#also you can hide /so/ many things with those petticoats

[pokeberry5]

TIMMY 🌈

the outfits were a result of anita, cissie and steph's combined efforts

(the red dress was his mom's)

crops under the cut:

#tim drake #dc #sart #happy pride to my fellow bisexual and otherwise ambiguously queer girlies #his favorite is the lolita dress bc it's actually the easiest to move in #all the others are tighter around the legs and inhibit mobility #also you can hide /so/ many things with those petticoats #i got so caught up in the euphoria of tim in 8 different dresses #that i forgot HOW LONG IT TAKES ME TO LINE THINGS #it's still june!!!

[natromanxoff]

Record Mirror (July 14, 1979): 119/?

THE QUEEN BACKLASH ENDS HERE

WITHOUT DOUBT Queen are among that elite number of bands universally hated by the rock press.

The rancour is, make no mistake, mutual which is understandable. If you find yourself on the receiving end of an inveterate dislike at the outset of your career and watch it being nurtured and carefully cultivated over the next six years you’re bound to retaliate.

Queen’s hatred manifests itself by their continued habit of ignoring the music press i.e. refusing to give interviews. There is the occasional token “chat”, pointless as it is innocuous, but in the main it amounts to a blanket “No.”

One of the last interviews Freddie Mercury gave was the last nail in the perspex coffin. Under a headline which boldly asked ‘Is This Man A Prat?’ the king of the leotards was demolished by one of the old school Queen haters and Freddie obviously came to the conclusion, in its wake, that interviews in future would be both superfluous (he was popular enough) and detrimental.

The curtain, velvet naturally, closed.

Roger Taylor, a little wary, a little weary, sits stiffly in an armchair. The juggernauts rattling the Chelsea Street outside create a sonorous buzz bomb hum in the room.

You expect a member of Queen to look elegant. In fact Roger is only wearing a wine colour mohair jacket, black shirt and blue jeans.

He apologises for being a little late and explains how he went to the wrong address. Roger seems to be the only member of Queen left who is prepared, albeit rarely, to open his mouth in the presence of a hack. A question springs to mind . . . why?

“We all sat around a table before I flew over from Munich to discuss the press situation and we agreed I should be the one to represent the band. Freddie is very uncompromising and refuses to have much to do with journalists.

“Obviously, he’s had a few raw deals with them in the past,” observes Taylor.

Roger himself has a rather low view of the music press.

“Most of it is rubbish. There was something I liked recently, a piece on Malcolm McLaren, but in the main I think I’m the only one of Queen to actually read the music papers.”

Why does he think the band are systemically slagged?

“I think it’s because Queen have always come across as being a rather confident band. We seemed, to other people at least, to be very sure of ourselves. I think the press may have misconstrued the confidence, mistaking it for a form of arrogance. Hence they became wary of our motives which bred a dislike for our music.”

Now that’s what I call a neat conclusion.

At the risk of being sent to Coventry by my colleagues I’d like, if I may, to come clean. I love Queen (you’re fired, Ed).

I think it all began with a simple pre-packed but indisposable line – “Dynamite with a laser beam” and has continued uninterrupted (despite the occasional flaw) right through to ‘Queen Live Killers’.

A combination of reasons, Freddie Mercury’s lascivious lisp – the most attractive intonation known to man . . . Brian May’s reel ‘em off rococo riffs that would, in his capable hands, transform the theme music for ‘Waggoners’ Walk’ into a meisterwork . . . John Deacon’s almost stoic stance, incongruous yet integral . . . Roger Taylor’s intense power, so unexpected from one so slight . . . the ability to go over the top without failing into the trap of caricature . . . a desire to give the punters what they want without pandering . . . that cast iron confidence . . . those nine glorious winter weeks of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ which kept the cold away from my soul . . .

Yes, I love Queen.

Roger explains the story behind ‘Killers’ which features just about every Queen classic which ever found its way into a silk lined memory bank.

“We always knew that one day we would make a live album. I think it was well planned. About 90 per cent of our last European tour was recorded on a mobile unit and we then spent weeks sitting through the songs in the studio.

“The result is a 100 per cent LIVE album. Nothing has been touched up in the process of selection, I think that’s pretty rare these days. Many ‘live’ albums are tampered with.”

The choice of single is unusual – ‘Love Of My Life’. “It’s not so unusual when you hear the way it came out. The song seems to have such a wide appeal. Everywhere we go the reaction to it is the same. The audience are just bursting to sing along.”

The result is Queen’s best single since ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ (that was their LAST one crawler, ED)

As I mentioned earlier the band are currently residing in Munich where they are “experimenting” in the studio.

“We are recording in a totally different way for us,” says Roger who speaks with a delicate London accent only typical of cockneys with dramatic training and David Essex.

“Every time we entered a studio in the past we had a good idea of what we were going to do. This time we started from scratch and the result is amazing. The music is nothing like anything we’ve done before, I guess you could say it’s much simpler.”

And this novel approach to their music also extends to their shows. On their next British tour – in the late Autumn – the band will be playing much smaller venues than they are accustomed to.

“In London for example we went to play to audiences of about two or three thousand in different areas. I think it’s much fairer to the fans.”

But won’t this affect their stage show which is after all a crucial factor for any powerpomp outfit?

“Not really. We will just scale down the show accordingly. Besides,” he says taking another bite out of the biscuit, “we haven’t used dry ice in years.”

The monkey on Queen’s back, as corpulent and cantankerous as ever, has been put there by those who firmly believe the band can never emulate past achievements. Roger is cognizant of its presence but refuses to unpeel its bananas.

“That all began after ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. When it stayed at number one all those weeks we were kindly informed that we would never be able to make another single to rival it both artistically and from the point of view of sales.

“Yet ‘We Are The Champions’ sold a great deal more and has since become the biggest selling single in the entire history of Elektra Asylum – our label in the States.

“We don’t do the amazingly complex things any more because we’ve moved on from that. We concentrate on the music we are doing now and we intend to do it the best we can, it’s ridiculous looking behind and and what you’ve done.

“There’s nothing like going back on the road to re-unite the bond between the four personalities and strengthening our belief in the band. We are a real working unit and, in my experience of the music business, one of the most democratic bands around today.”

A statement like that cries out to be expounded.

“People think every member of all the bands, not naming any names, are treated equally that is get the same money as their colleagues. That’s rubbish. In many bands there are a couple of guys that get all the money. The rest are on wages. Queen share the profits equally.”

And they don’t have a manager taking his cut either, John Reid departed a couple of years back and now the band themselves make all the major policy decisions. Why did they decide to dispense with the services of a manager?

“Basically because we were fed up with giving other people money. Y’know it never ceases to amaze me how naive those guys are in bands who have just had their first hit. After all this time I’ve forgotten just how naive we must have been at the beginning.

“I mean, everything seems so great when you get into the charts for the first time. You’re living on cloud nine and nothing else matters. But in truth that hit means absolutely nothing. So few people achieve any amount of financial success in this business.

“Oh, you think, you’re really living . . . for a while. Somebody gets you a flat in Chelsea and it’s all free. But one day the rent stops being paid for you and you realise you’re skint.

“Since John Reid has gone the four of us have always made a point of discussing everything together. We have various people working for us but all the important decisions are made by us alone. That way we get freedom of choice – and financial independence.”

My attention is suddenly diverted.

“FORTY-LOVE!” Wimbledon, the Persil White opiate for the hoi polloi squashed in a strawberry crush wrings out its perspiring petticoats on the TV in the next room.  Roger’s girlfriend, an extremely attractive French girl called Dominique, is engrossed. The couple have lived together for two years. Crippled old marriage questions permeate the air.

“I don’t believe in marriage,” says Roger. “It’s simply a contract and the fewer contracts I enter into the better. If you get on well with someone then there isn’t any harm in living with that person – but marriage is something else again.”

They live in a six bedroomed Victorian house just outside London, which is set in 20 acres. Roger has a “tiny” town house in Barnes as well. What’s it like having a bank full of money at the age of 29?

“I don’t hide away from life. Queen have never been one of those ‘being grabbed in the street’ type bands. It may happen when the four of us are together – but when we are out alone we are seldom bothered. That gives me the opportunity to enjoy myself. I go to clubs a lot. I like having a good time. I don’t think you could describe any of the band as leading sheltered lives.

“But I have completely lost touch with how much things cost. When you find yourself living in hotels for so long you never really deal in money as such. Everything is available whenever you want it – but you never see the cash actually being handed over.

“I’ve forgotten what it was like to be penniless which Queen were for years. I guess that must happen to many successful rock bands.”

Another thing that happens to many successful rock bands – they quit the country. But not Queen it appears.

“We have always based ourselves in England and I see no reason why we shouldn’t continue to do so. We could leave at any time but we choose to stay. People believe we are tax exiles because we spend a lot of the time out of the country recording in studios all over Europe and touring.”

And what will happen when the band finally trudge wearily down the road leading to that  ivory strewn elephants’ graveyard . . . ?

“I know it’s bound to happen one day. I suppose I’d take a long, long holiday . . . and then make a solo album.”

#queen #queen band #roger taylor #dominique beyrand #freddie mercury #brian may #john deacon #record mirror #record mirror july 1979 #queen scans

[ssson-of-sparda]

WHAT FORTUNE GAVE - CHAPTER 1 (VERGIL X NERO’S MOTHER)

Summary: Vergil arrives in Fortuna and crosses path with a rebellious lady dressed in red. But even if he doesn't want pay attention, Fortuna seemed determined to intertwine their lives.

(PROLOGUE)

Tags: Romance / Angst / Fluff / Explicit Sexual Content / Explicit Language / Canon-Typical Violence / Blood and Gore / Religion / The Order of The Sword / Civil War / Rebellion / Demons / Action and Adventure / Sparda’s past

Author’s note: So, let me introduce you to Elissa aka Nero's mother. I've decided to make her rebellious and quite feisty to mirror Nero's impetuosity. After all, that kid had to take after someone, right? So why not mummy dearest? I know the story might seem slow to start but I need to set up the scenery for the events to come. Hope you like it anyway.

It all started on a Holy Thursday, on the first day of a most-welcomed vigorous spring that tinted the cityscape of the Castle Town of Fortuna in luminous shades of gold and blue. The cobbled streets were empty, the shops and cafes all closed, for all the inhabitants were gathered inside the Cathedral whose majestic dome overlooked the nearby Renaissance-style buildings, a sacred beacon calling the devotees to pray. But the religious establishment was nothing in comparison to the partially-veiled giant-like idol standing tall and massive within the ramparts of the city, a figure made of stone and marble with the face of Vergil’s father. It didn’t look very resembling to him. Sparda never had such delicate features, not in his son’s memories at least. But it did not matter. The young man wasn’t here to judge some clearly distasteful architecture. He was here for the answers and the promises of power that island kept in between its walls.             “The Order of the Sword, huh? They worship a demon as a god?” This reality sounded foolish, incomprehensible even. His father was no god. He knew that better than anyone. But what was religion if not idealisation, divinisation of a flawed man? Humans …

***

“Elissa!” A fearful whisper pronounced the girl’s name but it would take more than a whisper for her to stop her mischief. “Elissa! Come dddd-down!” The girl named Elissa smiled, enjoying the risk she was definitely taking. Degrading the Savior? Not her first time. But she had never climbed that high before. “What if sss-omeone sees you … sss-ees us?” She rolled her green eyes, weary of the perpetual anxiety shaking the already very trembling voice of her friend. “Agnus! Stop being such a pussy!” She shouted-murmured, not really knowing why she was murmuring at all. “Everyone’s at church!” Agnus fidgeted even more as he saw the young woman taking her time spraying blue paint on the statue, the tip of her rosy tongue out, an adorable display of her concentration and perfectionism. “Does it look like the Guard’s symbol to you?” She demanded, observing her rebellious art from all possible angles.     Agnus sighed and looked up, regretting to have left his lab for this childish yet dangerous adventure. He wasn’t a teenager anymore. He even had a woman and a baby daughter waiting for him at home. So why wasting time playing vandals with Elissa? He knew why. “You’re not looking under my skirt, are you?”          The man blushed, terribly uncomfortable. “What? Of cccc-ourse not!” But he was a scientist and scientists were curious beings. That’s what he was telling himself each time he was thinking about what was hidden underneath Elissa’s crimson clothes.The Cathedral bells rang loud, signalling the end of today’s mass. Soon, the people of Fortuna would invade the streets again to come back to their boring daily occupations. “We’re definitely gonna get ccc-caught.” Agnus told himself. “What am I gonna tell Marcus?” A suspect noise stopped Agnus in his alarming thoughts. It was coming from a few streets away. Squeals and growls of fury and pain. Demons? “Ddd-did you hear that?” Elissa listened carefully and recognized the screams. She had heard similar ones in Mitis Forest recently. She had shut a lot of them up too. They were demons alright but not the worst kind. “Just a few …scarecrows.” She tried to reassure Agnus but realised he was already gone. “Such a pussy.” She shook her head, slightly exasperated but not surprised. Agnus was not famous for his bravery, quite the opposite. He was a coward but Elissa was okay with it. After all, he had been providing the Guardians with very useful information concerning demons for a few years now, all that thanks to his natural talents as an alchemist. The girl jumped off the statue and, in order to remove the beige dust from the fabric, shook her old red dress typical of Fortuna fashion, one of the few clothes she had kept from her past life in the Order and that she now used to blend in among the Fortunans each time she would venture in town. She then cautiously pulled up her skirt to reveal a thigh belt hidden under the white petticoat and strapped the spray can, right next to a sharp curved dagger she kept in a thin leather sheath just in case.        “Hey! You!” Did we say cautiously? “Shit!” Time to run.

***

Yamato shone in the sun, casting a shadow on Vergil’s young face that even this small fight hadn’t manage to fluster, and once again the blade made one with the saya with a perfect clink that echoed like a lethal musical note in the demon-cleared street. “Just what are your true intentions?” He wondered out loud as he wrapped his blue frame under a linen cloak that looked foreign to anyone who would take a look.Elissa took a look, green eyes staring with curiosity from under her white hood she had carelessly thrown above her head in precipitation to cover her soft locks of fiery ginger when she had left the place of her previous mischief as fast as she could, successfully escaping the angry guards shouting at her.           She took a look, knowing exactly what this stranger had just done as she watched him crossing the crowd with purpose, alone, going up the street towards the Cathedral while everyone was walking down, their minds still lost in religious psalms.             She stopped in her track for a second to admire him, wondering who he was and where he came from. She imagined a distant city at first, somewhere far away from here, crowded with people who hadn’t been indoctrinated by the Order’s promises. But then, as she noticed his bearing, so stately and yet so lonely, she thought he wasn’t from a particular place but from many places. A wanderer, traveling the world, someone who held knowledge, who had seen what was beyond the horizon of Fortuna.            He probably noticed her stare as he concealed his face even more under his hood and slightly hunched his shoulders. So, out of respect and despite her devouring curiosity, Elissa walked away, certain that if Sparda wanted her to meet this mysterious strange again, then their paths would cross one more time.Vergil quietly made his way in the main avenue where the marble giant was standing and slowed down when he noticed a small crowd gathered by the statue’s feet. Everyone was gasping in shock, hands over mouths as if they were the witnesses of the worst sacrilege, the most terrible infamy.       Wondering what the fuss was all about, the Son of Sparda peered over everyone’s shoulders from a distance but close enough to spot a graffiti plastered on the leg of the thing the Fortunans seemed to call The Savior. It was a symbol of some sort, a pair of winged arms with sharp claws protecting Sparda’s horned head. It had been drawn with turquoise paint that was still running down the immaculate white stone and that was leaving a heavy odour of solvents in the ambient air, identical to the one Vergil had smelt when that girl who had stared at him with insistence had walked past him, an odour indicating Vergil when the degradation had been made and who had done it.He scoffed briefly, amused by the political provocation and the over-dramatic reaction of the bigoted crowd, and after glancing one last time at the spray-painted symbol, resumed his exploration of the city.       “Looks like appearances can be deceiving in this city after all.” Vergil said as he thought about the rebellious girl in saint clothes who didn’t seem to be new in the graffiti drawing business according to the devotees’ wrath. “Those rebels again! Soiling the image of Sparda with their belligerent propaganda. Hope the Order will find them soon.” They agreed with each other with angry nods. “They are worse than demons! They probably hide in shadows like the rats they are.”     Had Vergil just stepped in the middle of a civil war?

***

When her holy hood fell back on her shoulders, Elissa sighed in relief, glad to finally feel her soft ginger hair finally liberated from that awful religious cage of white cotton she couldn’t stand wearing anymore. Few more minutes and she would also get rid of that ridiculous dress that constricted her like a straitjacket. But right now, she had a meeting to attend.      Summoned by her leader, probably to claim responsibility for her new roguishness that had caused such a big turmoil in the city this morning, she pushed the door of Guardian Marcus’s office without an ounce of fear or apprehension. She knew full well she would not be reprimanded. She never was.  “Elissa! My child, come.” The white-haired old man welcomed her with wide opened arms and showed her a seat before him where she sat in silence and waited for him to say what he had to say.At first, he just stared at her, without a word but with half a smile and a look of amusement he couldn’t keep to himself. And finally he spoke with a cheerful tone. “You should have painted it red.” His loud laugh echoed in the room and he took a huge sip of the red wine waiting to be drunk in a fancy chalice next to his velvet armchair.            Elissa had a timid respectful smile; unable to act casual with this man who, even though was distant family, had been leading the cause she was fighting for for so many years, since even before she was born. “How did you find out?”           “Agnus told me.” He admitted and gauged the girl’s reaction who seemed more disappointed in herself than surprised. “Should have thought so.”    “Be careful who you surround yourself with, Elissa. Offering someone your trust can be as dangerous as any blade. Believe me, I know.” He traced the large scar along his wrinkled face, a reminder of an old betrayal that had made him lose, in addition to his left eye, a man he used to call brother and who was now leading Fortuna thanks to his lies and his dark secrets. Sanctus. “I shall remember your advice, sir.” “But you know what surprises me the most? It’s that Adel didn’t try to talk you out of this. After all, he follows you like a shadow … an enamoured shadow even.” Marcus smiled, trying to build complicity with this young lady, the granddaughter of the brother he had lost long ago, a child he loved like his own. Elissa smiled in return and shook her head, having trouble to believe she was having this conversation with her leader. “And yet you seemed keen on refusing his advances. May I know why?”        “I didn’t know this was a matchmaking appointment.” Elissa humoured, definitely amused by the situation. “I’m old and I’ve been at war for most of my life. So let’s say, the frivolity of youth and the burgeoning loves are like peaceful songs to my heart.”        Elissa sighed and her heart, in spite of this new attempt at making it yield to a man she didn’t love, once again refused to see Adel as nothing else than a friend. “I’m just not interested. Enamoured shadows are not my type.”         “ And what, pray tell, is your type?”

