild. Still, the world was wide, and Dafni had been born with a voracious sense of curiosity that would never have allowed her to content herself with living the neat, simple life her mother had planned for her.

True, Bauldr's Gate had taken some getting used to at first, but life in the city was already shaping up to be an excellent adventure. Twin Songs was a colorful hodgepodge of architectural influences. Temples and shrines to more gods than she could have imagined lined each street. Some people might have called the mishmash of aesthetics as garish, but to Dafni, there was strange loveliness in so many dissimilar things coming together to make something entirely unique.

She'd found a townhouse there, just beyond Wyrm's Crossing. A white brick building with dark wooden archways. It was covered in crawling vines and star-shaped blossoms. The front garden was overgrown, but she could still identify a few familiar herbs among the chaos. A bergamot tree grew near the edge of the waist-high lattice fence, its branches bowing with the weight of unplucked fruit. When she spotted the crooked 'for rent' sign in the window, Dafni knew she'd found her new home.

The townhouse belonged to a family of elvish nobles from the Upper City who had long since left for their country estate. However, their retainer had assured her they wouldn't have an issue with her using the lower floor of the property as a clinic so long as she could afford the rent.

Business had been slow initially, but she'd gained a measure of favor among the city's elven refugees. Dafni's mouth tipped downward, her thoughts drifting to the trembling woman who'd come to her door in the wee hours of the morning.

There had been an outbreak of fever spreading amongst the elven refugees of Rivington. Dafni had held her shaking hands as she described the illness: fever, chills, a flushed appearance, excessive perspiration. The Sylvan Sweats, she was sure of it.

A nasty disease is left to run its course but treatable with the right combination of herbs and magic. She kept her shelves well stocked, but she'd need something more challenging to come by than the willow bark and elderflower she'd sent the woman home with to ease her people's symptoms.

Naralis Blessing. That had been her purpose in setting out for the Cloak Wood. The flowers were rare in the material plane, only growing in places where the veil between it and the Feywild was particularly thin. Even if she hadn't found them growing naturally, the conditions of the forest were perfect for her to conjure some up herself.

Dafni's fingertips brushed against the delicate skin just below her eye. Yesterday, she'd been on a mission to help her people, and now she was the one in desperate need of a healer.

Gale had spared no detail when explaining the gory details of ceremorphosis. Disorientation, hallucination, headaches, bleeding orifices. They should have been hip-deep in misery by now.

Yet, she and her new friends remained miraculously untentacled.

He and Shadowheart were suspicious of the lack of skull-splitting horror, but Dafni was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Gods willing, their luck would continue and she'd have a cure and be on her way back to the Rivington elves before they even had time to wonder what was keeping her.

Dafni's eyes fluttered shut, and thoughtful reflection began to bleed into half-formed reverie. She might have drifted off completely had she not heard the sound of Astarion's voice.

"Pardon me ah— Daffodil, was it?"

"Dafni," she corrected with a snort.

"Right. My Apologies. I'm not usually one to forget the name of a beautiful woman. A side effect of our little hitchhikers, perhaps."

She waved her hands before herself, a flush forming across her cheeks. "No harm done. Was there something you needed?"

Astarion pushed aside the pile of clothes Dafni had left out on her bedroll before sitting beside her. Her flush grew impossibly hotter as his pale hand brushed against a pair of her candy colored panties.

He glanced up at her, wearing a close-lipped smile. "Oh, nothing in particular. I just wanted to see how you were faring before we turn in for the evening. I'm happy to take the first watch if you'd like. I'll be awake for a while anyway. This is all new to me. Trudging around the wilderness all day and curling up in the dirt to rest is a little… novel," his expression soured for a moment before shifting back to indifference, "but I doubt I'll be getting much rest until we can procure some more comfortable accommodations."

Dafni brought her palm to her mouth to stifle her giggle. It was terribly impolite to laugh at the discomfort of others, but the idea of an elf turning their nose up at nature was, as Astarion had put it, a little novel to her.

"I'm sorry!" she said as she bit back another peel of laughter, "I hope I haven't offered you it's just where I come from, N'Tel'Que'Tethira are particularly unheard of. Hearing an elf so dissatisfied with a night beneath the stars was a bit of a shock."

"Oh, no offense taken." Astarion offered her a dismissive wave of his hand. "I take it you aren't baldurian then?"

"Actually, I am! Only recently, though. I'm from the Moonshaes, originally."

Astarion gave a thoughtful hum. "What brought you to the city then?"

"Wanderlust, mostly," Dafni explained, "I lived with a clan of wood elves before coming to the city. We traveled all over the Isle of Gwynneth. I loved it but I was just… ready for a change."

"Wood elves? How charming." he flashed her a dazzling grin, adding, "Although, I hardly think it was fair of them to keep such a lovely creature all to themselves in the wilderness."

Dafni was beginning to wonder if Astarion took some sort of sadistic pleasure in making her blush. Gods, all it took was a few honeyed words and Dafni had found herself reduced to jelly. In her fluster, she had forgotten to mind her glamour, allowing a cluster of pale yellow and peachy pink flowers to blossom among her loose curls.

"Was there anything I could do to help you feel more comfortable?" Dafni blurted out, desperate to shift his attention away from the garden spring to life in her hair, "I—I could brew you an herbal tea to help you relax, maybe? Or, umm, I could share my bedroll. Not like that, of course! Not that I don't think you are handsome. You are very handsome. I mean, obviously. I just mean I could let you use it so you'll be more…comfortable."

Dafni groaned, burying her face in her palms. She jumped at the feeling of an icy hand wrapping around her wrist. Astarion tugged her hands away from her face. When Dafni finally mustered the courage to face him, she was met with the first genuine smile she'd seen grace his perfect lips all day.

"Oh no, darling, tea isn't really my drink. As for the bedroll, well, maybe another time."

Dafni yanked her wrist free of Astarion's loose grip, "You are a ruthless tease! Has anyone told you that before?"

"Alright, no more teasing for tonight; you have my word," Astarion said with a low chuckle; his fingertips brushed against her temple as he plucked a yellow flower from behind her pointed ear. He rolled the stem between his index and forefinger, glancing at her through his dark lashes. He brought the blossom to his nose, drawing in a deep breath. "You know, I think I might like you, Daffodil . The two of us are going to have a lot of fun together."

#astarion #dafni of gwynneth #bg3 fanfiction #astarion ancunin #astarion x tav #tavstarion #elf writes #sunshine & starlight #astarion fic #astarion x f!tav

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lumpofwhump · 1 year

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The Scavenger and the Forgotten 6: The Children of Io

Content warning: Minor character death, cult dynamics, bad caretaker

Continued from here.

"Look, ammo is what I've got," Clee insisted with a frustrated gesture. "Do you want it, or would you prefer to keep your stupid safe straw?"

The lean, sharp-eyed Girn on the other side of this negotiation scoffed. "Bullets for a KAM-5? The only guys using those right now would shoot me dead on sight. Meanwhile, it looks like Grampy here could use some stupid clean water from my stupid safe straw." She pointed to Radu, and smirked as the old genmod shrunk still further in on himself upon being noticed. "It's ten in coin or nothing."

"Coin?! Who the fuck carries coin anymore?"

"The two of you, from the looks of it," the other Girn said, sounding as calm as Clee did irritable. "Your friend's got some nice clothes. New ones, even. Can't buy those with bullets."

Clee groaned, tired of arguing with this smug bitch already. Up until a few minutes ago, this had been her first day in a week with no headaches. "Six," she conceded, all but tossing two pieces of metal currency at the woman.

She caught it easily, and inspected it closely before nodding with satisfaction. "Looks like the half-a-kriv can be halfway honest. Makes enough sense."

"Go to hell," Clee shot back.

The other woman smirked. "Which one?"

She was about to suggest Chemoghlu - the lady didn't seem like she'd hold up all that well being stuck swimming upstream through a river of scalding-hot shit in the midst of a stampede of angry deimels for all eternity - when Radu urgently tapped her on the shoulder.

"Yeah, fine, let's get going," she grumbled, managing not to snap at him even as her shoulders tensed. She snatched the water filtration straw from the other Girn's hand and turned around, her eyes settling on a group of five approached humans. Or humanoids, at least.

Clee felt a pit in her stomach seeing their hodgepodge armor, made up of lab protective gear patched together to fit people much bigger than its original owners. Of all the genmod factions she'd considered bringing Radu to, the fanatics calling themselves the Children of Io had been dead last on her list.

The guy in front, though… he wasn't from the labs, at not least as a subject. He barely looked genmod at all. He did look like he needed a good punch to the face, though.

Apparently the other woman agreed. "Shit, this guy again," she muttered, clamping her hand tightly over the coins she was holding.

He gave the group of them an unpleasant smirk as his four much more formidable friends raised weapons as varied as their armor at the group. "I thought we had this talk already… Izhekna, was it?" he said, eyes on the Girn vendor. "Just because you turned informant doesn't mean you can go back to selling us in our own territory." He gestured toward Radu.

"I-I wasn't -- the Hiukree here and her lab… her f-friend, they were robbing me!" Izhekna pleaded in thickly-accented Ganymedean, her eyes darting between Clee and the apparent leader of this squad.

"Nice try," the man said casually, ignoring Clee as she sputtered to defend herself against the accusation, right before one of the soldiers fired a shot directly into Izhekna's head. The older woman collapsed to the ground with hardly a sound, while Radu yelped and jumped back, his clothes now coated in blood.