***

Vergil had visited many places in his short lifetime. Perpetually on the move – he refused to say ‘on the run anymore’ for running was for the weak – he had seen so many cities, so many different landscapes, some in shades of blue, some in shades of green and other in shades of gold, so many colours most men would have forgotten but that he had somehow always cared to remember. But there was something about Fortuna that made her unique, different from all the things he had had the chance to see.         Perhaps was it the anachronistic almost medieval atmosphere that had shaped the city architecture and the inhabitants’ lifestyle or perhaps was it because every edifice seemed to hold secret knowledge about his family.  Whatever it was, Vergil was sure of one thing; what made Fortuna special were clearly not the city’s filthy underground bars from Port Caerula, well hidden under the docks, away from prying eyes that would be easily outraged by the debauchery they held between their walls. That kind of place he was familiar with, despite his revulsion for them and the people frequenting them.           “Hello, sugar. You’re a new face.” An eccentric woman declared as she tried to take a peek under Vergil’s cowl, her voluptuous body leant against the bar. “And a handsome one. I would lower my price for a face like yours.” The young man glanced at the woman, shortly but long enough to see how she looked, the embodiment of repulsive tragedy that once looked beautiful.             Her makeup was smeared and barely hiding the bruises and the cuts on her young face and she was wearing a church outfit ripped at the thighs and purposely unbuttoned to reveal her generous cleavage. And in her velvet purse, she kept a wig made of dry artificial ginger hair some despicable men had certainly asked her to wear more than once.       “Not interested. Now leave.” Vergil’s tone was curt and cold but she insisted anyway.        “You’re sure? I make the best blowjobs in all Fortuna. Isn’t that right, Captain?” She nodded towards a young charismatic brown-skinned man carrying a crossbow on his back and drinking sitting the stool right next to Vergil. When he heard his name, he spared a glare at the prostitute and at the Son of Sparda as well for no particular reason but because he hated his occasional obscene deviations to be exposed. “He just looooves some naughty church girls. Do you like them too?” Vergil ignored her and focused again on his drink, lying untouched on the bar. He didn’t like drinking. “Or do you prefer them innocent and prudish? I can be either.”  “Quit with your lies and just leave, Pomona².” The dark-haired man ordered with a strong voice that made her smile.       “ Ha! Looks like I finally have my name back. See you around, sugar… Adel.” She winked and left to sell her body to someone else that would accept it in exchange of a bit of money.“You should not visit that sort of bar if women like Pomona bother you, stranger.” The so-called Adel warned before drinking from his tankard. He, just like everybody else here, could tell Vergil was not from around. All they had to do was looking at him. After all, everyone knew everyone else in a small reclusive island like Fortuna. “It’s sometimes the loudest, worst people that give all the information a man looks for.”     “So you’re looking for information then. About what?” Vergil was a curious man but he despised curiosity in other people, especially when he was the subject of their curiosity.            “Nothing a man like you knows about.”        The answer surprised the Moor who hadn’t expected such arrogance coming from a stranger. “Well, piece of advice. If you want information in Fortuna, there are two ways to get them. Either you don’t behave like an arrogant asshole or you pay for them.”     Vergil smirked slightly under his hood as he already knew how to react to such pathetic insult. Adel was not a difficult man to read. “Just like when you want a woman’s love, am I right?”             The provocation burnt and stang like the most vicious hot poker piercing through

Adel’s dignity and ego. It pushed him to stand up and grab his crossbow in retaliation.         But his weapon, as precise and strong as it was, was useless in close combat and it instantly met the sharp blade of a magnificent katana that would make any swordsman worth the name grow pale. And with a dexterous swift move, the crossbow flew across the room as if it was a paper plane.But the clients in the bar didn’t gasp at the legendary Yamato. They gasped at the silvery-white hair adorning Vergil’s head that had been revealed when he inadvertently had lost his hood in this express fight. “It’s the hair of Sparda.” People whispered, amazed.     With an expert graceful move, Yamato found his saya again and Vergil walked through the crowd, high-handed and resolved to escape this place and all those bothering eyes he felt upon him.But as he pushed the door of the establishment, he came face to face with the feminine figure he had noticed in the streets this morning. It stopped him in his track and for the first time in his lifetime, but certainly not the last, he looked into her deep green eyes.  They reminded him of an old poem he loved greatly, one he had read so many times and would never grow tired of, about a dark forest and a tyger burning bright³. And as he gazed in that girl’s look and witnessed that emerald wood, wild and dense, trying to conceal in vain the fiery fur of a predator, Vergil knew he would never read that poem the same way or imagine Blake’s colours in the shades he would normally imagine them.               And so he stared, longer than he wanted, almost the same way she gazed at the pale blue topazes and at the god-like silver hair crowning his head. But while fire is wild, the ice is timid. And thus, admiration only shows through the eyes of the red lady.    And when she finally opened her mouth to speak her mind, Vergil escaped into the night leaving lost shadows behind him. But that was fine. Shadows were not the lady’s type after all.It all started on a Holy Thursday, on the first day of a most-welcomed vigorous spring that tinted the cityscape of the Castle Town of Fortuna in luminous shades of gold and blue.      But among them there was this vibrant red and two sparkling amber-tinted emeralds reflecting brighter than anything else in a pair of icy eyes, a mirror who strangely wouldn’t mind seeing that reflection again.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: ¹ Marcus: derived from the name of the Roman god of war, Mars to highlight Marcus' status and personality. ² Pomona: From Latin pomus "fruit tree". The word "Pomme" is also the French for "apple", the fruit of temptation. Pomona will come back in other chapters. ³ a tyger burning bright : From William Blake's poem The Tyger

#devil may cry #devil may cry fanfiction #vergil #nero's mother #vergil x nero's mother #vergil fanfiction

[asheasexualvampire]

Being Asexual in Time

Greetings, my dear readers, both mortal and mortality-challenged alike! How has your week been? Mine has been fair to middling. Have I mentioned I have a dog? I do have a pet. He’s delightful company. Spoiled brat. This is said with a great deal of affection, I’m the one responsible for the spoiling after all. I digress. I hope you had a good week, that you didn’t have any major issues that caused upheaval in your life. The plague is still upon us, be safe. Wear your masks. Today I thought I would give you a glimpse into what it was like to be asexual over time. As I’ve mentioned previously, I am not terribly old, as vampires go. I only date back to the late Tudor era as a mortal. However, I knew even back in those days, fairly early on, that something was... Amiss. Back then, being homosexual of any sort was a punishable offense, so one didn’t really speak about it except in certain society, and even then we had many polite euphemisms. One thing that came about was a term, Boston marriage. This was, in its most plain, a lesbian marriage, perfectly acceptable. Mostly this was between two ladies of some status, who had either money or holdings, and they lived together and no one thought anything of it. Gentlemen had it a bit tougher, and with the introduction of the 1885 Criminal Law Amendment Act, the police and judicial system at large began to put pressure on those of us who were in any way atypical from societal norms. Then there was the arrest and conviction of Oscar Wilde. You can use the google machine to look into that. Being asexual, myself, I found it easier to try and keep a low profile as a mortal being, I was born to middling class parents, so we didn’t move about in Society, but we also weren’t particularly of the impoverished sort. I was born and designated female, which at the time was the one of two options. Growing up I found myself confounded by the layers and layers of skirts and petticoats, bustle pads, corsets, hip pads, and general frippery that women had to deal with. I was much in envy of my male companions who just had some drawers, trousers, undershirt, shirt, and jacket to deal with. No annoying ribbons and laces, no dozens of hooks and ties that held things up and together. A general day outfit for myself would have weighed upwards of 15lbs! Anyone who says that Victorian ladies were “delicate”, needs to put on all that rubbish and go around in it for a full week. Delicate my foot. At some point I persuaded a friend of mine, who was of a certain sort, to kit me up in men’s clothes one night. Suddenly I was FREE. I could move and do things in a more normal way! We went out to one of his clubs, had drinks, saw a show, it was glorious. When I was Made at last, I was able to “die”, and then invent myself as I saw fit! Being a sex-repulsed, but still romantic natured person, I invented myself as a quiet gentleman, a confirmed bachelor, who was neither interested in marrying, and also unconcerned with whom one consorted. Luckily, vampiric society is much looser in its rules, it would be very boring to be stuck with restrictive ways for hundreds of years. I was hardly the only asexual vampire I met, or the only one who had romantic liaisons with varied and sundry other persons. Moving into the 1920s, things started to open up again, film stars became a thing, silent films having arrived. Women in tails and trousers showed up on screen, kissed the ladies, and swanned out. It was glorious. I spent more time in these new film houses, and then out at dinners with others of the same set. In the 1950s it became rather constrictive again, ladies wore petticoats again, layers of them, pearls, girdles, strapped into things that I couldn’t imagine putting myself in. As you know, I was always overweight, I would have made a miserable lady. I remained in male dress, even though I didn’t feel entirely masculine. Jump forward to the 1970s and 1980s, and suddenly it wasn’t such a problem. I don’t know how or why it changed, it honestly felt like it happened overnight. But suddenly there were crowds of men in sparkly glitter spandex with platform heels, or men with long hair and ripped jeans, and still considered masculine! I was finally able to be myself again. I didn’t have to strap my chest down (which is deeply uncomfortable, by the by), if I felt like wearing a skirt I could, if I felt like trousers, I damned well could! I like this modern era most of all. So much acceptance is out there. So maybe we were there all the time, hiding in the corners and edges, being “confirmed bachelors” and hanging around a certain type of crowd. But it isn’t as bad now. We have larger numbers, we’re more connected now, with this whole, internet, thing. Its easier to find a community, even as... Well. -Ashe, the Asexual Vampire

#fiction #vampire #asexual #ace pride #victorian #time line #early 1900s #1950s style #1980s #wear a fucking mask people

[marshmallowprotection]

Would you say Lila is a Himedere????👀👀👀👀👀 I remember you saying Lila loved the idea of being a princess (or something like that) and adored the style of bedroom that Ray decorated? I havent read all the bad ending fics yet, but I adore the idea of an Evil Queenly Lila wanting to be treated like royalty (though not at the cost of Ray being a servant, if anything he'll be the King and deserving just as much worship). What are your thoughts on this? Is there a oneshot/series most like this outcome? (Rika as their servant. Mwahahahaha.)

I would say that she has the ability to be a Himedere. Lila herself, if we’re like, talking about her in Another Story, is someone that spent her childhood dealing with her problems by reading fairytales and painting scenery that made her feel more at peace with herself. She likes to close her eyes and imagine that she’s a world away from her trauma and pain where she’s thriving instead. Yeah, she’s aware that it’s a bit embarrassing to be twenty-one and still has dreams of living in her Disney-esqe style fairytale. 

But, when has Lila ever cared about shame when it comes to her style and how that empowers her? If it makes her happy, she’s not going to let anyone make her feel bad about it. After all, she thrives in Lolita and spends a lot of her free time styling Coordinates and different Lolita styles. The girl lives and breathes in a petticoat whenever she gets the chance! 

Ray knows that is something that she’s into, he’s the one that picked her to test his game. He’s seen her modeling social media and he’s seen her artwork. She makes no point to hide it from anyone but she’s just the type of person that he’s thriving on his own fantasies about. He also loves the idea of a princess that he can fawn over, and I think everyone knows that. He wants to be the knight that covets the pretty princess in a tall tower of his own design. In many ways, she’s his Rapunzel. 

He sees himself more as keeping her safe than keeping her locked up. It’s just their dynamic. He thrives on the fact that she’s comfortable in herself when she is dressed up like that and he can’t help himself when she takes his breath away just like that. She’s his princess, after all, and he’s been fantasizing about that for quite a while now. Now, there’s one bad ending that I’ve written where Lila makes the mistake of not putting enough work into the game, leading to her Bad Ending 1 experience which entirely different than Ray’s BE1.

Lila doesn’t have it in her heart to push Ray down and make him subservient to herself. Instead, Ray’s clouded by his envy and jealousy, and fear. He catches his her by the wrist and fears that she’s been tricked by Saeyoung and her inability to use the chatroom is because she’s turned away Ray when she’s not done that at all. He isolates her and takes her phone away, and manipulates her until she’s scared of everything and only trusts him. She’s a glorified porcelain doll for him that he cares for, and he won’t even let her walk around. She has to sit there, stay safe, look pretty, and never leave him. 

That’s not exactly what you were looking for, however, so I’ll answer the other part of the question. You’re asking if Lila will have the ability to become spoiled and entitled just as Himedere does. Well, this is something that happens in the Assistant AU. You’ve heard me talk about Wisteria, and well, that’s what Wisteria is to her core. She’s a Lila that’s been burned with elixir and manipulated by Rika to give in to her anger and insecurities. 

This leads to the possible Bad Ending of the Assistant AU.

Wisteria is a Himedere. 

She’s angry, she’s spoiled, and she will do anything to get her way. What does she want? She wants to protect Saeran. How can she protect him? She can be stronger. She can tell the world what to do. She can stop being shy and scared, she can bite back and order people around. She really needs to become the princess that she’s been holding at bay, Rika whispers. This will very surely go and backfire on Rika, however, because Wisteria’s devotion is to Unknown. 

Rika understands that when she broke Lila, she twisted her up to use her as an asset to Unknown. She needed her to be committed to Unknown’s anger and in a way, the one that would hammer home that he needs to keep destroying the RFA to get his peace and dreams to come true. Wisteria would give anything and do anything for Unknown... that was the plan. 

Where this backfires on Rika in the Bad Ending? She miscalculated just how devoted Wisteria was to securing Unknown had everything he wanted. She’d realized that Rika was lying to Unknown and that she wasn’t going to give him what he wanted, and that was the destruction of those liars. So, what is a real princess supposed to do when something is undermining her power? Oh, get rid of the thing that’s challenging her power. 

Wisteria is happy to take punishments for Unknown and fall for him, but she will not allow him to be hurt when Rika promised him happiness that is eternal and everlasting. When Saeyoung, Minji, and Judas come to Mint Eye to save our boy Saeran, she and Unknown are prepared this time, and they force Saeyoung’s hands. He has to give in and give Saeran what he wants, and that’s information on hacking and the RFA. Minji and Judas are forced to leave and Saeyoung makes Judas promise to leave the country with the safety clearance he made for them, so the Mafia can’t find Judas and the agency can’t find Judas, so he and Minji can be safe. 

Saeyoung has to give Saeran what he wants. Saeran uses this knowledge to take the RFA down with Lila. She singlehandedly manipulates everyone in the RFA to their side alongside Saeran, but Saeran doesn’t know that she’s got her own plan apart from the one that Rika gave them. She’s slowly gaining the trust of everyone so they know she’s not a liar, and when the RFA falls and Rika has what she wants as far as she knows... 

Well, Wisteria makes her move. She forces V’s hand and makes him bow his head to Saeran instead of Rika. V has no choice but to listen to Wisteria cause she offers him a blunt deal, Rika gets taken away from power, Saeran no longer has to suffer, and everyone stays happy in paradise. Rika loses her mind when V ignores her and bows to Saeran. She gets angry and shows everyone that she is lacking in heart to a dangerous degree. 

The RFA sees how unstable she is and they have her taken down from power because she can’t handle it right now. “She needs their help and support to get better,” Wisteria says. “But, they need someone in charge that knows how to take care of everyone.”

“Who’s better than Saeran? He’s been here the longest. He’s devoted to this cause and making sure that everyone is taken care of. He was the one that wanted to save all of you from the lies that you had been told. I think it’s only fair that he take care of things while we make sure that Rika gets better,” Wisteria says. 

Guess who ends on the throne? 

Guess who is in charge? 

Guess who is sitting on the throne laughing wildly to herself because she’s gone and destroyed everything that Rika wanted just to get what Wisteria wanted all along. She and Saeran take the lead of Mint Eye and convert it as need be, but make no mistake, it’s still no heaven. I won’t spoil all of it but it’s a wild ride to read! 

Saeran thinks that this happened because of his own choices and his own power, but you know who really gave him that crown he wears? The spoiled princess that gets whatever she wants, Wisteria. 

#cmc #lila lancelot oc #ray x lila #saeran x lila #long post #mysme cmc #ask #mod kait #longpost #mystic messenger cmc #bad ending #assistant lila AU #my fics #seulgi008

[silverswordsandlutes]

Silk That Costs A Fortune

A prompt that was sent in by @kittynannygaming who wanted a reunion between the witchers, the bards, and the sorceresses, and a dare to swap clothing. I hope you enjoy because it was a lot of fun to write! And I may have done a bit more research than necessary about like... 18th century dresses because why the fuck not.

[Ao3]

The keep hadn't been so full and alive since the sacking. It was Jaskier who had suggested inviting all their friends for the winter, claiming it would be good for morale all around, and Geralt had to admit it was a good idea, especially now that everyone was crowded around a table in the kitchen. All the usual faces were there - Eskel and Lambert and of course Jaskier, even Cöen and Aiden had shown up, but this year Yennefer, Triss Merigold, Keira Metz, and Jaskier's friend Priscilla had joined them. Vesemir had retired early, claiming he wasn't up for the ruckus they were bound to get up, but Geralt saw the smile on the old man's face and knew how happy it made him to see so many smiling faces.