Clee was equally blood spattered, but too stunned to react as two of the soldiers approached until their hands closed around her arms. She pulled and thrashed at her captors, jabbing one of them hard enough with the water filtration straw that they audibly hissed in pain. The same soldier pried the device out from between her fingers, not particularly gently, and threw it to the ground.

"Oh, are you fucking kidding me?!" Clee raged as this entire errand became worse than pointless.

As the straw hit the ground, though, Radu snapped to attention. "Clee!" he shouted. "Let go of Clee, she --"

"You don't have to worry about her anymore," one of the armored figures told him gently. "We won't let her hurt you."

"No, she helps me! I-I need her," Radu insisted.

"You know her?" The apparent leader groaned and squeezed the bridge of his nose. The arrogant bastard was unarmored, Clee now realized. "Well. this just turned into a giant mess," he said, sounding very put-upon by this situation. "Look, we're gonna take you both back to base and get things sorted out there, got it?"

"Doesn't look like we've got much of a choice," Clee pointed out. "Any way you can let me walk on my own here?"

He studied her for a minute without reply. There was a flash of something, maybe recognition, in his eyes, and he shook his head quickly. "Nah," he said, and started off back in the direction they'd come from.

The second pair of soldiers didn't put hands on Radu, but stood between him and Clee despite his attempts to push past them as they walked. The still-recovering older genmod was at a clear disadvantage against their much stronger, uninjured captors. At a certain point, he struggled to even minimally keep up with the group, and reluctantly accepted an offered hand from one of the two soldiers in front of him.

Twenty minutes later, they stopped just outside a single-story concrete building, miraculously all but completely intact. The plaque outside the gate was faded and rusted, and Clee could just barely make out some of the letters: R D OPM NT C NTE 8.

Before she could try to decipher it with her only tenuous grasp of written Ganymedean, though, she heard voices from above. A handful of sentries called out greetings, and the armed soldiers behind her waved.

"And look, he made it back," one of the watchers said in an amused voice, pointing to the unarmored man leading them. "'Ey Mira, you're taking over cleaning duty tonight, it looks like."

"Whatever," Clee could hear as they reached the gate. "You know I'm just gonna make him do it anyways."

One of the two soldiers pulling Clee along laughed along with the sentries. Meanwhile, their leader clenched his hands into fists with a low growl, his knuckles going nearly white.

No, not a leader, Clee realized. A human shield.

"So what's the Girn for?" Mira called down to her comrades, wrinkling her nose a bit.

The person to her left thumbed back at Radu. "Our new friend here wouldn't come without her."

"Huh," Mira said, raising an eyebrow. "Well, bring 'em in." With that, the group of them entered a walled-off sally port, which had traces of the same medical smell that had permeated Satellite Office 83.

"I'll search her," the apparent third captive of their group volunteered with a nod to Clee, a bit too eagerly, as the last of the four soldiers locked the door behind them.

One of her two escorts scoffed. "What, so you can take whatever she's got on her?"

"Can't be anything too valuable," the other said, raising an eyebrow at Clee. "'Sides. It's almost lunch. If we don't have to waste rations on this dipshit, so much the better." He turned to loom over the much smaller man in front of him. "Anything we find on you that hasn't made it into inventory, and the Commander'll be sending whatever bits of you are left to the GSH in a box."

He of the Punchable Face let out an undignified whimper and reflexively raised his hands. "Okay, I get the point!" he snapped with wounded pride, only earning himself a laugh.

The soldiers let go of Clee, finally, and headed for the door in front of them.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up and fed," the soldier that Radu was now outright leaning on for support tried to coax him.

As they passed, though, Radu grasped Clee's hand tightly. "Clee, though," he said, he said almost pleadingly. "I need -- what are you going to do with her?!"

"She'll still be here when we're done," they replied, a bit exasperated. "We'll get this sorted out, and who knows, maybe she can join us."

Clee guessed that the chances of that were pretty low. She forced a crooked smile at Radu, though, and squeezed his hand briefly before pulling away. "Hey, see you soon, alright?"

The soldiers seemed to relax more at this display than Radu did. He nodded glumly, slumping and letting himself be escorted through the door into the base. He looked over his shoulder with a last worried glance back at her before one of the soldiers closed and locked the door behind them.

"What did you to get him so attached?" the remaining human asked after a beat, echoing her own thoughts. "And what kind of a name is Clee, anyways?"

"It's my name," she snapped. "What's yours, anyways? Or should I just call you Dipshit like they do?"

The man scowled. Up close, his gritted teeth only were only slightly better than Radu's, and his narrowed eyes were mismatched, one brown and one green. "'Sir' would be fine," he informed her, taking hold of her roughly as he started to rummage through her pockets.

"Pffft," Clee responded, leading him to tighten his grip, his uneven nails digging into her skin. "Not even your own guys like you that much."