They had finished eating an hour ago, dirty dishes piled in the basin to be dealt with in the morning, and were now passing around bottles of vodka and wine, telling stories and laughing loudly. Geralt sat comfortably between Jaskier and Yennefer, listening as Cöen recounted a bawdy tale he'd heard in one brothel or another.

Geralt wasn’t sure how the conversation took the turn it did.

"Look, I know you've tried on my clothes before," Yennefer drawled, wine-stained lips drawn into an easy grin when he, Eskel, and Lambert had the audacity to look bashful. "All I'm saying is that it's only fair that I get to try on yours, yeah?" And didn't that have Triss and Kiera and Priscilla howling with laughter and agreement.

"I'd love to see you try and squeeze into something of mine, Lambert," Keira teased, shifting in her spot beside him so that she was practically plastered against his side.

"Oh, so would I," Aiden agreed, nipping at Lambert's jaw with a smirk and making his already drunk-flushed cheeks turn a shade redder.

"I don’t think my dick would fit in those ridiculously tight pants of yours, Keira," Lambert rebuffed, and Geralt averted his eyes when Keira's hand slid from where it had been fiddling with the medallion at his chest, down and under the table.

"That's part of the fun, darling," she said, too low for anyone who didn't have a witcher's senses to hear, and across the table Cöen nearly choked on the gulp of vodka he'd just taken as a laugh burst from him.

He sputtered, and Eskel slapped him on the back a few times as he coughed. “Think that’s it for me,” Cöen finally managed to wheeze, and he braced his hands on the table as he stood despite the protest from Triss and Priscilla. “Ladies, it was wonderful to meet you, but I’ll see you all in the morning.” And with a bow that nearly toppled him in his drunken state, he excused himself.

With one witcher down for the count, Yennefer leveled everyone else at the table with a challenging look, and Jaskier was the first to speak up.

“I’ll trade clothes with Priscilla,” he said, and to his credit his words were only slightly slurred. “Of course, only if you’re amenable, my dear.”

Priscilla gave an eager nod, and Geralt tried not to linger on the image of him in the dress she was currently wearing - a deep red thing that clung to her waist and accentuated her chest, the full skirt swishing about when she walked. He couldn’t claim to know anything about fashion, but he did know that Jaskier would look amazing in anything.

It took several seconds for him to realize that Yennefer was speaking to him directly, and he turned his eyes to her, hoping he didn’t look as dumb as he felt at the moment. The expression on her face said that he looked exactly as dumb as he felt.

“I said,” she huffed, tone not unkind despite the show of annoyance, “that I expect to be swapping with you.” Her violet eyes gave a mischievous twinkle and Geralt just  gave a little grunt in response, trying not to think about that too hard either. He definitely was not imagining her slim frame draped in his shirt - a shirt that would without a doubt fall off one of her delicate shoulders. And he certainly wasn’t thinking about how she would have to cinch a belt tight around her waist to keep his trousers from falling.

“Looks like you and I get to swap, then, Eskel,” Triss said with a friendly grin that Eskel returned.

“Looks like it,” he agreed.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Yennefer suddenly swore, glaring across the table, and the all eyes were on Lambert, Keira, and Aiden. “Would the three of you kindly take it somewhere else?”

Keira was sat practically in Lambert's lap,, whispering something into his ear, too low for even Geralt to hear, her hand still under the table - and Aiden’s hand had joined hers.

“Maybe you lot should go somewhere else,” Lambert snapped, returning Yennefer’s glare heatedly before turning his head to catch Aiden’s lips in a heated kiss.

The show made Geralt snort and roll his eyes, and he stood, dragging Yennefer and Jaskier with him. “We need a room with a mirror anyway,” he said.

--

“Your breeches have a bow on the bum!” Priscilla exclaimed in delight as she twisted to look at herself in the mirror, long blonde hair pulled over her shoulder.

They had ended up in Yennefer’s room and were all in various stages of dress. Priscilla was standing in Jaskier’s buttercup-yellow trousers, the white chemise pulled up around her ribs so she could examine her bum in the mirror before she tucked it in. Eskel was attempting to properly tie Triss’ skirts in place while she watched in amusement, already dressed in his simple white shirt and black trousers, his red jerkin thrown on haphazardly and open.

And Jaskier was… well, he was currently in Priscilla’s loose shift and pulling the first short petticoat over his head with a bit more familiarity than Geralt had expected. He hadn’t quite appreciated how complex ladies’ clothing was until he had pulled on one of Yennefer’s dresses years ago - there were far too many layers to be convenient and he hadn’t even known what to do about the stays, considering his ribcage and chest were far broader than hers. But Jaskier was tugging the petticoat down to his waist and tying it with practiced ease.

“Are you just going to stand there all night staring at Jaskier or are you going to get undressed?” Yennefer snorted, and when Geralt glanced over to her, she was unlacing the back of her dress, which was a different style than Priscilla’s.

With a grunt, he began to unbutton his shirt slowly, unsure where to look, his yellow eyes darting from Jaskier, who was now lacing up the stays, and Yennefer, who was wearing nothing under her bodice and was now working on removing her skirts. Eventually, Geralt was down to his smalls and Yennefer was standing impatiently in front of him, very naked and holding her clothes bundled in her arms, which she promptly shoved at thim with a grin.

“Ask Jaskier if you need any help,” she teased, “since he seems to have a sight more experience than you.” And that was certainly true enough; Jaskier was already nearly finished dressing, full length petticoat and skirt pulled into place.

To say that Geralt was hot and bothered by the time they were all dressed and presentable was an understatement. Between Jaskier knowing far too much about dressing himself in all those layers (and looking as amazing as he had imagined, he might add), and Yennefer’s tits practically falling out of the shirt she hadn’t bothered to button - which had also, of course, fallen off of one of her lovely shoulders - Geralt was absolutely done for.

“I’d say my dress rather suits you,” Yennefer said as she examined him, reaching out to adjust a bit of fabric here and there.

The group stood in front of the mirror and looked themselves over, a few bouts of stifled laughter passing through them. And didn't they look a bunch; Priscilla looked positively giddy as she smoothed her hands down the front of Jaskier's fine yellow doublet, a bit too big in the shoulder and too long in the arms; Eskel and Triss were giggling over themselves and passing silly compliments back and forth. And Yennefer, well, she looked quite pleased with herself about the whole situation and was grinning widely, though her eyes were darting back and forth between Geralt's and Jaskier's reflections with something rather predatory in them.

Geralt swallowed, and yeah, maybe he was already a bit hard, the heavy fabric doing a good job of hiding it. But he could hardly be blamed when Jaskier and Yennefer looked so damn good.

"Well, don't we all look dashing!" Jaskier exclaimed with a delighted laugh, turning himself to get a better look in the mirror. "Priscilla, darling, you have the most wonderful taste in color and fabric."

"I could say the same of you, sweet Dandelion," she said, batting her eyelashes at him, and they both broke out into a fit of laughter.

"I can see the way you're looking at us," Yennefer drawled, voice low so that only Geralt could hear her as she began to walk around him slowly.

Geralt had never felt like prey before he met her, and it always sent a little thrill up his spine when she got like this. Her fingers danced along his bare arm and she came to a stop on his left side. And suddenly Jaskier is no longer twittering with Priscilla, but is instead to his right and looping their arms together, pressing close so that his breath tickled against Geralt's ear.

"Like what you see?" he whispered, and gooseflesh rose along Geralt's arms and the back of his neck, and he could have suppressed the shiver that went through him if he wanted to.

Jaskier nipped his ear and Geralt let out a soft, exhaled, "Fuck." It was enough to make Eskel clear his throat, and no doubt he could smell the arousal rolling off the three of them.

"What say we head back down and have another drink, ladies?" he said, ushering Triss toward the door with an arm around her shoulder while he motioned for Priscilla to follow.

With a knowing look, she took one last look at herself in the mirror and trailed after Triss and Eskel, calling over her shoulder before she shut the door, "Don't get anything on my dress, Jaskier. That silk cost a small fortune."

And then they were alone, Yennefer and Jaskier already guiding him to the bed, and Geralt got the distinct impression that he was about to be devoured alive. Not that he was complaining.

#my writing #geralt/jaskier/yennefer #yenaskier #lambert/aiden/keira metz #it's what lamber deserves okay #let him have a hot boyfriend and a hot girlfriend #prompt fill #prompt fic

[starswornoaths]

Something like Home

Two years ago, on the dot, I posted my first fic of my Warrior of Light and Aymeric.

Today, I won’t even clickbait you with a summary: this is the part they get together.

Word count: 4,950

Scarcely back at Fortemps Manor from Providence Point, Serella and Alphinaud had been taken aback when informed that Lucia, Hilda, Tataru, and Y’Shtola were awaiting their return in Serella’s room, intent on helping her get ready for the celebrations.

The collective snark they brought to bear, however, Serella had expected.

Alphinaud spied her hairpin, sat in its box on her dresser as she brushed her hair, and mused aloud how he had thought he had last seen it shattered on the Steps of Faith.

“The Lord Commander commissioned its restoration,” Lucia replied smoothly. “If I recall correctly, t’was as a token of his appreciation for her efforts.”

“Appreciation indeed,” Alphinaud teased. His eyes sparkled with mirth. “Purely a politically symbolic gesture, I am certain. Much thought has clearly been put into the work; I have seen engagement rings made with less care for detail.”

Y’Shtola mused that it seemed she had missed more than she had thought in her absence, and Hilda’s cackle was nearly drowned out by the roaring in Serella’s ears as they burned. Much as she might have felt a smidge picked on, she knew everyone was there to support her, good natured ribbing besides. Having so many that had grown to be so dear to her, however, felt just a little overwhelming, unaccustomed to such extensive found family as she was.

Then Lucia gently took her hairbrush from her, helped pleat her hair with her hairpin, and spoke fondly of having a sister again, and she felt overwhelmed for entirely different reasons.

Lucia’s was a deft hand, Hilda insisted on smudging Serella’s eyes with kohl, and the Paladin was ready to finish the rest herself with ample time to spare. Thus did the group usher themselves out with broad grins and wishes of luck for the night. She wasn’t entirely sure what they were even wishing her luck for.

She was relieved to already have a dress— one less thing to fret over in days both recent and busy. Black and long and flowing as the sea with an open back panel, it suited well enough. Though as she slipped it on over a voluminous matching petticoat, she realized the last time she had worn it had also been when she and Aymeric had danced in the ballroom just down the hall. Was that considered distasteful, she suddenly wondered, to use a dress a second time with the same dance partner— oh gods, but why did the term ‘partner,’ make her insides jump the way it did? It had been...nearly half a year ago, surely it was fine! She smoothed her hands down the front of her skirts, fidgeting.

Her hands seemed grotesque to her against the softness of the garment. She felt too rough all over to be in such finery. After considering the state of her scarred, calloused hands, she donned a pair of short gloves to hide them.

A knock came at the door just as she had begun to fiddle nervously with a necklace, debating on whether it would suit. She bade them enter without looking up.

“Serella?” She gasped when Aymeric called hesitantly. When she nearly dropped the necklace and spun to face him he seemed taken aback himself, his eyes widening at the sight of her. “Forgive me, I meant not to startle you—”

“No, no, I told you to come in.” He drew near, and she was transfixed by how good he looked in his suit, all blacks and blues and clean lines. “Apparently I can’t get my fingers to work for me— but I don’t want to keep you waiting—”

“May I?” He asked, and held out his hand.

Flustered into silence, she set the delicate chain in his palm with a word of thanks and spun to let him place it on her neck.

A move she immediately regretted the moment she felt his hands softly trace the sheer fabric over her neck to pull her necklace around, felt his breath caress the bare skin peeking over her collar, felt him close enough that she swore she felt his warmth against her back. Why was it suddenly so hard to think?

“There we are.” Aymeric said softly after what felt like an eternity.

Serella reminded herself that breathing was a necessity, and managed to remember how to by the time she turned to face him with a sheepish grin. His own smile looked just a touch boyish but wholly devastating.

“How does it look?” Her nerves got the better of her and bade she ask.

“Beautiful, as ever.” He replied, and much like when he had said it on that towering spire, he made no effort to pretend to look at the necklace.

Curious. 

“My thanks.” She murmured.

“My pleasure.” His tone matched hers. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Now, pray correct me if I am mistaken, but I believe I have been charged with escorting the guest of honor to the festivities, have I not?”

“I wasn’t aware I was deemed such?”

“If not to others, certainly to me.” His smile widened, and he offered her his arm. “And it would not do to make you late besides. Pray permit me escort you, Mistress Arcbane?"

“With you, Ser Aymeric?” She threaded her arm through his with a grin. “I would go anywhere."

His laugh was bright but bashful, and he led her out of the Manor with soft steps and a softer smile. She waved off his concern for a cloak— with such a thick petticoat under her dress and long sleeves besides, it seemed unnecessary. She did, however, use it as ample excuse to help him adjust the clasp on his; turnabout being fair play and all. He was already flushed to the tips of his ears before they had stepped out into the cold.

Aymeric’s swiftness surprised her, as he skipped the few steps down and held his hand out for her to hold as she gathered her skirts and stepped onto the cobblestone street. Serella couldn’t help but feel just a little thrilled at his startled but delighted smile when she forewent decorum and laced their fingers together. Declining a cloak seemed a wise choice; she already felt overly warm for their nearness.

Their merriment maintained whilst they meandered through the street toward the forum that held tonight’s celebration. As they stepped inside and Aymeric had his cloak taken, Serella realized with a start that she had never stepped foot inside this building. With vast, vaulted ceilings, marble floors polished to a shine, and wide, ornately framed windows leading to sparsely used balconies all ensconced in a warm glow, she couldn’t help but think of the glittering castles in all those fairy tale books her Da read to her as a child. It was almost enough to distract her from the buzzing of aether and overall excitement that bombarded her from every angle, from every guest.

Before she could even think to fidget nervously with her skirts, her companion returned with a soft word spoken in her ear and a gentle hand at the small of her back, and all at once nothing else mattered, so long as he never stopped looking at her with such warmth.

“I fear well wishers hoping to speak with you will inevitably separate us.” Aymeric warned quietly in her ear. “Perhaps not at first, but—”

“If they don’t, those wanting to speak with you certainly will,” Serella mused, and he made a noise of agreement. “Much as I would love nothing more than to spend the whole evening at your side, best we keep our expectations realistic.” 

“Aye. Might I then ask of you two indulgences?” Aymeric deftly moved them through the crowd toward one of the rounded pillars surrounding the already crowded dance floor.

String music floated above the crowds like smoke, its heady yet soft siren call stirring the dancers to twirl along the floor. Loud enough to be heard, though not so loud they could not still whisper to one another, she noted when they ducked behind their chosen pillar.

“You can always ask more of me than that, dear one.”

“Indeed?” Aymeric seemed caught off guard, though he cleared his throat behind his hand attempting to — poorly — hide his blush. His ears always give him away, she noted. “...Nay, I would not abuse such a privilege. I only ask for one dance, and that you might perhaps offer me your company at night’s end.” He quickly added, “I would never wish to presume, however— you need not do either!”

Ask more of me still, she silently begged him.

“How serendipitous! I had hoped for much the same, my lord, though only if you were amenable.” When he startled at that, she arched a brow. “Is that so strange?”

“Strange, aye, though ‘tis most welcome.” He smiled. “I am far more accustomed to demands of my time for my use, rather than requests for want of my company.”

“Surely someone’s asked to spend time with you for leisure— a dance, at least?” When he did not answer and instead adopted a peculiar expression on his face, she asked, aghast, “Have you never had someone just ask you for a dance?”

"I have been asked after to seek people to dance." Was his reply.

"Not the same.” She tried, and failed, to not grimace. "Have you been asked if you would like to dance?" 

"I am unsure of the difference."

Wordlessly, she stepped in front of him, releasing her hand from his. He looked at her ponderously as she curtsied low with a swish of her skirts. 

"Ser Aymeric," she addressed him. "Would you do me the honor of a dance?" She asked as she rose from her curtsy to offer him her hand. 

Aymeric made no effort to hide his bewildered smile, nor the flush that darkened his cheeks and pulled to the tips of his ears, even as he bowed deeply in kind.

"The honor would be mine." He said, and took her hand. The hand not holding hers moved to the small of her back once he had led them to the dance floor, and the familiarity of the gesture soothed and stirred her all at once. "You needn't have done that." He whispered as he drew her close. "I would have asked you for a dance, given time."

"I wanted to— and you should be asked." She smiled as they counted themselves into the dance, slipping into the stream of gowns and galavanting nobles. "So many ask so much of you, yet not of you. Never ask you to dance, or what book you’re reading. If you’re well." She lowered her gaze to his neck and watched his throat bob with a heavy swallow. "Someone should. You deserve that."

“As you always have?” Aymeric asked, and though he had leaned some ilms closer, it was clear in the way his eyes widened slightly the moment the words left his lips that he hadn’t meant to.

The endearing fool, he had to know her heart. He had to.

“As I always will.” Serella promised him— and salvaged their rhythm when his footsteps faltered.

“Forgive me!” Aymeric laughed as he recovered, and she returned lead to him. “T’would seem my footwork is clumsy tonight— though yours has improved drastically.”

“Certainly better than toddling atop your boot, my lord.” She laughed with him as he guided them in a twirl. “Though all credit goes to my mentor. I worked with the best.”

“I recall such, ‘toddling,’ rather fondly.”

“Aymeric, please. Your toes must have been bruised for days after.” She flushed hotly when she recalled how silly she felt, her injured foot on his boot as they danced for no other reason than wanting to.

“Any moment I have with you is a moment I cherish. Bruised toes and all.” Almost imperceptibly, she felt his hand on the small of her back pull her closer and spin them just off the dance floor to hold them both still in that moment. “Have I...failed to make that clear...?”

Distantly aware of the music tapering off and the dancers skittering off the dance floor, Serella’s focus closed in until it was only them, only the warmth of his hands and the way his Kyanite eyes held her gaze. Though they had stopped dancing, she still felt as though she were spinning, moving and still all at once. She let go of his leading hand to press it against his chest to stabilize herself, to ground herself and remind herself that this was real.