"They're not 'my guys,'" he fumed. "They're just a bunch of…!" He stopped short, looking quickly back toward the door. "Anyways. What've you got on you? Let's see… bullets? Meh," he said, stuffing them into his pockets all the same. "Some coin, that's a bit better, and… hel-lo, what's this?" He slid the pack of lycadone vials out of her coat pocket just as she remembered they were there.

"Hey, give those --!" she demanded, struggling and grabbing for them, only to be cut off a grating laugh of triumph from Sir Dipshit as he read the label.

"Oh MAN," he said, holding them just out of her reach with a gleam in his eyes. "You really made my day, you know that? Do you even know what this is?"

"It was my ticket offworld," Clee snapped. "What's it to you, a pat on the head? You heard them, they're not gonna let you keep it."

He shot her a glare, which she met with a smirk of her own. "You should maybe stick to worrying about your own problems," he shot back. "Like what'll happen when they find out you were gonna ditch the old guy."

"What do you --"

"'My ticket offworld,' wasn't that what you just said?" he said mockingly, with another unpleasant buck-toothed smile. "I'll let them figure that part out for themselves, though. I owe you one." He nodded to the vials in his hand, still frustratingly out of reach.

"Look," Clee said sharply in a low voice. "You don't want to be here any more than I do. We split the stuff, and we both get out of here." She regretted the words as she spoke them at the thought of spending any more time under the insufferable human, but she figured she could steal the already twice-over ill-gotten gains back soon enough. "And Radu… he'll be safer here. They'll know what to do for him."

The expression on her captor's face made her even less certain than she'd already felt. He shook his head and went on with his search, finding no further treasure to his obvious disappointment. "Let's go," he growled and edged her forward, driving a sharp foot driven down into the back of her heel. She let out a squeal of discomfort, and looked back indignantly at the human, who flashed her a nasty smile in response.

He pushed her through the door into the repurposed compound. She nearly gagged at the smell of what could be only described as that of death itself. She heard her escort swallow behind her, apparently no more inured to it than she was. He recovered enough to pull her collection of coins and bullets out of his pocket and hold them out for inspection, as well as inevitable confiscation. "And she would've had more if we hadn't caught her when we did," he said. "She was about to sell the other one off in exchange for passage to Earth."

"Not what we heard from him, Fletcher," a man lounging in a chair behind a long bolted-down metal table said in a bored tone, disregarding Clee's loud objections.

She immediately stopped short in her protests upon hearing his voice, one that she and every other resident of Ganymede had heard countless times over the vids throughout the dome. It took only a quick look to confirm it. He had light brown skin framed by pitch-black hair that seemed at odds with his strikingly pale grey eyes. Even sitting down he was a slight man, but had an aura of power about him that more than made up for it.

"'Oh, but we killed all the body doubles!'" the clone of Governor Jas Knossos said mockingly, echoing Clee's thoughts, before giving a casual shrug. "Is it really so surprising that they missed a few?" He gave her a smile that was not at all reassuring when coupled with his piercing stare. "So, Clee, if I remember right. Maybe you could help me figure out where things stand. Both of my sources at this point are hardly reliable." His gaze shifted over toward the human, taking on a look of contempt.

Clee swallowed. Double or not, speaking to someone with this voice, and worse still this face, was not something she'd ever expected to happen. "I-I was planning to bring Radu here anyways," she lied. The clone's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, suggesting that he saw through this, but she pushed forward into safer territory. "I had another way offworld anyways. Too bad this guy stole it." She thumbed at Fletcher.

"It'd have to be more than a few coins, then," the clone said, raising his eyebrows in interest but then pinning Fletcher with a sharp gaze.

"Try twenty four sealed vials of lycadone," Clee responded. "I can imagine that'd be pretty useful to you all."

Fletcher only laughed. "Search me, then," he said, arms spread out. "Just take me to a private room first if you're going to be thorough with it, will you?"

"That won't be necessary," the clone said. "Search their route here," he ordered the people behind him with only the slightest tilt of his head in their direction. Two of them nodded and passed by Clee and Fletcher, with one giving the latter an abrupt shove to the shoulder. He hissed in pain and tensed as if he'd been hit there before none too far back.

"Okay, I'm curious," Clee said after a long awkward silence that was making Fletcher visibly uncomfortable. "How'd you get this bunch, of all people, to follow the same guy who put them in the labs?"

Her captor chortled. "I'm not exactly 'the same guy' as the Lunan Exile. I grew up in the labs like everyone else here did."

The last person standing behind him, a woman with a distant expression who could have easily been his twin, spoke up. "Commander Alexei led us out of that place, and he leads us on to Io. He'll leave not a single genmod behind."

Clee tried not to grimace at the monotone recitation of the apparent party line. "And what about the rest of us?" she ventured.

"It depends," Alexei responded. "When it comes to you personally, what were you really about to do with your captive?"

"His name's Radu, and he's not my captive," Clee couldn't help but snap despite Alexei's narrowed eyes. "If it hadn't been for me, he'd be back in --"

"We found it," called out one of Alexei's guards as they returned. "Turns out he'd gotten his hands on a whole number of things." The guard spilled out the contents of a small box onto the bolted-down table. Coins, the lycadone, and worse still for Fletcher, a IET-12 plasma arc weapon.

Fletcher went pale.

"I'd ask what you were thinking of doing with these," Alexei said, not even looking up at him, "But I can't see you actually coming up with a plan." He turned his gaze in the vague direction of his guards. "I'm sure the GSH would be interested in having this one," he said. "And her… she can help around here until we can find out who'll pay a ransom for her."

Good luck with that, Clee thought bitterly. "Help out how?" she demanded as one of the guards took hold of her.

"Like I said. That'll depend on what we can find out about you and Radu," Alexei said.

The woman standing behind them stared blankly at the group of them as the guards turned Clee and Fletcher roughly away and marched them off further into the complex.

For his part, Radu wouldn't have noticed any of this even if he'd been able to hear it. He leaned into the wrinkled hand of someone he thought he'd never see again as she slowly ran a comb through his mess of hair with the other. Her appearance was different from what he remembered - red hair, she was supposed to have red hair - but he would've recognized that touch anywhere.

"Now let's look at the rest of you," the woman said in a reassuring voice, reaching around him to lift a hand covered in scabs that suddenly stiffened in fear. "Radu...! How did this happen? It looks like we'll have to relearn how to handle that, then, won't we?"

Radu's blood ran cold.

Taglist (let me know if you want on or off)

@verkja

@whumpsday

@skinofafish

@whither-wander-whump

#Clee Dternás #Radu #Barclay Fletcher #lab whump #nonhuman whumpee #captivity whump #military whump #bad caretaker #multiple whumpees #cult dynamics #minor character death #Barclay must suffer in every continuity

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aaeds · 2 years

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A kindness to Adaptations and “Based On” in costumes.

The teaser has been released and everyone is super excited. I’m looking forward to January just as much as the rest of the fandom - however, before we get close to the full trailer let’s all go in with open minds.

After watching the Cabinet of Curiosities Anthology on Netflix, I was surprised by the response of some of the watchers. A lot of the responses were “That’s not how it was in the book/story.” Well, maybe not but adaptations are conversions of paper to television in most cases. They won’t always be what you’re wanting or expecting

And...it can’t be. It can come close, but an adaptation will always subvert your expectations one way or direction. Not because the producers don’t care, but because there are hundreds of imaginations going off at once and sadly we’re not behind the decisions made. So I plan on going into Lockwood & Co. with an expectation to see a new spin on a series I’ve read and listened to a dozen times. That said A particular interest in mine has been in the fashion of the series as we’ve seen it. I’ve seen a few complaints over no skirts (I believe it’s a skort or shorts in the teaser) and that’s okay. There are other aspects of her costuming that can tell us more about her character than what fanart has given us.

Lucy comes from a working class family with several sisters, it wouldn’t surprise me if several pieces of hers are hand-me-downs. Her clothing is also punk inspired, bordering on working class skinhead mod subculture (and no I don’t mean that kind of skinhead.) Rolled pants, heavy boots, a bomber jacket but with feminine touches such as her mockneck ruffled shirt. It’s an interesting way to show difference between herself and Lockwood (Rather than always dressing them in one colour.) This is including their class, but also to put an emphasis on Lockwood’s put together-ness to her hodgepodge dress and quality teen behaviour. I’m not saying we shouldn’t see skirts, but if we do outside a haunt I would be very interested in seeing how it meshes with the rest of her outfit. I think Lucy’s background doesn’t get enough attention that it deserves in regards to her emotional growth and insecurities. Finding a home in London outside the confines of strict codes of conduct like Fittes also probably went into her design. Lockwood as well had some minor brushes, and while the converse are as comical as his dodge-roll on camera, I can see how practical they would be to film in while also remaining faithful to the character in other areas. He’s wearing a tie and trousers, with that ridiculous overcoat so it was a good compromise. Capturing the dichotomy on screen of “Put together businessman in his teens” and “traumatised child” would be a complex arrangement of fabrics and key pieces to his wardrobe. Someone pointed out the bright red socks, and I hope that maybe colour will play into his role through the series. I think also the ring is very interesting as it’s on his right hand which can ‘mean’ strong attachment. To wear it on the same hand as wields a rapier could for example have a connection to its previous wearer. Jessica, or a parent.

I love costume theory and we haven’t seen much of George but I think they nailed one aspect of his wardrobe from the books was everything was in ways too big on him - except the elastic on his jacket. We don’t know how much of George we can say for wardrobe - but given the stacks of comics and state of things I’m hoping for graphic T’s and character PJs. Comfortable clothing, and not really giving a damn compared to his cohorts.