“...No,” Serella admitted slowly, and swallowed thickly when his freed hand tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Though I would not presume to know your heart. And...I don’t need to, to want to guard it as closely as I do.”

Oh, the look he gave her then broke her heart. He looked at her in stunned silence, as if he couldn’t believe someone felt that about him.

“I—” Aymeric’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat to try again, “I believe...I have a question I must yet ask you.”

“I do recall.” She whispered, thrilled and terrified.

“Would you— rather, should I—”

When a hand clapped her shoulder she nearly jumped out of her skin, transfixed as she was. Her startled, not quite choked back yelp of alarm was drowned out by the jovial cheer of the man who had done it— a knight from the final battle at the Steps of Faith, she distantly realized when she faced him...and his gaggle of friends. Uthengentle was among them, and looked stricken as he mouthed, “I’m so sorry,” to her from behind their backs.

“Slayer of Nidhogg!” The man whose hand remained on her shoulder cried. “The hero of the hour!”

“One of.” She corrected on reflex.

“Come, come! Let us share a drink!”

They seemed either too inebriated to notice the Lord Commander’s arms around her, or had decided the chance to speak with her was worth the risk of his ire. She felt cold in a way she couldn’t describe when he released her. She offered him her best “as expected,” smile and a shrug of her shoulder. A gesture he returned, though gave her hand a squeeze.

“We shall speak later.” He promised her.

She was quickly absorbed into the crowd and pulled away. Though Serella wasn’t surprised Uthengentle was among them, she was glad to have him there beside her to slip him what drinks she was given. For his part, he had no qualms emptying them each in one judicious gulp. 

Had he clearly not been having so much fun, she might have felt bad. 

There was much cheering and congratulating, and even more posturing for personal accomplishments from the knights. She just hoped her interest came across as genuine, despite feeling her nerves fray at the edges from being crowded by so many people at once, around so much electric aether and energy that she faintly felt her teeth buzzing.

When she managed to discreetly spare a glance around for Aymeric between speaking with the knights moving in and out of the group, she noticed that he, too, was now being accosted by nobles all seeking to eagerly shake his hand or speak with him in animated, low whispers. She could only guess what for, but opted to not dwell overly much; she might get even more overwhelmed than she already felt. 

Oh well. There were positives, despite having been interrupted again at such an important moment. At least the group had managed to corner her by the food table. The petit fours were divine.

When Uthengentle managed, in his inebriated enthusiasm, to see her freed from the rowdy knights by herding them away from the venue entirely with the promise of an axe throwing competition, she wasn’t sure whether to feel impressed or concerned. They stumbled out of the ballroom before she had decided, though as she popped the last petit four on the tray in her mouth and made her hasty retreat, she decided that was a concern for the morrow.

Tonight, there was a promise she would see kept. 

"There you are.” Serella turned at Aymeric’s relieved sigh. She noticed he looked a touch wearier now, though the pinch in his smile eased as he drew near. “Pray forgive me— I had thought we would have at least one dance uninterrupted.”

“We may yet,” she said with a shrug and a smile to hide the way her nerves prickled against her skin from the overstimulation. “I...I need some air. Just for a moment.” She pointed at one of the balconies shadowed by a support pillar. She turned back to him. “Would you be amenable to join me when you have a moment— only—” she caught herself in the middle of asking with a soft curse under her breath. “If you like. I’m certainly not going to demand you find me.”

“I would ever follow you, Mistress Arcbane.” Aymeric reassured her warmly. “Pray let me shake off the last of those who would speak with me, and I will be there anon.”

“Only if it pleases.”

“Very little could please me more.”

“Then I will see you anon.” She managed to stammer through the burning heat creeping up her neck.

Scarcely registering that yet another noble was clapping him on the back, uninvited, to insert themselves at his side, she spun and made for the balcony. Between his searing earnestness and her own acute awareness of how the walls seemed to close in from the moment she had been crowded by well wishers, the icy breeze on her face felt akin to a fever breaking.

She shut the gilded glass doors behind her and leaned against them for a moment, her chest heaving. The open panel at the back of her dress made her shiver at the cold of the glass, but it was welcome, bracing, and she sighed in relief. When her breathing calmed, she pushed off the door and smoothed her skirts.

Despite the small space of the balcony, it was blessedly dark and empty, with undisturbed snow dusting the stone beneath her feet and fat, powdery flakes that gently drifted down filling the balcony with soft calm. The muted quiet was a sanctuary, a bastion carved out of the revelry and barricaded thinly enough she could hear the low roar of the festivities continuing inside. 

Even the cold could not take away from the utter peace that ensconced her as she stepped away from the door and near the marble railing. As she looked out to the picturesque steeples and spires of the city she couldn’t help but marvel at how she had somehow come to call such a harsh, glacial palace of not quite pristinely preserved tradition home, even as her lips had long since forgotten how to form the word.

Though fire shards twinkled in brass lanterns about the railings and cast faint, flickering light that made the snow glimmer like starlight, it was not enough to entirely stave off the Coerthan chill. She was glad for the many petticoats she wore beneath her dress when the wind whispered wickedly; even as she shivered, she knew the cold could have bitten her much harder than it did.

When Serella heard the door click open, she turned to see Aymeric slip outside and shut the door behind him. He had gone for his cloak on the way, she realized when she saw the dark fabric draped over his arm. He gave her the most relieved smile he’d had since they arrived as he drew near.

“Forgive me for taking so long,” he said in a near whisper when he had drawn himself to her side. “I was beginning to fear I would never slip away.”

“I wasn’t waiting so long,” Serella reassured him, despite losing track of time. “I just hope your sanity wasn’t pressed too thin.”

“I am accustomed to such prodding. I am far more concerned with you, Mistress Arcbane.” 

Though his crystalline eyes were warm his scrutiny was undeniable, and he must have seen something that worried him, if the crease in his brow was any indicator. She could feel his concern— and something warmer with it— radiating off him, and despite the cold she felt only comfort for his presence. Despite this, she shivered.

Unfurling his cloak from his arm, he took care in draping it over her shoulders. She shuddered as he fiddled to close the clasp at her collarbone, its thick, soft fabric thawing her enough to make her skin prickle with sensation she had not realized she’d lost.

"Ah, hadn't noticed how cold I was." She hummed softly. The need to touch, to be reminded that this was real inspired her to tuck her gloves away and bring her hands up and place them over his just as he had pulled the hood over her head, her arms peeking out from beneath the veil of his cloak. “Thank you.”

“T’was the least I could do, for how you have cared for me.” His face flushed but he made no effort to draw his hands away. 

"Maybe," she said, thumbs stroking his skin. "Still." she lifted her head to meet his gaze. "You asked to know my heart, before," she whispered, and his hands flexed beneath her gentle grip. "If you still wished to know, I would tell you. You need only ask."

"I do," he breathed, and she watched him swallow heavily. "More than I could possibly say, though…” he chewed on his bottom lip— a rarity, as far as she was aware. “Though I would not presume to know, I fear in asking I might only hurt us both.”

“What do you mean?” Serella asked with a tilt of her head, unsure of what to expect with the turn his words had taken.

“I…’tis as I said, I have presumed naught of your heart. I will not start now, but…I hope that you feel as I do. Though...” He took a calming breath, and though Serella’s heart near felt ready to beat out of her chest she did not prompt him to continue before he was ready. “Much as I might wish for it not to be so, you will leave Ishgard. Your duty compels you thus.”

Fighting against her own assumptions and the sinking feeling in her stomach, she nodded, unable to lie to him.

“I would never want that to change— your want to help others, your compulsion to act where others cannot or will not, has been an inspiration to others. To me. I would not ask you stay— not even in bearing my heart.” He closed his eyes a moment, swallowed, and persevered with quiet conviction, “I would ask to know your heart all the same, so long as I do not hurt you in so doing. But a word from you would silence me forever on the matter.”

The ache in her chest was sweet and warm, but the agonizing tenderness in his gaze made her timid, and she lowered her eyes to their joined hands. With the care of handling a holy relic— for he was blessed by the kiss of winter, anointed in the amber glow of the lamps, in the way he burned so, so brightly all his own— she smoothed her thumbs over the backs of his hands in slow, soft strokes. 

“You are correct on all points, Ser Aymeric.” She began, and gently reaffirmed her grip on his hands when he startled with an anguished, shuddering breath. “Save for one.”

She looked up at him then, and took a moment— only ever one— to study the thousand expressions that crossed his face. His throat bobbed heavily with a swallow as he rasped, “One…?”

“You’re right: I will leave. I’ll leave anywhere I go— such is the life of an adventurer.” Not once did she cease softly stroking his hands, holding them near to her like precious, impossible treasures. Coveted, resplendent, to be cherished and cared for. “But you speak as if I will never return...and for that, you speak incorrectly.” His wide, hopeful stare emboldened her, and before she realized what she was doing she was pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “We’ve done enough dancing, dear one. Ask me or don’t, I’ll tell you all the same. I can’t hide my heart anymore.”

“...Nor I.” Aymeric admitted, his expression softening. “Though for how oft I have asked you to act in bravery for my home—”

“Our home.” She corrected.

“...Our home.” He all but mouthed the words, smiling wide with a shuddering exhale. “I think it only meet that I offer mine own before I ask aught more of you.” When she did not interrupt him, he took a steadying breath, and held her gaze with those too bright eyes of his. "I care for you greatly— more than I have likely let on." He gently slid his hands from the cloak that was clasped at her neck, cupping her face in both of his hands. "It feels as though I have longed for you from the first— though I cannot place precisely where such feelings began.” He swallowed thickly. “But know that I would never force my affections on you. ‘Tis as I said: but a word from you would silence me forever."

In the ensuing stillness, she let the confession settle gently, warmly on her shoulders, her eyes drifting shut as she pressed her face deeper into his hands. For all the palaver they had exchanged, all the walls they had built between their hearts to keep themselves safe, being allowed into the hallowed halls of his heart felt like coming home. He was waiting on an answer— he deserved one, and she was ready to give one, but she lingered in the doorway of his soul and took in the comfort of a feeling she had forgotten for so long, remembered anew thanks to his care.

"My heart beats for you. I can't put it any other way." She could have given a more verbose, lyrical confession, perhaps even admitted to how deeply she already loved him, but to wax poetic when he seemed to be holding his breath in anticipation for her response would be cruel. They both needed to breathe in this stillness together. It had been long overdue. "It's been that way for so long, I don't remember how it beat before." She braved meeting his eyes and oh, he looked so happy she wanted to weep. “I’ll eventually leave Ishgard. I’ll have to. But I’ll always come back. It’s home now, after all. You’re home now, after all.”

“And you are certain?” Aymeric asked in breathless hope. “Even after everything that’s happened?”

“Especially with everything that’s happened, dear one.” She replied in a low voice. “After everything that’s led me to this moment, in this place…from the moment I came here, I could tell Ishgard was a house with good bones, but had been neglected. We’ve torn out much of the rotted wood, you and I, that it would be a home for more than just the elite. But...but it’s more than that.” With a huff, she attempted to wrangle her words into cooperation. “I remembered what home felt like for the first time in some twenty years, the moment I realized you saw me for more than my title.”

He gave a startled, disbelieving laugh, and bent his head to gently let their foreheads touch.

“It never ceases to amaze me, how easily you can say what is in my heart back to me.” He whispered, just before tremblingly, at long last, they unmade the distance between them entirely. 

This was not the rushed, impulsive moment of weakness in the Churning Mists, nor the stuff of romance novels. It was a sigh of relief, a homecoming, a feeling of hands in hair and the understanding that neither of them would ever be warm without the other again. She let herself sink into that feeling, of the understanding that his heart had so closely attuned to hers that she had not realized she was feeling both of them falling in tandem together.

He pulled back after a moment, only just barely, their crystallized breaths still mingling, and she could sense the moment of doubt clouding his mind. 

"Should we...?" 

Such hesitation no longer suited them, she decided, and pulled him back to her for another kiss. He seemed in agreement, melting bodily against her and gathering her as closely as he could, holding her as tightly as he dared. 

She wished he dared more.

"I think," she whispered, pressing another quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. "We should."

"Ah," he breathed, and kissed her. "Good."

He kissed her again, and hummed softly when she nipped lightly at his bottom lip. His leg buckled for the briefest of moments when he broke away from her, panting heavily. "I fear this setting to be far too public." He kissed her once more as if powerless to stop himself. "I propose we adjourn somewhere more private."

"To what end?" She asked coyly, in a blissful, contented daze. 

He kissed her forehead as if to ground himself.

"What indeed." He moaned when she rocked up on her toes to kiss him again. When they eventually broke apart, he breathed against her lips, "Would you come with me, Mistress Arcbane?"

"With you, Ser Aymeric?" She removed his cloak and draped it around him. "I would go anywhere."

For anywhere was home, so long as it was with him.

#ffxiv #Aymeric de Borel #Serella Arcbane #I am as ever your shield #oh hey this time I didn't make christmas sad! #\o/ #Happiest of Holidays to everyone! #I hope you enjoy! #why yes this was entirely self indulgent and fluffy and saccharine #tis the season and all :>

[ramblinganthropologist]

N7 Challenge 26 - Purple

Summary: Well... someone was going to catch him eventually. But did it have to be Garrus?

---

Man... he was getting way too good at this whole undercover cross-dressing thing.

Alistair carefully – dare he say it, daintily – stepped over the unconscious man he had just knocked out. His armor said he was Blood Pack, his head said he probably had a concussion. That tended to happen when a biotic whipped something at you, but hey. What did he know?

The other person left was also human, and looking at him as though he was a living nightmare. That was fine by him. It made interrogation easier. So with a spring in his step, he directed himself over to where they were staying.

Naturally, they tried to shoot him but that's what biotics were for.

“That was a little rude. All I wanted to know was where your hideout is.”

They spat blood before they spoke. “Fuck off, I saw what you did to Ban over there. I ain't telling you-”

And then they stopped talking, eyes wide. Alistair cocked an eyebrow, but then he heard the footsteps. They were taloned. His blood ran cold as he prepared his barrier, but no shot came. Instead, he hear the aiming of a gun.

The red dot appeared on the other man's forehead.

“Now, is that a nice way to treat someone? All we want is some information.”

A smooth, translated voice sent a shiver down Alistair's spine for all the wrong reasons as sweat began to trickle down his neck. He immediately began to curse his luck as he resisted the urge to look over his shoulder. He was supposed to be working as though they worked together.

Instead of the reality that Garrus had shown up on his own.

The conscious Blood Pack merc was sweating now as he backed up further against the wall, eyes wide as dinner plates. “Shit, it's Archangel! I thought you died!”

Oh, so he had been on Omega. Must have been one of the lucky ones who wasn't put in the charge against the bridge or the chaos that followed.

“I'm tough like that. “Garrus approached, still aiming. At least he didn't say anything to his partner as he did. “So... information?”

There was a brief tremble, and then... “We're in an abandoned warehouse two blocks from here. You're gonna get killed if you try to start shit, we're-”

And then he was out cold thanks to a fist to the head. Garrus pulled back, looking less than amused. Then he holstered his gun and started tapping into his omni-tool. No doubt he was putting in the same call Alistair was – come pick these assholes up.

Would've been a normal mission except he was wearing a dress and petticoat.

“We should head over t-” Garrus finally gave him the once-over. Had he had eyebrows, they would've been in the stratosphere. “Uh... maybe we should do that after you get changed into something more appropriate for a fire fight.”

No shit.

Alistair felt his cheeks color as he started walking. “I was undercover.”

“I figured from the fact you're wearing something that looks like it came from the 19th century.”

His face got even redder, but the Spectre kept walking. This time, he had thought ahead and found a place to change without going back to the Normandy. It saved him time, and he didn't have to worry about messing up the dress by going in to a fight. After all, he eventually needed to return the thing... eventually.

He still hadn't gotten around to that.

“It's called lolita, and it's more the 20th and 21st.”

Garrus didn't exactly look convinced as they walked. “Right. And you're wearing it because...”

Alistair kept his head high. “It's an effective disguise. Nobody is going to believe somebody dressed like this is going to have a gun in their bag. Besides, it makes it easier to get information out of these guys when they think they're going to get me into bed.”

Which they weren't. He was gay, yes, but he had fucking standards thank you very much.

“Wouldn't think many guys would really be into this look, but I guess I don't really understand humans.”

The turian clearly wasn't a fan. It shouldn't have bothered Alistair – he wasn't exactly a fan either, after all most of the time he did this under someone else's needs – but something about it still rubbed him the wrong way as they walked through the quiet streets.

Like... people liked this style. They were helping him get info, he practically had to defend them for their valuable aid.

“It has its followers. Truth be told, I'll be happy when I can get back into my regular clothes.”

Garrus nodded as they approached the building Alistair had rented a room in for changing. Unsurprisingly, the clerk gave no fucks as a human and turian combo made their way through. Then it  was up the stairs, second door on the right.

The turian took the bed as he started to get changed. “I'm not even sure how you can walk in those shoes.”

“They're a lot better than heels, actually.” When the turian gave him a look, he rolled his eyes and added, “It's a long story, it involves high school and before I came out.”

Garrus at least had the sense to look embarrassed at his assumption. “I didn't... ok, fair. Sometimes I forget you didn't just pop out of the ground as Commander Shepard.”

Him and the Alliance both. It was a blessing some days.

Anyway, he had clothing to change out of. Soon both the shoes, socks, and his wig were off. Then it was the process of getting out of the dress and petticoat, both which proved daunting. He grumbled as he tried to reach for a button behind his back... it wasn't working.

Fuck.

“You alright there, Shepard?”

Alistair sighed as he shook his head. “I can't reach the damn button. Bo was the one who fixed it before I went out.”

Much to his surprise, the turian stood. Soon his talons were carefully picking the button apart and releasing him from his fabric prison. He was finally able to get out of the rest of his disguise which... left him in his underwear.