But we should enjoy the series when it comes out as it is before getting too critical on small details now.

#Lockwood & co #Lockwood and co #rant #I just love costumes and clothing so much #So much goes into thought behind the characters sometimes and it's just inspiring

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nissenmccarty02 · 5 months

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#Kitchen Countertops. kitchen granite countertop tyler tx

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allclonesneedkisses · 2 years

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Summary: Boba gives you a surprise.

Pairing: Boba Fett x f!ArtistReader

Word Count: 974 Rating: PG

Tags: Fluff, artistic reader, just a soft sweet moment

Masterlist

It was actually Fennec who suggested it. She’d been watching you sketch for the last hour. Bobas audience chamber was cleared out for the day, leaving her idle while the daimyo himself worked on reports from the throne. Her keen eyes had picked up the tiny frown that kept working itself across your lips as you mixed your pastels with your fingers. Noting your physical discomfort towards the chalk that clung to your skin.

“Have you tried painting?” You looked up, your hand stilling over your sketch as you focused on her.

“Why do you ask?”

She gave a rolling shrug, her braid slipping behind her shoulder with an easy you wish you could capture in your work. “You don't seem to like the way those feel.” She gestured at your chalk pastels that were scattered across your table. As if to prove her point she picked one up and grimaced as it grated under her nail.

“And I can see why.” She set it back down and wiped the chalk dust on her pants, leaving behind a streak of yellow on her otherwise pristine clothes which she frowned at.

With a sigh you set your sketch down and began cleaning off your fingers with the rag you kept nearby. “I used to paint. A long time ago.” Fenic looked back at you even as she tried to rub the yellow chalk off. “But paint’s more expensive and it’d take up too much room.” You couldn't keep the wistfulness out of your voice which was probably what kickstarted the whole thing.

You were never sure if Fenic had taken it upon herself to bring it up to Boba or if he’d been eavesdropping on your conversation, but a few days later Boba sprung it on you.

“I have a gift for you little one.” You were just finishing up breakfast together, your mind already wandering to your day when he’d caught your eye.

You gave him a curious smile and when he offered you his worn hand you took it with a question. “What’s the occasion?” He gently pulled you from your seat, his eyes never leaving yours even as his expression softened just a hair.

“Do I need a reason to spoil you?” You ran your tongue across your teeth but it did little to stop your smile from spreading.

Boba had tucked your hand in his as he guided you through the palace. He’d refused to answer any of your questions, opting instead to question you about your latest work. It wasn't long before he paused in front of a small room adjacent to his personal quarters. You gave him a questioning look since it’d only ever been used for storage.

He gestured at the closed door with a nod of his head. “Go ahead.”

Skeptically you palmed the door controls and stepped inside, your mouth already forming another question that never left your lips. What was once a storage room had been effortlessly turned into a studio. Blank canvases were neatly leaning against the plain adobe walls, their blank visages inviting you to deface them. An old paint flecked easel stood tall in the center of the room facing a small open window looking out over the dune sea. Beside the well loved easel stood a wobbly table that was covered in supplies. Your legs carried you closer without any instruction from your brain and you reverently ran your hands across the multitude of paints. It was a hodgepodge of mediums, from watercolor to acrylic to more obscure types. There were even a few tubes of Kashyyyk pigment and Rhodian dye, the likes of which you’d only ever seen from afar.

But beyond the tubes and pallets of paint were the brushes. They were well used, obviously taken care of by their previous artists. Their wooden handles had been worn smooth, any lacquer had long since flaked off leaving them a natural, yet washed out brown. The metal ferrules were dull and dented, a few of them showing signs of rust yet all of them relatively clean and well maintained. Most of the brushes were rounded, their fluffy tan bristles a little uneven and soft from time. But to you they were perfect. They were reminiscent of the brushes you’d learned to paint with in school so long ago. Already broken in by a multitude of strokes, their stubborn existence a testament to their value.

You turned towards Boba with tears in your eyes to find him standing right behind you, his eyes soft and a tiny bit anxious as he waited for your response. You grinned at him, throwing your arms around his neck and pulling him close. He cradled your form against him, his warm hands landing on your back and gripping you tightly in return.

“Thank you Boba, this is…” you trailed off, unable to voice just how much it meant to you.

Boba gave a soft chuckle, his breath tickling your neck. “The tools may be old but I felt they suited you better than an untouched set.” You huffed out a laugh, loving the fact that he knew you so well and gave him a squeeze before pulling back so you could see his face.

“I love them.” You released his neck to gently brush his cheeks with the pads of your thumbs feeling his worn skin against yours. “Thank you.”

Boba cupped his hands around yours, engulfing them with his warm palms. “I would give you everything you desire, little one. Even the old and worn relics of the past so much like me.”

You gave a little shake of your head, a rueful gesture that always amused him. “Not old, well loved.”

He turned one of your palms towards his lips and brushed a chaste kiss against your skin before agreeing. “Well loved indeed.”

@writer-wednesday

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shoppncarticles · 10 months

Text

The Sewaddle Family

Ah, now we’ve got something totally original! And isn’t Sewaddle positively ADORABLE! Look at this little baby bug all bundled up in a leaf swaddle! I love this caterpillar’s cat-like nub mouth and round, unfocused eyes. It’s even got a little hole on one side of its hood to make the design nice and asymmetrical.

Even when Sewaddle evolves into the more moody and reserved Swadloon, it stays just as cute as its baby form. It seems Swadloon has developed into an antisocial teen, bundled up in its leafy coat like a blanket-clad shut-in. It’s a delightful little idea that fits well for a loosely-based cocoon creature, and again adds some of that beloved character development that I appreciate in these designs.

It only makes sense then that to evolve and come out of its shell, Swadloon needs a lot of friendship in order to become its final form, Leavanny. If you haven’t pieced it together yet, this Bug/Grass type family are primarily based around walking leaves, relatives to walking sticks that have adapted to look like foliage to avoid detection. Leavanny, meanwhile, gathers leaves and sews them into clothing for itself and its children using silk it produces, which is a cool idea. That also helps draw connections to leafcutter ants, though neither that species nor walking leaves have caterpillar larval stages, making Leavanny a big hodgepodge of various insects.

Not that that’s to Leavanny’s detriment, of course. It’s a very nice, appealing design, with its cute, round face and bright red eyes, sleek, thin body and leafy clothing. As its name implies, it acts like a nanny for the various Sewaddle it cares for, nurturing them and bundling them in leafy swaddles, which is a charming visual. Seeing a bug get portrayed with a sweet, motherly characterization is a nice change of pace and fits its overall design quite well. It’s said Leavanny even does this for other species of Pokemon it finds suffering out in the wild, which adds to its nice, feel-good nature as well.

It's a small detail, but I also find it kind of amusing that despite being so delicate and protective of those in its care, Leavanny isn’t some highly-defensive tank like Chansey was. Instead, it’s a high Attack, fragile speedster in terms of gameplay stats, which is a humorous pairing with its personality. It’s a shame its stats are on still lower compared to most of the high-end competitive powerhouses, and has the awfully defensive Bug/Grass type combo, but Leavanny should still serve you well for most in-game story challenges, so it’s just fine by my standards.

Score: 5/5 – PERFECT!

Can’t argue with the big mama bug.

[Gen 5 Archive]

#pokemon #pokemon review #sewaddle #swadloon #leavanny

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violetmuses · 2 years

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Somethin' Special - Holder

TITLE: “Somethin’ Special” || Stephen Holder

FANDOM: “The Killing” (AMC/Netflix Series)

CHARACTER: Homicide Detective Stephen Holder

PAIRING: Female Reader + Stephen Holder

MAIN STORYLINE: On a bad day, Stephen tries to help you feel better.

Author’s Note: Hey! Wrote this one for myself, but I hope that someone else feels better, too. Feedback would be greatly appreciated and thanks so much for reading my work as always. - V. 💜

Main Masterlist 💜

J Krew: @nerdysuperchick @a-reader-and-a-writer @babblydrabbly @lacontroller1991 @shadowkittybucky @loverhymeswith @justin-hammers @weallhaveadestiny @xoxabs88xox @katjnordstrom96 @mayhem24-7forever @fangirl0917 @skvatnavle @sociiallydiisoriiented @heresathreebee @alieninoklahoma @bewitchedignition @maddu-oliveira @reveluving @sugapapichulo @hodgepodge-of-rog @ijustthinkrickflagisprettyneat @ed-baldwin

_______

2012

Something didn’t feel right.

You usually contact Stephen almost every morning to say hello, but it’s far past 10:00 AM. For the first time in a while, you haven’t pinged his phone once. Maybe your cell was dead. You haven’t even responded to his own voicemails or text messages.

Holder’s clothed knee nearly trembles over and over below the desk until he can’t take this anxiety anymore.

Despite furrowing her brow, Linden can’t bring herself to leave as well. Too much paperwork swamped this week and Lieutenant would’ve kicked their asses if something hadn’t been done regarding so many cases this time.

Across this cramped space, Stephen gathers his flimsy raincoat and bolts right out of their shared precinct office. He needs to figure out what the hell is going on with you. For all he knows, a worst-case-scenario could’ve landed you in the hospital.

_______

Knocking on that front door and ringing the bell too many times didn’t even work, but he knows that one extra key hides. It’s located right underneath the welcome mat settled near your porch.

Use it, no matter what. You had told him. It will be the first time that he’s ever walked through without you opening the door for him.

The door creaks open and he settles that key into one small bowl that perches on a table in the foyer, just in case.