In front of a very hot turian.

He uh... didn't think this one through.

“Huh. So you really do have N7 tattooed there.”

The Spectre did his best to keep his tone even as he hid said tattoo with the waistband of his pants. “It was Bo's idea.”

“I have no doubt about that.” Garrus went back to sitting on the bed, looking for the most part awkward as fuck when Alistair glanced him in the mirror. That was probably due to the fact he was suited up and packed for a firefight. In a small room like that,it stuck out. “Anyway... what's with the dress anyway? Doesn't seem like something you'd buy on your own. Did Shepard get it for you?”

No... if Bo had bought it, it probably would've been pink. Pink wasn't really his color, what with him being a ginger and all. Well, some people could pull it off – he couldn't. He did better in darker cool tones.

Not that he had been dress shopping. Not exactly much time or interest there.

“No, it was a friend of hers. I originally got it to help them out. They were being harassed.” He pulled his shirt down, and then slid into his boots. After that, it was time to get back into his armor. This he started into with a practiced hand, almost on muscle memory.

He could probably do it with his eyes closed.

“And you kept it because...”

Alistair shrugged as he belted on his gauntlets. “She needed my help busting a red sand ring on the Citadel.”

Garrus sounded impressed the next time he spoke. “That was you? I heard about it from someone in C-SEC, but they hadn't mentioned their contact was someone in a frilly green dress.”

Guess they left that part out. Seemed like a C-SEC thing to do.

The Spectre finished putting his armor on after a few more seconds of work. Then he reached into his borrowed purse to retrieve his gun. The look on the turian's face was priceless as he holstered it at his side again.

It got even better when he grabbed the rest of his gear.

“You know, now I understand why women carry purses.”

That made Alistair chuckle as he switched out the band on his omni-tool to his heavy duty one that added a little extra wrist protection. “Honestly, same. I'm almost going to miss it, but at least I have my cargo pants.”

“But they hide your...”

Garrus had mostly been muttering under his breath at that point. Still, he had been close enough that it had been easy to pick up. Alistair was left pretty much mute, staring at the turian with wide eyes as he tried to figure out what he meant.

If he hadn't known better... well... no, he definitely knew better.  He must have been tired or something.

“Huh?”

The turian's mandibles twitched as he got up from the bed. “Nothing. Anyway, if you're going to keep doing this maybe you should return this dress and get your own.”

Now that made the Spectre laugh as they left the room behind. “Got any suggestions for me, Mr. Fashion Master? I'll let Bo know next time we're out and I just have to get a new coord.”

Shit, he was picking up the lingo. It was getting serious now.

Garrus didn't answer him immediately. Instead, it was pretty quiet as they exited back onto the street to follow up on their information. Alistair was starting to feel the familiar buzz under his skin as his biotics built up. He had been needing a release.

“I don't know, purple maybe?”

The turian's tone sounded not too sure. Regardless, it still stopped the Spectre in his tracks. He almost broke his neck whipping it around to get an eyeful of his mission partner. No doubt if Garrus could have blushed, he would have been doing it. His body language was embarrassment x 100.

“Huh?”

“Purple... might work. Or dark blue. Green wasn't really your color. And maybe not so... much.” He made a vague hand gesture. “You know?”

He was not having this conversation.

“Yeah, I guess OTT isn't my thing...” he shook his head. “Can we just go do the thing we're good at? This is a conversation neither of us probably want to have.”

Given how much Garrus relaxed at his words, it was the right decision. At least now both could relax as they headed into a potential brawl with a bunch of mercs that had no idea what was about to come after them. Talk about stress relief.

But damn if he wasn't going to be kicking himself about this later. Maybe knocking a few heads around would help.

#n7month #ramblinganthropologist's writing #Alistair Shepard #Garrus Vakarian

[ivanshatov]

trespasser

wc: 2.7k

i wrote this in january so it’s kinda bad and stilted and a bit ooc for the character development i’ve done </3 but it also comes slightly after the fic i just posted and i feel brave so i’m posting both xoxo gossip girl

Sujani knew the theatre like the back of her hand. After all, it had been her home for the last few years, and she’d grown accustomed to Edel’s labyrinths and corridors littered throughout the seemingly endless building. She knew every exit, entrance, nook, cranny, and section, the patterns and details burned into her mind. Just proper for a stage manager, even moreso for a familiar. Through her familiarity with the theatre, however, she had been acquainted with their newest trespasser rather quickly. It was Mia who had first spotted him lurking around the grounds in the weeks prior, just as dusk settled in. “Friend of yours? Friend of Luca’s?” she asked, masking the last hours of daylight with a paper fan.

“Certainly not,” Sujani insisted, peering out through the intricate windowpane at the suspicious figure. “I’ve never seen that man in my life.”

“Engländer,” Mia muttered. “A Briton. It must be. Donning his tourist fare and all. See?”

That was the first incident with the trespasser, until he became one frequent arrival on the security cameras and outer sidewalks. He had evaded interaction with Sujani, keeping his distance from the realm of the theatre, and she kept his lingering presence to the back of her mind.

During the daylight hours, Sujani took the liberty of drawing the curtains, allowing brilliant sunlight to enter through the theatre’s majestic windows. Edel often griped over open curtains and loosened blinds, but as Sujani was busy tending to the theatre’s auditorium and proscenium, the extra light was of use to her. It was also much more useful in exposing any pesky breathers trying to enter where they were not invited. The stray tourist or pedestrian could be turned away easily and handed a pamphlet with a gleeful smile, but it was seldom a breather entered the theatre with bad intent. After all, the theatre’s always been a place to relax and unwind. The new trespasser was certainly not a theatregoer, though, as his ruckus could be heard from the lighting booth where Sujani sat.

Finding her pocketknife and hiding it drawn behind her back, she crawled over the pit and glided over the stage, skirt bouncing behind as she pulled back the curtains. She hummed a light tune, scanning the dark area of the wings and backstage for any movement. Drawing her eyes from the fly weights to theq leftover debris from the last season’s closer, she at last spotted the trespasser.

He was staring at the portrait of Edel. Her symmetrical face, round cheeks, hypnotic stare. His hands were folded behind his back, crucifix held loose in one. It reminded Sujani of her own personal souvenir, and she unsheathed her pocketknife. Then, taking a silent step closer, she cleared her throat. “Excuse me.”

The trespasser flinched, remaining in his position for a fleeting moment before turning to meet Sujani’s eyes, crucifix raised. “I-It’s daytime.” 

Despite hiding behind sunglasses and heavy clothes in the peak of summertime, like a true coward would, Sujani recognized the trespasser. Mia’s Engländer, the one on the cameras, the one with the hat. He had evaded capture those last two times, narrowly escaping a meeting with Sujani as she observed the security cameras from her vantage point in the mezzanine. But, at last, she had caught him red-handed, in the midst of his favorite and only activity. She smiled, eyes shimmering with irony. “You’re mistaken.” This was no theatregoer and certainly no tourist, if the sharpened crucifix and silver rosaries told her anything. 

Sujani held her forced smile. Keeping one hand behind her back, she drew a hand up to her face, pulled back her lips, revealing two sets of straight and dull human teeth. “See?”

The trespasser didn’t relent, keeping his grip on his homemade crucifix. “A daywalker.”

“You amuse me, but no. I’m a breather like you. After all...” Sujani began, stretching out a hand to the crucifix and clutching the intersection. She released her hand, holding it up with a growing smile. “You see? No injury in sight. Not the smell of smoke, either. Proof enough for you? Good. Now.” Sujani waved a hand, waiting for him to lower his arm, and then continued. “I know who you are. You’ve been sniffing around for the past week. Not very subtly, might I add. If you don’t want to give away your penchant to destroy all vampirekind, perhaps don’t carry around wooden stakes and crucifixes everywhere. It alienates the locals, no?” she tilted her head to the crux.

“You are American,” he said, in a tone somewhere in between a question and a statement. His expression had not trembled or changed once, and he kept the look of utter disinterest firm, exacerbated by his shaded eyes. Yes, Sujani thought, this man is certainly suspicious. Undoubtedly up to no good.

“Yes, yes, I am. And you must be from some obscure bit of the United Kingdom nobody’s ever heard of. Rest assured, I do not care from where you hail. Rather, I’m graciously extending you the offer to leave, you know, before my boss flies down and shreds you to utter pieces,” Sujani continued, pausing to observe her nails. “I know what you are here to do. I don’t know your reasons, but I’ll politely ask you to leave under threat you may become drained of your blood and left a cold corpse in the bottom of this theatre.”

The trespasser— no, the Engländer, the Englishman— let out a sullen sigh. “A familiar,” he said in that deadpan tone.

“Yes, that is I. Now, will you accept my other? Kindly leave us alone? Return to whence you came from, and never disgrace us with your presence yet again?” She gestured to the door to the balcony, still ajar and weighted by a flyweight.

The Englishman glanced at the floor, then back at the portrait. Edel, in their ballgown, cheeks red with dye and falsified life. He turned back to Sujani and said, “I can’t do that.”

She scoffed. “Sure you can. What’s your name, young man? Don’t you have a life? A family? People you care for in this world? You’ve really chosen to resign your life to the slaughtering of beings you know nothing of?” She frowned, shifting her weight and waiting for another deadpan response from the trespasser.

“I know much of vampires,” he replied before turning his back once again, scanning the portrait. “My name is none of your business. If you allow me to do mine, you can be free from her bidding,” he declared, lifting a finger to the portrait.

“I am not looking to be freed by the likes of you,” Sujani snapped, running a finger over the blade of the knife. “I quite like my life, and my overseer.” He lowered his gaze, but did not turn to look at her. “You must go,” she pleaded. “For your own safety. You are still young. Why are you out here, concerning yourself with affairs of other people?”

“You are not people,” he snarled, whipping around with the crucifix in hand. “You’re the farthest thing from a person.”

Sujani stared at his cold expression and heaved another exasperated sigh, then pointed the pocketknife. “I suppose I’m going to have to force you to leave, then? You wouldn’t dare hurt another human being, now, would you? A breathing, bleeding, living human being.” She stepped forward, attempting to look menacing as she could in her frilly shirt and buckled shoes, knife drawn and eyes narrowed. “Much like yourself, young man.”

He scoffed and began to walk backwards, crucifix still dangling from the tips of his fingers. Sujani continued forward, knife drawn as he lifted his free hand, searching in the darkness for an exit into the corridors of the theatre. Between them, in the silence of the backstage, she could hear only the frantic pounding of her heart in her ears and the short  breathing of the trespasser as he searched for an egress.

Above them, a catwalk creaked, and then, descending from the second floor of the stage, still tying her corset, appeared Edel. “Do we have a trespasser on our hands?”

The Englishman stumbled forward, crucifix outstretched, before Sujani grabbed his arm, pulling him backwards, further into the darkness of the theatre’s left wing.

“You should be sleeping, Ms. Veice!” Sujani exclaimed, surprise evident. The Englishman’s glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose to reveal two olive eyes filled with dread.

Edel’s haughty laughter filled the stage, and she appeared above Sujani’s head, red eyes piercing the darkness of the wings. “Nonsense. He’s been bothering you, hasn’t he? No longer. Come on, now, I could use a midday snack.”

It only took a few words and a swift movement to break him from his trance. Sujani grabbed both his arms, slamming him against a door leading to one of the many corridors of the theatre, and it swung open. “Left, right, first door to your left. Run,” Sujani hissed, releasing him and watching as he stumbled out into the darkness. Edel landed on her feet and streaked past Sujani down the corridor, leaving behind a homemade crucifix clattering on the floor. The sound of panicked footsteps continued down the hall, and Sujani followed, leaving the door to the wings ajar. As she stepped across the resistant hardwood, she heard the familiar sound of a creaking door swinging open, followed by a light hiss and a fearful set of feet exiting down a fire escape. Edel appeared back in the hall, glum and undoing their corset as they floated above the floorboards. 

“Well, you just scared the living daylights out of the man,” Sujani commented, hiding the homemade crucifix behind her back. 

“That was but the intention, my darling Sujani.” Edel rolled their eyes, returning to the floor and picking up the edges of their petticoat as their corset went slack. “I gave him quite a fright! He won’t be coming back for a while now. That’s the one, is it not?”

Sujani peered over Edel’s shoulder, as if he would appear again in the hall as they talked, stake drawn. She blinked, averting her gaze back to a gloomy Edel. “Yes. Yes, I believe so. But, I must say, I do have a feeling we will not be seeing the last of him for quite some time.”

Edel bobbed her head and then raised a delicate hand to mask her yawn. “Why say you such things?”

“Suspicion,” she replied, offering a placid smile. “Do not worry, he will get nowhere near you, nor any of the others, let me say,” Sujani insisted, allowing the crucifix to clatter to the ground as she took Edel’s hand. “You must head back now. I wouldn’t want you to grow weak. Why were you out anyways? It’s unsafe these hours, especially in...”

With a wave of her hand, Edel cut Sujani off. “No need. I had a feeling. This theatre is but an extension of myself, my darling Sujani, and I know when there is something afoot.” They relaxed their shoulders, pressing their hands to their chest with a sigh. “And you must dispose of that, my darling, before someone is to be harmed.” Edel’s eyes touched the crucifix, burdened with nostalgia, before she lifted a hand to her face. “I do feel rather weakened by the light. I don’t suppose you will escort me back, and then do draw those curtains in the auditorium?” Edel folded their hands, turning their nose up as they continued. “I would rather my entire cast not be incinerated by sunlight.”

Sujani pursed her lips and held out her hand to Edel, kicking the crucifix to the side. “Certainly, Ms. Veice. I’ll attend to that right away.” 

Leading Edel through the dimly lit halls, then down the staircase to the hideaway, Sujani’s rising anxiety melted away and the corridors and patterns returned to her mind. “Goodnight, my darling Sujani,” Edel said as they disappeared into the shadows of the room, a faint candlelight outlining the cover of their coffin.

“Goodnight, Ms. Veice.”

The crucifix remained where Sujani had left it, right beside the open door back to the stage. Sujani sucked in a breath as she lifted it up, twirled it in her hands, and smashed it upon the floor. The wood buckled and split as she slammed it again, again, and once more for good measure, until her palms were streaked red and she had received a splinter in her index. Splintered pieces of wood now decorated the floor, and nobody on would ever be aware there was a crucifix to begin with, Sujani thought, as she swept away the pieces. Crossing the stage to the disposal and feeling the warmth of the summer light on her face, Sujani watched as it disappeared among the broken sets and discarded scripts.

#sujani nandasiri #edel veice #james howe #well that's his name #it's a plot twist but u guys know it now bc thats already the tag for him <3 #a lot of the plot here rides on the protags not knowing what an irish accent is like #my ocs #my writes

[officialleehadan]

The Oak and the Climbing Rose

Shimra wandered through the gardens, relishing the moment alone, and feeling entirely out of place. At least her dress was simple today. Princess Isera, who was known for setting all the latest fashions, had unbent enough to allow Shimra to wear a soft green over-gown of linen with an undyed chemise beneath and only two petticoats. Her hair, for the first time in a week, was braided back and tied with a ribbon.

So of course, that was when she rounded a hidden corner, under the branches of a towering oak tree festooned with climbing roses, and fell straight into the lap of a man she hadn’t even seen.

To his credit, he took her sudden appearance well and managed to catch her as she tripped over his legs. Shimra, never the image of grace, tumbled unceremoniously into the grass, and muttered a word she learned form one of the cut-purses who frequented her father’s inn as she fought with her heavy skirts.

This was not the sort of clothing she usually wore, and she missed her comfortable work-dresses. She struggled to straighten herself out, to the soft chuckles of the man she had fallen atop of.

When she got herself untangled, she looked up, prepared to thank him for his assistance, and also his patience, and muttered another, stronger curse.

The king, who Halva called Grath and Isera called idiot and who they both adored as a brother.

“My lady, I did not think to meet you here,” he said, face straight but lips curling with amusement at her language and the way she unsuccessfully scrambled for her feet, caught her hem under her heel, and nearly fell again. “Please, you needn’t stand on ceremony. I’m hiding from my maids.”

That… was not what she expected him to say, but when she took a closer look, she realized he was dressed as simply as she was, in a loose shirt and breeches tucked into comfortable boots, and wasn’t even wearing his crown. In fact, the only jewelry he wore was a single gold hoop in his left ear, and his royal signet.

“Ah,” she said, and managed a passable curtsy when she got her feet under her again. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Majesty.”

“I can think of no man who would be disturbed by a beautiful duchess falling into their lap,” the king murmured, and offered her a real smile, his hair curling into his eyes as he looked up at her. He had a book open beside him, obviously dropped in his haste to catch her. Shimra blushed when she realized what he had said, and did her best not to fidget. “Are you enjoying the gardens?”

“They’re beautiful,” Shimra told him honestly as he retrieved his book and slipped a fallen leaf into the pages to make his spot. “I’ve never seen so many flowers. We have a little garden on the roof of our inn, but that’s for herbs and food, not flowers.”

“Your inn?” the king questioned, and tilted his head as he thought for a moment. “That’s right, Isera adopted you, didn’t she?”

“She said something about pies, and then there was an elf-king and I was a duchess,” Shimra admitted helplessly, and he laughed. “Is she always… like that?”

“Yes, that does sound like her,” the king laughed, and waved to his little patch of grass, surrounded by roses and well out of sight of the walking paths. “Will you sit with me a bit? I never get to just talk to people.”

That seemed like something of a bad idea, Shimra had no idea how to talk to a king, but he looked so hopeful, and seemed so kind, and he had raised a royal toast to the lower classes at the ball only two days earlier…

Shimra took her skirts in hand and settled herself on the grass. Maybe there would be stains later, but it was worth it when the king smiled at her, suddenly seeming much younger than she first took him for.

“Why are you hiding from your maids?” she asked when she was seated, and her feet were tucked under her comfortably. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“It’s summer, and we always hire new maids for the castle around this time,” The king admitted with a wry, uncomfortable shrug. “And they’ve all heard those songs, about a noble falling in love with them on the spot, and they keep bending over at me…”

Shimra couldn’t help but laugh at the disgruntled expression on his face, and he glared at her without heat, before chuckling himself. “I’m sorry, Majesty, it’s just funny, them thinking you’ll, what, drop everything and wed them on the spot?”

“Please, call me Grath. You’re a friend of Isera and Halva’s, and I hope you won’t stand on ceremony with me, either,” he told her kindly, still smiling even as she tried valiantly to keep from choking on her own spit. Her, using the king’s name? Madness! “It’s not that I dislike women, or that I disapprove of nobility marrying into the working classes, but…”

“But you want someone to talk with,” Shimra offered, and began braiding a strand of daisies together into a crown to occupy her hands. Grath watched her, curious and interested, and she shifted so he could see better. “Well, I promise I’ll not bend over at you, if you tell me what you’re reading.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” Grath laughed. “Promise you won’t tease me for it?”

“I promise no such thing, but I won’t tell anyone else, if it’s scandalous.” It seemed easy to joke like this, sitting in the grass with daisies in her hands and Grath looking like one of the local lads who came to her inn every night after work, and Shimra let herself relax into the warm, rose-scented air of the garden. “Now I’m terribly curious.”

“I’ll take my chances, I suppose,” he said, and turned the book so she could see the cover. “It’s poetry. I used to dream of running off to be a bard. This is as close as I’ll ever get, I suppose.”

“What stopped you?” Shimra asked before she could stop herself. “Duty?”

“The thought of my brother on the throne. Can you imagine?”

She couldn’t help but laugh at that, and tied her daisy chain off into a crown. Before she could think better of it, she leaned forward and settled it on his head, shocked at her own boldness. Grath stared at her, bedecked by daisies, and still smiling. “You’re king. You needed a crown, after all.”

“I suppose I do,” he murmured, and lifted the book. “…do you want to see?”

“I can’t read, except to label jars and count a bit of change,” Shimra said reluctantly, and wished it were otherwise. “I’m not… I’m not high-born. I never needed to read much. It always seemed like magic to me.”

“Well,” he told her after only a moment’s hesitation. “How about I read aloud? Poetry should be spoken aloud, anyway. And maybe, if you would indulge me, I could teach you?”

“You would…?” the very thought was absurd, but Shimra found herself terribly tempted. “You’re the king. I’m sure someone else…”

“I want to,” he murmured, and straightened his flower crown with a slight smile. “Consider it fair trade for not giving me away to the maids. They’re fearless, I swear, and determined.”

It was foolish. She shouldn’t accept. She was base-born, ennobled only last week, at the whim of a princess.

But his smile, and the way he let her crown him in daisies when he was used to gold decided her against her own better judgement.

“Alright,” she said, and moved to sit beside him where she could see the pages. “If only to protect you from your fearless maids. Now, what sort of poetry are you reading?”

+++

Spider-Eating Elves:

Elves are beautiful, icy, and untouchable. Unfortunately, they always thought the same of humans. Worse yet, they also live in a forest full of giant insects, think tiny spiders are a delicacy, and have a strong-willed princess who is nothing but trouble. 

Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder

Introductory Trouble

Lady of Grace

Lady of Stone, and her Girlfriend

Lady Retrieved

Monsters on the Wing

Spiderwebs and Cookies

Royal Match

Lines in the Sand

From One King to Another

Duchess of Pies

Twilight Silk

An Entrance to Make

Raise a Glass

(Subscriber Only!)

+++

More Stories!

+++

#elf #elves #romance #cute #adorable #fun #sweet #poetry #book #books #garden #gardening #rose #roses #oak #outdoors #adventure #adventures #matt duchene #royal #royals #royalty #king #crown #writing #writer #write #writers #spilled ink #spilled thoughts

[thegreatfatnerd]

Hi, Hope you enjoy this, if you want to get in touch don't hesitate to message me I will always reply as soon as I can, also if you could leave a little review, it really helps, it helps keep me inspired and motivated x 

8th Doctor finding his new companion x

Finally, it had taken a while, it was tedious yet enjoyable in a way, strange really, going through all the stuff that a previous incarnation held as important, dear and interesting. In a way, they still were because I suppose I am that person but at the same time I'm a different person. Train magazines, hundreds of clocks it would seem, but some things will never change, such as wanting a cup of tea. The Tardis knows me so well, probably better than I know myself.

 Word count : 2832. 

And So The Adventure Begins.

-------------------------------

Sat down in my favorite chair, with a perfect cup of sweet tea, what could be better. Well, staring at an empty chair, what's the point in saving worlds on a semi-regular basis and sitting to relax when you are by yourself. Well usually the Tardis steps in here, she does always seem to know best, she seems to always land in a place so I find someone or so fate gets involved. Maybe this time I should change that, maybe I could find my own companion. I must admit I'm feeling a little lonely, but not for much longer me thinks. Well, maybe I should let fate have its turn, maybe I should let the Tardis decide where we land, then again, who knows where I could end up, who knows what species I could end up with. Maybe for once, I should have full choice, this won't happen often so let's take a chance ...

Earth 2019

"Alright, I heard you I will put the rubbish out, I will eat, but no nothing unhealthy, yes I know I'm on a diet, yes I will sort out everything before I leave... I'm losing you, bye bye." I promptly hang up, "Ugh, I hate people sometimes."

I look in the mirror, this is as good as it will get, I'm 'really dolled up', by that I mean I have literally just cleaned my glasses, bright red lipstick, that if I'm totally honest was totally wrong for me, and that is it. I'm wearing my favorite dress, I think anything with a petticoat, can hide a multitude of sins.

Looking at the clock I realize as usual I'm ready with some time to spare so I make sure I've done everything I need to do. I can hardly believe it sitting here. I'm about to go on my first date, leaving it to the week before your 22nd birthday means I am more nervous than should be necessary.

One last look in the mirror, great, it doesn't really matter what clothes you wear, I will always look fat. Let's get going shall we don't want to miss the bus, that would be a great start either late or on time but out of breath and all sweaty, yuck.

As always the bus is late and it's raining so all that effort on doing my hair is undone, at least that's what I'll say to him, I don't ever really do much to it anyway, it's always big but not quite curly clip the bits off my face and we're good to go.

xxx

I'm standing in the doorway of a restaurant I've never even heard of, some Italian place, great time to get a text the exact time you're meant to meet, he isn't coming, he never had any intention to. Well, I'm here, I don't care if I'm on a diet or not. I want something greasy and unhealthy, tomorrow I'll be going back to my place to live by myself, have no human interaction for at least a week so who's gonna notice.

That's a good plan Chinese, and a walk through the beautiful green gardens, I'm sure that will make me feel better. Bench by the lake, lovely, food, check, no person in sight, even better and to top it all off the rain has stopped.

Of course, there had to be someone where I couldn't see, but hey, as long as this bloke doesn't talk to me or sit by me there's nothing to worry about. Just keep eating, the diet can start again in the morning.

"Excuse me?" First time I look up at this bloke, what the hell is he wearing, velvet jacket, don't see that everyday does you, best be polite.

"Yes."

"Could you help me, I'm terribly confused, I was wondering what year it is?" Great, he's crazy, I'm all alone and there is a crazy bloke with me, could this night get any worse. First proper look at him, and it confirms my suspicions all the good looking guys are mad.

"Umm, 2019, why?"

"Well I thought it was, but then I saw you in that dress, which looks lovely by the way, but then I thought it could be the 1950's but then I looked and saw your food and that confused me again. May I sit down?" Every other bench is empty and he wants to sit with me, this bloke who actually noticed my dress, I really want to say no. But hey I'm curious and if I'm totally honest I don't think it would be possible to say no to those eyes.

"Um, sure." I say moving my things across, I look down and realize how greedy I must look. I have enough food for at least two if not more, "Want some?" I say holding some chips up.

He smiles, I have to admit it was quite a smile, held it up, stared at it for a moment before eating it. I offered him some more of all the food, he did the same with everything.

"What's your name?" He suddenly comes out with, should have really seen that one coming.

After swallowing, "Y/N", I hold out my hand ready to shake, he does take my hand and then replies.

" Hello Y/N, lovely name, I'm the doctor."

"The doctor? Really is that what people call you, what, doctor what?"

"Just the doctor", after that we sat in silence for a little while, I had so many questions I wanted to ask, but I just couldn't bring myself to break this comfortable silence, besides who am I to judge. It wouldn't be fair anyway, everyone around here thinks I'm a bit strange and that never stopped me, maybe it's the same for that guy.

My eyes are starting to itch, oh how could I forget about my hayfever, I'm sitting in a giant flower garden, this really isn't my night is it.

I pick up my bag and start rooting through it. I'm sure I had some tablets or a tissue or something in my bag, why can I never find anything when I need it.

"What are you looking for? Could I help?"

"Just looking for my hayfever tablets or a tissue or something, nothing important."

"But if you're suffering with an ailment then it must be important."

"No, it's just my eyes." I take my glasses off and wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my cardigan. "Fine, see?"

"No, no, this will never do." He rooted through his pockets, as if they were huge, then pulled out a handkerchief, "Here, use this." He offered me the handkerchief, I wasn't going to take it, but pushed it closer, I really didn't have a choice.

"Thank you" What else can I say?

"Your welcome." He stopped and sat for a moment then said: "Are you quite warm enough, it does seem to be going cold and getting dark."

I hadn't really noticed the temperature, but he was right it was getting cold, but of course, I'm not going to let him know, I'll be fine soon, I'll be walking home. "I'm fine, thank you."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure thank you." He didn't seem to believe me but didn't say anything. I put my glasses on.

"We should really leave the gardens if there is something affecting your health." He seemed to clarify, "Keep the handkerchief, I've got plenty and you might need it again."

"Oh, well, thank you." I stand up and gather my things, I don't really want to go home yet but suppose I'm going to have to.

"Which way is town again, I can never remember."

I can't help but laugh, "Well, that depends on where you need to go, most of the town is that way" Pointing which way, " train station that way, bus station that way."

"Well, which way are you going." I don't think he realizes how weird and creepy he sounds.

"Um, Oh I'm going in a totally different way."

"But you came from that way, " He said pointing down the now dark, creepy lane next to the church and graveyard.

"Yeah, that's the direction of the place where I got stood up, to go home I need to go that way."

"You said the bus station was that way."

"I'm not getting the bus." Okay, why am I saying all this to a creepy stranger, whose name I don't know.

"How are you getting home, then?"

"Walking, it won’t take too long." Although that's not entirely true it can sometimes take an hour to walk home, but I always enjoyed walking and right now a walk by myself is probably just the thing I need.

"Walk, by yourself, in the dark, I think not."

"It's alright I walk it all the time, and anyway, once you're over the river, there are street lights."

"Let me give you a lift or something"

"Oh, no, I don't want to make you go out of your way."

"It wouldn't let me walk you home," I was about to interrupt when he said, " At least let me walk you to the street lights over the bridge."

"Okay, I suppose."

He offered me his arm, he really was the nicest gentleman I've ever met. I took his arm, and we started walking.

"So you got stood up, then."

"Yeah, a bit of a disaster, eh."

"Well, I think he must be an imbecile, to stand you up."

"No he's just a man, well, here we are at the bridge. It was nice to meet you, doctor."

"The pleasure was entirely mine."

A week later

Finally everything is sorted, ready to move, just typically your flatmate tells you their moving out the day before rent is due and she's leaving today, so no way I will be able to stay.

All morning was spent on the phone to the landlord trying to explain what's happened, he seemed just as annoyed as me, he's coming to collect the keys in 2 hours.

After that all my time was taken by packing all my stuff, so now that's everything into boxes, I don't quite know what I'm doing now, I mean tonight shouldn't be a problem. I will just have to go and stay at my parents house, luckily they are on holiday for a few days and I have the spare key, after that isn't so certain though.

More immediate problem then is how am I moving my stuff, can't drive the car, it's at the garage getting repaired, so no car, not going to be able to get all this on a bus, could get a taxi I suppose.

"Good", he opens the door for me " Which way, back that way", I say pointing from the direction I just walked.

"Bye" Jess pops her head out and round the door, with a box in her arms, her boyfriend having taken everything else. "Oh give these to Mr Baker for me" throwing her keys at me and leaving.

"Why did I ever move in with her, I do not know." I don't know why but speaking to yourself does sometimes help.

I put both our keys on the kitchen table , all my boxes are outside, I've made sure everything is clean. I don't really want to see Mr Baker, he seemed quite angry on the phone, not that I blame him. I know I wouldn't be able to afford it on my own and even if I could I wouldn't want to live alone, even if I do hate people sometimes, maybe one day I'll be a crazy animal lady.

Oh great no credit on my phone, so can't ring a taxi, my parents house is about a 30 minute walk and I wouldn't be able to take all the boxes at once. So I suppose I will have to hide all the other boxes, carry one down to the house to walk back and get the next one. It's going to be a long day.

Well might as well get going, these boxes aren't going to move themselves, besides the weather says it's going to rain again later, at least at the moment it's dry. Boxes hidden behind the shed, hope Mr Baker doesn't get rid of it, that's all my sci fi stuff and other dresses. Oh great I'm going to bump into Mr Baker I know it. Headphones in, musical playlist, I think, to calm me down, let's start walking.

I can't be more than 10 minutes away from where I left, when this bright yellow car pulls up beside me, with none other than the man from last week. What a coincidence that he is up here, almost too good to be true.

"Why, hello there Y/N, what have you got there." Why do I feel the need to tell him everything.

"Oh, hello Doctor, well done for remembering my name, most people don't." That's it keep stalling that will make everything better (!) "Oh, it's just some stuff I'm taking down to a friends." Well it's kinda true.

"Would you like a hand or a lift or something."

"No need, I'm sure I'll be fine"

"It's going to rain soon might as well."

"Oh, all right."

"Alright then"

"This is a lovely car," small talk has never been my forte, besides can't really talk about the weather.

"Oh, yes, I've had her for a long time, her name is Bessie"

"She's lovely, pull in down there on the next left, that's it straight in front."

"Do you believe me?" He says from behind me.

"Are you sure this is where you were headed , you were going in the other direction. "

"Well, as you're here, I thought I'd make the most of it, and get all the stuff."

I hop out the car and head to where I know all the heavy boxes are, what I hadn't expected was for him to be right behind me.

"Funny place to keep clothes, and, are those X-men comics?"

He obviously got distracted, typical man. " Uh, yeah"

"And Wonder Woman, and Superman and Batman ... "

"Yeah there are a few there, I'm not the most sociable person, one can never be lonely with a good book or comic."

He looked up smiling, then his smile fell as he stood up. " Are you alright, you're not getting rid of them are you, you seem to love them?"

"Well, not today, but probably soon" I don't know why I told him everything but I did.

After that he helped me get everything into the car, he got the door for me , he then headed back to the house, went in the general direction of the front door then after a minute if that came back and we headed off the road again.

"I might have a solution to your problem."

"I'm listening" Please don't be creepy, please don't be creepy.

"You could come live with me" Okay it's creepy. "Hear me out, I'm an alien, I have two hearts, I would say see for yourself but I am driving. I live in a spaceship called the Tardis, I can travel anywhere in time and space. How does that sound."

"Like you have read far too many comics."

"Let me show you." He turns down a country lane , and we keep going for some time before we stop at a weird blue, police box. "This is it," He practically jumps out the car and helps me out. "This is the Tardis" It doesn't look like a spaceship, who knows what will happen if I go in there. He opens the door and I can see some lavish furniture, and curiosity always gets the best of me, so I have a look.

Best to be honest "Yes", I could hardly breathe let alone talk.

"No, way, it looks huge in there," I literally walk around this box twice before I step inside, "It's bigger on the inside."

"Do you believe me?" He asks from behindn me.

"Great let's get you moved in, before we have an adventure".

So thank you for reading, honestly I know it's not great please don't be mean and any help to improve would be greatly appreciated X

#eighth doctor #reader insert #i have no idea how to tag #doctor who #reader gets stood up #plus size

[methoxyethane]

Ficbit: Princess Thunderstorm

Keith should never have been so stupid as to agree to play a campaign with only Lance. But the two of them had been so BORED in the castle lately, and they were getting closer as friends, so when Lance suggested they try out the game's Automatic Dungeon Master instead of letting Coran do it for a change, it seemed like a good idea.

Like, the worst that could happen was his character would die like Shiro kept doing, and he'd have to start from scratch, right? Nope. Something way stupider happened first. Something so stupid Keith really DID try to kill his character and start from scratch, before the game itself stopped him from self sabotage because that was 'cheating'. God Keith hated this game. Which totally explained why he kept playing it with everyone.

So what had happened was, their two characters Pike and Thunderstorm were in these ruins looking for treasure. But with no real DM they only had half a clue about all the traps and secret passages to actually get TO said treasure, and they ended up stumbling on something... Unexpected.

The idol had some inscription on it in Ancient Altean, which Lance and Keith were supposed to be able to READ by the game's standards. Like, why would anyone be playing this game if they couldn't read the rulebooks, right? That would just be stupid of them! So obviously, Keith picked up the idol, looking at the small statuette for clues on what it did or if it was valuable, and that's when the shining pink light enveloped his body.

And if you're imagining something subtle here with that phrase, you are wrong. It was like a sparkling pink and yellow supernova, so bright and hot Keith had no comprehension of what was even going on until the flash was gone and it was all over, a few fading sparkles all that was left of the idol that used to be in his hand.

"Huh," Keith said, not knowing what that look on Lance's face was about and not really caring. And then he took two steps forward, tripped over the fabric wrapped around his legs, and fell face first into the floor. Lance's laughter was so loud it shook the walls themselves.

Keith rolled over, only able to get halfway up where he was still trapped in his clothes. Clothing which he now noticed was totally different from before. Clothing he now realized… had magically transformed into a giant poofy pink and white dress.

That, at least, explained the laughter.

“What the hell happened to you?” Lance panted out between peals of laughter. “You’re dressed like Princess fuckin’ Peach!”

He knew he should have let Lance take the stupid statue. Then it’d be him stuck in his mess instead of Keith.