“Yo! Y/N?” Stephen calls out to you, but your pretty living room is quiet. Too quiet.

Even that beloved kitchen space hasn’t been touched, not even revealing aromas of your favorite meals. Take out boxes haven’t perched onto the counters, either.

He knows damn-well something isn’t right because food is your saving grace, whether you start cooking or not.

And yet, he finally notices your “hiding spot” when the bedroom door is left slightly open. The door is ajar just enough for him to see a bit inside.

From this angle, the television is on, but you’ve turned away from that screen and are probably half-asleep.

Out of precaution to avoid spooking you, he unties his sneakers and sets them down just a feet away from the door, knocking softly once more.

In that moment, you finally recognize the man sitting on the edge of your, weighted even further down because of this added level.

“Hi.” You rasp through lidded eyes, hardly awake, but still try sitting up to face him.

“Hey, Mama. You didn’t text me this morning, so I thought something was wrong. You okay?” Stephen scoots his thin body further onto the covers, not even caring if he ditched work to see you.

“I’m not under the weather or anything, but…” You trail off. Stephen notices how red your eyes look, as if you’ve been crying all morning.

“What happened, girl, huh?” Stephen reaches out and caresses your face, laying on his side without a care in the world. Your eyes. He loves your eyes so much, but his heart breaks as tears water them.

“Do you still love me?” You struggle to bring up that question, but it’s still the truth. Things have been so hectic with life for you both that maybe you shouldn’t even be together anymore.

“Always.” He kisses the top of your head, moving all the way down until your lips meet his. “It doesn't matter what I’m doing, I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.” You say, now letting Stephen wrap both arms around you and cuddle. He feels so warm, you can’t even remember how long it takes to sleep again.

_______

Not long after that terrible day in bed, you stand in the bedroom mirror and check your outfit. It’s one of one the few occasions that you’ve worn a dress and heels. Hair looks cute and makeup looks decent, especially considering how Seattle rain dampens your mood.

“There’s my lady.” Stephen looks at you while standing in the doorway. You smile for the first time in days.

From this angle of your mirror, you notice that he looks great as well. One rare dress shirt has covered inked tattoos that always drive you wild. Dark slacks clothed his legs. His blondish is cut shorter and one suit jacket draped over his arm.

“You look so handsome. Where are we going?” You beam, slightly adjusting Holder’s tie as you turn to face him.

“Uh-uh. No clues.” Smirking for a moment, Holder slyly brings one devilish finger to your lips. In return, you nearly want to forgo whatever date night he planned.

“You should stop acting like that before we end up staying here.” You tease him and kiss his cheek, gathering your clutch purse and heading out the bedroom door.

It’s no secret that he follows you down the hallway and whistles downward, scoping those hazel eyes to watch your figure move in that dress. He remembers secretly buying it for you as a birthday present and your own joy later made him happy.

________

At the restaurant, both of you are smart enough not to drink alcohol in public because Stephen drove. Regardless of no alcohol, laughter fills the space between each of you at the table and your smile, that returning smile, looks adorable.

Dinner is great and conversation is perfect, but his nerves come back for a moment as he recalls why tonight should take place at all.

He knows exactly what rests within his back pocket. He purchased it shortly after your birthday and kept this secret for quite some time.

Yet, what happened not long ago at your house stirred something within him.

Now or never. You need to know how much he loves you. In Stephen's opinion, his question would be an ultimate form of proof.

He makes sure that the bill is already paid for and that tonight’s server left. He then takes your hand and interlocks his fingers with yours, smiling.

“Hey.” His voice is low, but you realize how joyful he looks.

“Hey,” You repeat after him and smile back, almost hiding your face through quiet chuckles. “Thank you for tonight.”

“No problem.” He replies grateful for you . These moments are rare between you and him, so this evening feels even more wonderful. “Can we talk about something?”

“Sure?” You answer, smoothing his slightly calloused knuckle as both of you face one another.

“Look, I know things ain’t been easy for us, but you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I love you.” Stephen responds, but slowly moves his hand away from yours before gently standing up from the table.

Oh my… Your thoughts zip from shock to joy as he gets down on one knee and shows this beautiful diamond ring.

“I love you, too.” You trail off, finally realizing his movements. He’s standing in the middle of this carpeted floor near the table and pocketing his dark slacks, mostly reaching into one side.

“Y/N, will you marry me?” Through clouded vision, he utters your full name and pulls himself together, showing just enough strength to ask the question. That question.

“Yes, Stephen.” You nod feverishly, giving Holder time to slip the ring onto your finger before nearly jumping into his arms.

Every day might not be perfect or simple, but at least you’ll have each other, now and forever.

#slight angst #stephen holder x female reader #stephen holder x reader #stephen holder x you #the killing fan fic #the killing #the killing fanfic #joel kinnaman #joel kinnaman fanfiction

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