He tried to change equipment in his inventory screen, but it was a no-go. He was currently locked into a set called “The Princess’s Honor,” which came not only with a full costume but also was currently not letting him put any of his weapons back on to boot. Keith would have gotten pissed off, if there was any time before the dungeon started rumbling.

Keith tried to stand up, the dress had too many skirts and petticoats and he ended up tripping before he even got all the way to his feet. Just in time for the dungeon troll to smash through the door.

“Oh crap,” Lance muttered, diving down to swoop up Keith in his arms and make a mad dash for it. The troll was right behind them as they ran and as humiliating as it was being carried around he was willing to roll with it when he couldn’t even stand up on his own right now.

“The bond has sealed~!” A fairy-like voice echoed from what seemed like the general direction of his tiara. “The princess has chosen her prince~!”

At which point a skill menu opened up, and Keith realized this wasn’t a costume this was a whole fucking character class. With no weapons. And a giant dress. And he was stuck in it.

The only two skills he currently had were a healing spell and a full revival spell. Those would not be helpful if he was already dead, but it looked like his defence and evasion had been about maxed out in the meanwhile, so at least he had some breathing room. Shit, if he’d wanted to be the healer that’s what he’d have signed up for!

The Skill ‘Princess Embrace’ said it also came with attack and defense buffs, though, so what the hell. If supporting Lance was the only thing he could do until they got out of here and got him un-cursed, then Pike would have to take the charge in this fight.

Oh what the hell - and then he noticed that to cast Princess Embrace the one condition was, of course, that he hug his ‘Prince.’ Fine, whatever, they were already here, Lance was still carrying him as they ran from the chasing troll. Ignoring the red-hot blush staining his face, Keith reached up to wrap his arms around Lance’s neck.

“K-Keith?” Lance blushed back, looking down just in time for another sparkling light to envelop both of them. This time the light was green, presumably to match the healing of health points Lance was getting right now, and suddenly even their running speed was boosted as Lance mumbled a stupified “Hooooly shit what did you just cast on me?!”

“A buff, moron!” Keith beat one white-gloved fist into Lance’s chest, signaling that he wanted to be let down now. “I don’t have any attacks right now, you’ve gotta do this by yourself!”

“Normally I’d call you crazy,” Lance said, skidding around a corner with just enough time to set Keith on his feet. “But right now I feel like I could take on ten of these guys!”

The troll smashed through the wall they were hiding behind, Pike swooping in to block Princess Thunderstorm from the debris as it flew past them. And then he lept into the air with a drawn knife, and performed a series of the most acrobatic mid-air bullshit moves straight on the troll’s neck Keith’s jaw was pretty much on the floor.

“Jesus,” Keith breathed out, as Lance rushed back to him.

“Not bad for ‘The Weakest Party Member,’ eh?” Lance said, holding up his arms for a show-offy flex. “I just took down a high level dungeon troll! In a place we shouldn’t even BE yet!”

“Very impressive,” Keith huffed. “Let’s just get out of here so we can get me out of this damned dress!”

Lance grinned, wolfish. “Why my princess, I’m happy to help you out of your dress any time.”

Keith socked him and walked off by himself.

They stepped out of the dungeon, and with a poof of absurd pink smoke Thunderstorm’s outfit went and stats went back to normal. So did Pike’s, much to Lance’s disappointment. So, tired and confused, they logged out for the day.

Maybe it was just a weird condition of those ruins they had been in. Keith brushed it off as a fluke, and nearly forgot about it.

At least, until the next time they played, that is.

#klance #princess keith #monsters and mana #thunderpike #ficbit

[20dollarlolita]

I tested it so you don’t have to: Ebay Lolita

 Cheap “lolita” dresses from ebay are COMPLETELY UNUSABLE in lolita. They cannot be saved. There is no hope for them.

Let’s go into the details of why. Yes, there will be pictures.

So, for the ones who have forgotten or who are new to the party, I bought three “lolita” dresses off ebay for under $20 each. For those of you who are very new to the party, in general, a lolita OP (dress with sleeves) from a minor brand is about $150, a skirt is about $75. This depends on what brand you’re getting, and doesn’t include shipping (which is generally about $20 if you’re in the USA). Name brand items usually run about $350 for a dress and $200 for a skirt. Lolita isn’t cheap, and there’s a lot of reasons for that that I’ve discussed before on this blog.

And yet, there’s so many dresses on ebay that claim to be lolita, and are under $20. So, as, y’know, 20dollarlolita, I needed to find out what was going on. Is there a secret collection of lolita dresses that are hiding? What if they’re only awful because of one thing, and the lolita who can sew can convert them into cheap, quality clothing with a little love? Shouldn’t we at least check?

I’ve checked. Don’t do it.

So, quick beginning, WAY beginning, lolita is a fashion, not a costume. Anything that reminds you of Spirit Halloween should be avoided. Garments are over the top, but should be constructed like clothing, not like halloween costumes or whatever your teacher made you wear in the 3rd grade play.

Lolita is based on extravagance and quality. Shortcuts should not look or feel like shortcuts.

Lolita fabrics aren’t shiny. Even shiny lolita isn’t shiny. Lolita is about balancing texture and scale, to create an interesting piece that isn’t cluttered, skewed, or boring.

This can make the prices of lolita garments skyrocket (especially large skirt hems+quality trims), and buying premade lolita comes with accepting that on some level.

Or you can just do what these ebay people did and make some weird monster.

For each dress that I got, I tried to take a picture that would be as flattering to the dress as possible, as well as one that shows what the dress is like when worn with normal lolita foundations.

Dress #1:

(Seller’s ebay image)

This one is Women’s Lolita Cosplay Belt Dress Classic Black Red Pricess Dress Party Dress. Rolls right off the tongue. I ordered it in size L, color of gray.

Quick look at that image: It’s a high-waisted skirt, made of brocade, with a shaped, boned waistband with a front lacing. Even though it’s modeled on a petticoat, the fabric has structure that implies that it’s a thicker fabric. The manequin is also wearing a black blouse and a necklace.

(Shout out to my mother for taking these pictures for me)

First of all, this came in the form of a dress, with the blouse attached. The only thing resembling a closure is the front lacing. The careful observer will note that the print is upside-down.

The sleeves have a lace on the hem that I declared “unsuitable for lolita” way back in 2014. It’s the exact lace.

Due to my personal body size, the back of the skirt rises higher than the front, making the waistband very bizarre. There is no boning whatsoever. There is no structural body in the fabric or the construction.

You might say, “It doesn’t look that bad on the waist!” but you need to know that I’m wearing a boned corset and three petticoats under this to get that good shape.

Here’s the no-foundation-garment look, in case you want to see it without the corset: Ever seen an Oktoberfest bar wench?

(pardon the room background)

This isn’t the best style on me, but the construction makes it worse. Without any boning, the edges of the waist part of the skirt form weird bunchy lines that this fabric is known for.

And this is not a case where you can “just put boning in it and it’ll be fine.” The purpose of originally modeling this over a corset was to show that with boning, everything would still be very wrong.

As you can see by the narrow hem in that picture, the fabric is very thin. If you’ve ever bought a premade haloween costume, you’ve seen it. It’s that thin almost-satin, 100% polyester, similar to lining fabric. Because the design is just printed on, you don’t get the effect you get with real brocade where the different weaves and colors create different light patterns. Instead, you get an artificially bright contrast.

Things that are wrong: fabric type (no cutting it up and making something else for lolita), construction (why is the blouse attached to the skirt? clothes are not constructed like that), fit (size is fine but it’s the wrong measurements in the wrong places. It’s true-to-size but no one is those proportions in those places).

You can’t wear it as lolita, and if you think you can, seek out some actual lolita, touch it, and then touch this, and you’ll immediately know the difference. It has no trims to harvest. It is not on a fabric that can be converted into something. It is not worth $17.50, which is what I spent on it.

Dress #2: Gothic Lolita Dress Plus Size 5XL Women Fashion Vintage Classic Cosplay Costume. This garment is maybe 3 of those 10 descriptors.

Here’s a triple-layer skirt with a high wasit and suspender straps. The top layer is black frills that are cut on the circle (and then gathered as well). The second layer is made of a pinstriped suiting, where the stripes are woven in and are a fine gold color. On that second layer’s scalloped hem, there are two rows of what appears to be gimp trim. Under that is a gathered black skirt made of a matte fabric. (I actually bought this dress from the original maker, Souffle Song, but it’ll take a couple of months to get here. I’ll do a comparison when I get it.)

What I received was actually a skirt, so I put on a blouse that didn’t match at all, so you can tell where the blouse stops and where the dress starts.

First things first, this looks like it fits well, but that’s because I have a sizing clamp in the back. This thing was jumbo/LARGE, relative to what I was told on the sizing chart.

Here it is minus the clamp. There’s shirring in the back, but it’s not actually tight enough to be useful in terms of sizing. It’s more there because the back view of the dress they’re copying had shirring.

This dress has four buttons (gold-painted plastic) and two sets of suspender sliders that might, on another dress, be useful. The sliders aren’t useful on this dress because the smooth plainweave fabric can’t grip them, so they need to be pinned or sewn down to even function.

In the exact center front, there’s a spot where the merrow (that machine-finished edge) fell off the fabric and made a little loop of unfinished fabric and hanging thread.

As you can see, every component of this dress has much less fabric than the original, which results in barely the right shape.

The Spirit Halloween shiny synthetic fabric strikes again. I have to assume that it’s inexpensive to print onto, thus the popularity in this kind of application. As I’ll scream to the day I die, texture and scale and how you use them can make or break a garment, and this has no texture and totally the wrong scale.

Instead of having trim on the hem, it’s just printed on.

Due to the less fabric and the lack of drape in the blue layer, the black ruffled underlayer doesn’t hang with the blue layer. It creates a very different shape.

Again, due to the quality of fabric, there’s no saving this.

Tl;dr, don’t buy lolita on ebay. It’s not worth the $20 you spend on a dress, even if it’s just for laughs. Buy a Bodyline lucky pack instead, because the entertainment value of 13 left sleeves is much better than this.

#long post #bare feet cw #feet cw #underwear mention #underbloomers #lolita fashion #egl #ebay lolita #milanoo #20dollarlolita quality posts

[asheasexualvampire]

My Clothes Weigh More Than Me

Alternatively, “The period in history where your child weighs the same as the clothes you wear all day”. Yes. Today I would like to talk about fashion, and my lack thereof. For anyone new, salutations. I am Ashe, I am both a panromantic asexual, and a vampire. Welcome to my hell. Fashion. It had been both the bane of existence and also the funnest thing ever since day zero. It can alternately flatter or disfigure your appearance, no matter what body type, size, height, or gender. If you follow its whims then you are “typical”, or in the newest term, “BASIC.” If you don’t then you get asked why you can’t just wear what everyone else wears, and then get called a lot of very unpleasant and uncalled for names. Witch. Goth. Nerd. Looser. Pansy. The list could honestly go on for days. I grew up in the Victorian age, when everything was about that strange, hourglass shape but if you turned in profile, you almost looked like a very long bird, because the front curved out so far. Fashion then was very strictly divided. If you had boobs, you wore dresses. If you had balls you would trousers. Welcome to hell. Population, you. I had the unfortunate grace to be born with boobs. Well, they came in a matter of course, shut up, you know what I mean. Heathen. Being a girl meant learning how to sew, serve tea, sing, dance, run a house, balance the books, pay the staff, and how to dress so that no one thought you were foreign, or worse, poor. It starts when you’re a child. You’ve got a chemise which is like a full body thin dress made of cotton or muslin. Sometimes with pretty ribbons and ruffled bits. Then you have your dress, made of some other material, more ribbons and bows and lace than any child should be expected to wear, and a pair of stockings and shoes. Fine. You’re covered from neck to ankle in fabric. Then you grow up. You start developing weird bits and your hips are doing this thing and what in the hell is going on down- never mind. Now you’re a young lady. Now, you wear your chemise, and possibly some drawers if you’re feeling too drafty. Then over that goes the first corset. Now about corsets. Before anyone starts in about them being disfiguring cages of hell spawn, just take a breath. There’s this thing called “Going Too Far”. It has happened since the dawn of time. 99% of the populace would wear things in the way they are meant to be worn, and one person has to go the extra mile and add layers or flounces or bows, or something. People do it now! Have you seen some of these people getting plastic surgery until they look like they’re inhuman? That is “going Too Far”. People did it back then, but with clothes. Back to the topic. Corset. You get it on, fairly loose for now, but as time rolls on you will slowly tighten it until it’s firm but still comfortable. Its actually very supportive to the spine and encourages good posture. Tight lacing it would be unwise, but people also used to use arsenic in wallpaper so... Now you put on a petticoat, and another, and then you add hip pads, and a butt pad, and if you’re not full enough in the chest they even made stiff bodices that created that bird-front look. And then more petticoats, and then the dress. By the time you’re tied, buttoned, hooked and pinned in, you’ve got enough layers on that you could cook some ham under that skirt, you need a wide berth so hugging anyone is out of the question, and your clothes could stop a sword. If you put on the LEAST amount possible, it will all weigh about 17lbs. Or, the same as a slightly pudgy chihuahua. If you were kitted out for a formal event, your clothes could weight up to 30lbs, or a small toddler. Men’s clothes were not nearly as restrictive, and I began wearing them in secret as often as possible. My Maker possibly thought I was a man when they made me. Poor chap got one hell of a surprise I think. But men didn’t have nearly the layers and weight of women. Drawers, an undershirt, regular shirt, tie of some sort, waistcoat, trousers, socks, shoes, cuff-links, jacket, coat. And you’re off with hat in hand and you don’t need a perimeter of 6 feet around you to make speaking into a shouting event. After I was Made, it was arranged that my former self had “died” and then I chose to go about as a man all the time. Of course, it was different then, and I didn’t have to worry about getting married, I could be a confirmed bachelor and just do whatever I liked. In the 1900s clothes slimmed down, skirts went up, I still wore pants. Because I have lived a life in skirts. Its bloody inconvenient and too much work. The 1920′s was fun, picture shows became a thing, lots of very cute men, women started wearing pants and suits, and it was quite lovely. Look up Lavender Marriage, it was a thing and it was glorious. Then the 50s came. Skirts, heels, pearls, “How was your day honey?” please god shoot me in the eye. I continued to be a man. Motorcycles are fun, as are leather trousers. Wear a damned helmet you idiot, your skull is not impervious to pavement. I wear one! The 60s was back to nature, lots of people being very high and very friendly and wanting to just lay outside and stare at the sky with you. Also a LOT of nudists came out of hiding. Like, almost too many. Then there was disco. Disco was so fun. It was like the lazy days of the 60s had just been Too Much, and people went overboard in the arts and crafts aisle with all the colour and glitter and the lights and the platform heels even for men. I have shite balance, I wore sneakers and trackies. Track pants. I cannot do the robot or the worm. But comfort was my thing. I do so love glitter tho. Then we have the 80s with the hair bands and the leather and wow that’s a LOT of hairspray. Even I choked, and I don’t need to breathe! But it was glorious, even though shoulder pads should be against the law. Hideous. The 90s went grunge and then pop, and then you lot started being born in the 2000s. But yes. Fashion tends to recycle and also react to what happened before. Bell-bottoms in the ‘60s became flares in the 90s and the 2000s, cigarette pants in the ‘40s became skinny jeans, tattoos and coloured hair came back from the Celts, the Picts, and the Native Americans, Africans, Samoans, and basically every ancient culture ever. Sure, people take it too far, full-body tattoo so you look like a snake (Why won’t anyone hire me?!), tight lacing until you break a rib with your corset, but there’s always going to be those people. For the most part its just a fun way to cover up all the soft squishy bits. Enjoy it. Me, I wear a lot of stretch pants and t-shirts. I cannot be bothered to deal with skirts. Sweatpants are my friend. I’m wearing them now.

-Ashe, the Asexual Vampire

#fiction #asexual #ace pride #vampire #fashion #victorian #decades #corset #wear a fucking mask people #wear a helmet

[lordofbeingfly-blog]

Crowley x Aziraphale - Soldiers in Petticoats

SFW

Word Count: 1766

Can you tell I just skimmed the last third of Orlando? They’re early Suffragettes hey! Also, direction whom?

           Crowley looked out over the crowd of women before her. Some held signs, others merely folded their arms over their chests. All were surprisingly silent. One woman at the front looked nervous, wielding a sign exclaiming “Workers of the World Unite!” with a button from the Limerick Soviet Party pinned to her blouse. She had reason ample for being nervous in this crowd.

           The group had mainly gathered as a protest and vigil for the women who had died only a week ago in a horrible factory fire in New York. Many worried that the same thing would happen yet again to any of the textile producers in England, so many citing Marx, Dickens, and near history to plead their cases.

           Though Miss Crowley had no need to work in a factory, she had long been a supporter of such endeavors, not just showing up to wait for chaos to ensue. She knew much of the issues resulting in the subjugation of people were the result of absence of divine intervention or reasoning, and would, at times, provide the subtle nudge for humans to be able to stand up for themselves.

           The woman beside her put a hand on her arm, fingers shaking. Crowley looked down at the smaller woman. She also worse black, her simple straw hat strung with a few glass beads that reflected the light off of them.

           “They’ve called the patrol officers on us,” the woman said, her accent a thick Irish lilt.

           Miss Crowley’s sharp eyebrows sunk to meet her glasses. “Of course, they did. Blast.”

           The crowd had grown to the size of nearly three hundred at this point, clogging the London intersection so that traffic could not move properly, and the protesters would all be trapped in one place should the police come at them from several angles.

           The woman put her head down, praying quietly to a God Crowley doubted was listening.

           She patted the woman’s arm. “I have a plan.” She began marching toward a street where a carriage had blocked off the street. She absently rolled up a sleeve, concentrating on how it would be possible to move it without anyone noticing.

           A voice called out from the crowd, “Crowley? Is that you?”

           Crowley turned, not really knowing the voice, but recognizing it intimately.

           A short woman excused herself while pushing between two others, a head of blond hair popping between them, then rounded shoulders, and then the whole lady.

           Crowley looked at the woman over her glasses, the image of a stout man in a top hat throwing a piece of paper into a duck pond immediately coming to mind.

           “Aziraphale??” Crowley grinned. “What the bloody hell are you doing here!?”

           Aziraphale’s eyes looked incredibly tired when she smiled. She lifted a massive stack of propaganda flyers that were clutched to her chest. “Just spreading awareness. Discord. Cady-Standen. You know how it is, dear.”

           “Political leftist is a good look for you, angel.”

           Aziraphale blushed and looked at her boots. Boots that were covered with mud, her hem was also dusty and dirty. In fact, the only part of her that had no dirt or soot was that pristine blue sash she wore to hide she had on only a Reform brassiere rather than a corset. Crowley was impressed.

           “How long have you been awake? And out here?”, Crowley asked, fussing just enough to notice Aziraphale give her a subtle pout.

           “I’m still mad at you, you know,” she said, turning up her nose slightly.

           Crowley turned at the sound of police kazoos and bells being wrung several blocks away, the noise causing a first wave of panic through the crowd.

           “Mad enough you wouldn’t help me get these people out of here?”, Crowley asked, turning back to the carriage, now abandoned by the owners and driver.

           Aziraphale frowned, raising a pale eyebrow. “What do you have in mind?”

           Crowley nodded to the carriage. “We make a barricade once everyone splits and distract the bobbies.”

           “Oh, Crowley that’s not a good idea,” Aziraphale said, worrying at the button on her blouse.

           “Well, tell me a better idea. A single. Better idea,” Crowley huffed, checking the crowd to see everyone was watching the police coming from one direction. Good. They would follow the majority of people right to where they would be barred from following.

           Aziraphale put her flyers on the front of the carriage. “I don’t have a better idea, temptress.”

           Crowley rolled her eyes. “No need to be catty.”

           “I take exception to that statement.”

           “You would. Help me push.” Crowley put her hands against the back of the carriage, and Aziraphale pushed her back against the back. “Now push!”

           The carriage moved quickly with their joined strength; Crowley hoped quick enough for no one to notice.

           Aziraphale stood atop the luggage hold and cupped her hands around her mouth. Her reedy voice rose above the crowd, calling for everyone to run where the carriage had just been. Crowley gave a hand to help her down, keeping a grip on it as the crowd flushed between the two warehouse buildings down the street.

           She looked down at the smaller woman with a small smile. “I’m glad for your help again, angel.”  Aziraphale’s eyebrows drew together a moment as she saw the police coming closer, throwing clubs and fists at the fleeing crowd.

           She frowned and gave a curt nod. “Yes, I’m glad to have you, too, Crowley.” She snapped her fingers and the carriage rolled back into the street, producing a blockade to give the protesters more time.

           “Show time.” Miss Crowley put on a smile, sauntering over the group of police before them. It was only about ten, a handful of others had run down other streets and alleys, but they were nothing compared to the remnants of the crowd that remained to beat them back. She stepped between one patrolman and an older woman that held a parasol between her and the officer. “Now we really don’t need to do this. It is such a waste of your time. How about you just go back to your stations, and we will go on our way? Saavy?”

           “Crowley…” Aziraphale warned in a low voice, ringing her hands and putting herself between the officers and a group of the remaining protesters.

           The officer chuckled, merely lifting his riot club at Crowley.

           Crowley shrugged. “I suppose that would be a no.”

           She lowered her glasses and the officer’s face paled. Her eyes shifted like hellfire and the promise of an eternity therein. The officer made a pitiful squeak before falling to the ground with a thud, completely unconscious.

           “Everyone needs to get out of here,” Aziraphale said to the women around her, handing over the keys to her bookshop. “Take these and meet in the basement. I have cots and medicinal supplies there already. Take anyone hurt or being sought by police. Go!”

           The tallest woman of the group nodded. “Thank you, Miss Fell.”

           Aziraphale came to stand beside Crowley.

           “Just don’t… Don’t seriously injure any of them. It will only hurt their families.” She looked worriedly up at Crowley until she got a solemn nod. She could not tell if Crowley was sincere, but they moved forward, nonetheless.

           Crowley pulled her hat pin out, letting the black number drop to the ground as she swung the pin at the first officer to bare down on her. The piece of metal exploded into bubbles just before making contact with the man’s skin. The man fell to the ground at the mere contact of Crowley’s fist against his chest.

           “I said not to injure them!”, Aziraphale cried, miracling another officer into the fourth floor of a building down the block. She checked over her shoulder to see the street had cleared of everyone but the officers and the two divine beings. Distracted, she tripped on a dropped picket sign, falling hard onto the cobblestones.

           Crowley hurried to her side, pulling her up to her feet. Another dozen police officers were coming their way. “Time to go, angel.”

           “I agree,” Aziraphale said, still breathless. “No wings.”

           Crowley nodded. “No wings.”

           They sprinted down an alleyway the opposite direction of the exceptionally hostile bobbies.

           When they finally thought they had lost the officers, they hid themselves on a fire escape, both out of breath. Crowley sat upon the stairs while Aziraphale laid upon her back, chest heaving as she panted.

           “How many do you think got hurt?”, Crowley asked, looking out at the Thames.

           Aziraphale sat up, folding her hands in her lap before answering. “Not many, I hope.”

           She looked incredibly tired, her blouse torn, hair failing into her face, and she was missing the buttons off of one sleeve. Crowley thought she was incredibly beautiful, looking more alive fleeing from the police than Crowley had seen since they left Eden all those centuries ago.

           “Oh, Crowley, I worry so much for them. I’m meant to protect them from evil, but it seems I only intervene when it’s far too late.” She rubbed her face roughly, brushing strands of hair away from her face. She dearly hated confessing her anxieties, especially to Crowley. She was never meant to be vulnerable around the demon.

           “It does seem like my lot-,” Crowley started, with Aziraphale’s voice raising over her voice.

           “It’s not demons. It’s humans! For so long we’ve just watched, but now they are trying to change things. They want a better world and I’ve done nothing to help with that.” Aziraphale twisted the gold ring on her pinky, the skin around it had begun to turn pink from irritation.

           Crowley put out a hand to stop her. “Hey. Hey now. Just… Just look at me a moment?”

           Aziraphale looked from Crowley’s lean hand to her serpentine eyes.

           “None of this is on you. You understand? You are not the only angel, and you are not the only one that feels like it’s all your fault.” Crowley looked away at that. “Trust me.”

           Aziraphale sighed, fingers linking with Crowley’s.

           “If all this is ineffable, then it may be just as well we act within this world as humans to change the outcome of human-created problems,” Crowley reasoned, her thumb running over the back of Aziraphale’s much smaller hand.

           “Sometimes I think we were created too human for our own good,” Aziraphale murmured, almost to herself.

           Crowley’s heart ached for Aziraphale. “You may be right about that, angel.”

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #what is gender #they're lesbians harold #gal pals #Crowley said fuck cops #fan fiction #queer fiction #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable spouses #ineffable husbands #subpar omens #my writing

[ultrabigbootyjudy]

Pride and Prejudice JJK AU

Pairing - Jeon Jungkook

Genre - Fluff

Word Count - 4.1k

Mistakes - Many :)

CHARACTER LIST (Just incase x)

Elizabeth Bennett - Y/N

Jane Bennett - Park Jimin

Lydia Bennett - Kim Taehyung

Kitty Bennett - Jung Hoseok

Mary Bennett - Kim Namjoon (our lord and saviour)

Mr. Bingley - Min Yoongi

Mr. Darcy - Jeon Jungkook

Miss Bingley - Jennie from Black Pink

Mr Wickham - Kim Seokjin

Charlotte Lucas - Chan from Stray Kids

————

The dusty morning light billowed breezily through the open window, followed closely by the chirping and squawking of bird’s morning songs. The soft movements of songs rivalled that of even Beethoven’s pieces. Though they were truly beautiful to the ear, day after day they signalled the turn and start of a new chapter, I couldn’t help but want to skim over the chapters prior however. Gently rubbing underneath my eyes I squinted into the light. The harsh yellow sun poured onto my face and into my eyes, casting a golden glow onto my skin. A soft chill had crept into the house during our sleep. I sat up in my shared four poster bed, the length of my messy and strewn hair tumbling forwards from its resting place to lay behind my back in long looping cascades.  Softly grazing my hands over my face, I turned to Jimin, my elder brother, sleeping beside me peacefully. A hand laid daintily over his doll like features as he blocked the light seeping ever closer.

Sliding to the edge of the bed I felt the dense and scratchy mattress pull at my night dress, lifting it up to my thighs. Once I stood, I smoothed the silky and crumpled folds down, so it fell at just above my ankles in a soft stirring motion.  The fabric tickled my heels in a pleasant way, the way in which soft fabric ran against skin to create a soothing motion. Like water wrapping around one’s body. Even though it was a pleasant feeling having it at my ankles, I do wish it was longer, not paid for long ago and only slightly fitting. The dress laid out before me flowed in a similar way, just longer.

 My clothes had been routinely laid out every night before I slept, they were where I put them exactly and had been untouched until I pulled them on. First my undergarments, then the slightly constricting cages of my corset followed by the bodice and petticoat. All in a pale creamy colour close to churned butter, the hem of the petticoat however was stained slightly from days spent traipsing around with my brothers. The same stained effect matched with my worn boots and socks which I pulled on as quietly as possible, fighting against the constraint of my corset. Oh, how I loathed the cursed thing.

 Once I had successfully tied my shoes into neat bows, I turned around to gaze upon our small, russet coloured and boxy mirror hanging off of the equally old rusty nail. I can remember clearly the day when my father himself had put it there, but back then it was not rusty, and our family numbers had no swelled so much. Raking through my tangled and frayed hair with my thin, calloused fingers. Then hastily, I proceeded it into a loose hanging braid. An old, ripped and blue ribbon dangling like and afterthought from my hair. Behind me Jimin stirred in a disorientated fashion, rustling around in our pale sheets. Feebily attempting to find a space in the bed void of the glowing sunlight. I turn away from the mirror a smile pressed to my blush colour lips, and silently slid our thin curtains to a close.

 From there I picked up a worn and well-loved book, its once green covered a murky brown hue, the corners of the hard cover peeling and chipped beyond repair. Inside the pages were yellow and thinner than a bee wing, tearing at the slightest touch. This book, I was gentle with it, extremely so. I ran my hand along the spine of it before opening it. Pages falling sidewards, parting the book to where the dusty red ribbon I used as a book mark lay. My index finger ran along the page as I followed the words. They were as light as my feet on the dusty wooden floor as I walked out of my family’s home. Even, with the boards in their current state.

 I was immediately met with the aromatic sent of the morning country side, dewy, glistening grass. Blooming, beautiful bellflowers Jimin had lovingly planted last spring sprung forth from said grass in vibrant bursts of lilac, violet and lace. Contrasting heavily against the uniform shades of the grass near the house. The flowers had grown past the edge of our house and into the thicker grass. Hiding amongst the tufts of eggshell coloured grass which had grown up to my middle thigh. Its coarse and dry touch scraping at my dress as I walked out along it. To me, it was a surprise it was so dry unlike the ground it spewed forth from which squelched and squirmed beneath one’s foot.

 I walked for a short while, down the back of the overgrown muddy road our house and property curved around and back. The walk to the end and back was enough to satisfy my needs, the need to be freshened and ready for the day. On days like this, when the sun bloomed amongst the feathery lace of clouds, I would often walk. Many a time I would find myself in the company of my brothers as we embarked on adventures through the woods not far from here or we’d travel to the town. Taehyung was always in ‘need’ of new ribbons, fancy cravats or an added piece of lace on his clothes, Hoseok followed his every example. The pair of them bled both mine and Jimin’s coffers. Those days, they were my favourite, they were the best, they were everything. My family was everything to me, no matter how bizarre un-reputable they were.

 It seemed most days there was always something strange to talk about, something to plot or something to cry over. Most of the plotting I left to my mother, she always had some idea in her head and did not shy from voicing these opinions. My mother was a very vocal person. I hadn’t even stepped back inside, and I could already hear her shrill of a voice through the green, peeling door left ajar. Smiling to myself I tucked my book under my arm and went to investigate.

 Today she was particularly animated with her speech. Taehyung and Hoseok quite literally squealed whilst listening beside the door as their parents’ conversations drifted forth. Jimin sat on the stairs, his hair combed back neatly in a swath of black tresses. He smiled ever so politely in the inviting way he always did. He wore brown coloured slacks and a loose-fitting white shirt which had gone cream over the years of use. A patch of pink and white lace sewn daintily into the collar to cover a large stain. I remember that day, I was the one to sew it into the fabric lovingly. Sitting beside him, I stretched my legs out. Mud caked onto my shoes and up my socks. “What is it this time brother?”

 “A wealthy man has bought Netherfield,” Jimin smiled excitedly, “Mother said he earned 4,000 pounds a year ($2,607,755 Australian Dollars today x).”

 “What’s the gentleman’s name?”

 “Mr. Bingley!” Hoseok and Tae swooned, fanning their faces with their hands. I smiled softly whilst also rolling my eyes, the action is un-lady like, I am fully aware of that. I do it anyway, it seems the best gesture in the situation anyway. Resting my head on Jimin’s slight shoulders I sigh. Mother’s voice was raised so even from this distance where I sat on the stairs, I could hear her;

 “Mr. Bennet! You must have a word with this Mr. Bingley!”

 Jimin’s shoulders quaked slightly from laughter, his eyes curling into half-moon’s and lips open as the soft sound escaped them. He was truly handsome, in fact all of my brothers were. I was proud to have them as brothers. Even if they were acting in the most bizarre of fashions. Taehyung and Hoseok tripping forwards as father opened the door to his study. They both blushed and looked on with wide unbecoming eyes, wanting to devour any information they could.

 ~

 I sat on my bed the warm ochre evening light drifting through the open window as the sun drifted ever further from us and the snowy orb of the moon drew ever closer. The light cast a beautiful tone upon Jimin and I’s skin. Jimin sat on a plain wooden stool in front of our vanity, his hands in his lap. I stood above him, my hands running through the locks with a fraying brush. Gently I pushed them away from his forehead, pinning small flowers through its lengths. Resting my hand on his shoulder I nodded.  Admiring how the flowers busted through his thick black hair in pale colours, contrasting heavily with their background.

 “Good?” I queried to which Jimin simply nodded and stood. Our places exchanged and his hands running through my already braided hair. I myself had braided it as I had a knack for the task. Jimin opened a small box on our dresser revealing a set of beautiful pearls. He ran his finger along it before fastening them across my hair. Each loop, twirl and twizzle of hair adorned by a perfect pearl. As they were behind my head, I could not see them, I trusted Jimin however, to make them look perfect. Jimin smiled, following my previous actions.

 With a hand on his shoulder he mimicked; “Good?”

 “Excellent,” I smiled, one of my smaller hands resting atop of his still dainty hand. The cuff of Jimin’s shirt resting against my skin, a small copper coloured cufflink cool on my warm skin. He wore matching earrings, a simple copper stud holding onto a blue gem. An equally beautiful necklace hung from his swan like neck. They were family heirlooms, from a past generation, a past life and a past living. With our current living we could barely afford ribbons for our brothers and ourselves. Life wasn’t filled with the pleasantry money brought, that hole was filled with family pride. “What are you going to wear Jimin?” I smiled, swivelling around on the chair.

 Jimin smiled and turned to the chair to reveal the final parts of his ensemble, they were his most expensive items. An old green cravat that was fraying from being worn so often and a smooth, boned corset that synched his already tiny waist. He held them up and cocked his head to the side. I nodded in acceptance at his taste. Jimin had already helped me pick the dress I wore currently so I knew it was to his liking.

 Once we had finished dressing the sun was touching the horizon, laying lazily upon the grassy British fields. It was truly mesmerising. Our ride to the venue was spent with small jokes and happy moments filled with awestriking scenery. Taehyung and Hoseok didn’t stop with their incessant speaking, their chattering filling the silent space between other words. Mrs. Bennet only added more fuel to the already raging fire by adding her own voice.

 I think both our father Jimin and I were glad to be rid of them for a short while once we had entered the ball. It had already started yet no dancing had began. A slow waltz playing mournfully in the background. The tempo slow and reflective, it merged perfect with the ambient chatter. “There are so many people,” I remarked.

 “Mm,” Jimin smiled gazing at the crowd. He stood beside her at just a short bit taller than her. “I think they’re going to start the dancing. I know we’re siblings, but would you dance with me Y/N?”

 “Anything for my eldest and most tolerable sibling,” I smiled offering my hand which he took. Bowing comically, it resulted in my cheeks to swirl with a colour close to Amaranth. I covered my smile with my hand as we took up our places. Jimin stood opposite me in a row of mixed males and females of varying heights and builds. I stood in a similar unisex row, though a lot of my row were made of more timid and shy people. Smiling I curtsied as Jimin bowed to me both of us swooping low in an elegant and formal action. Once we had regained our balance in unison with those around us the dance began.

 Skirts swirled and twirled gracefully, and cravats clouded out in elegance as the dance took up its bounding tempo. Music and clapping filled the room enhanced by the thundering of footsteps. I let out a less than ladylike laugh my head tipping back with strands of hair. The strands fell behind me like my brothers’ ribbons on a windy day. Every step of the dance set a rush of exhilaration forth and a new stretch on my smile. Like all good things though it must come to an end, the music slowed and then all together came to a halt. Jimin and I smiling as we curtsied and bowed.

 I was coming back up from curtsying when a quiet hush filled the room, even the music stopped in an eerie way. Standing up I turned my head, one loose strand of hair trailing against the crook of my neck in a well-groomed curl. My lips parted slightly as I took in the view. The crowd surveyed the newcomers, though by now everyone had seemed to piece them together with the rumours and gossip as I had too in some ways. Mr Yoongi Bingley stood shorter than the other male he was stood beside. A small smile to his face as he stood before everyone, a little overwhelmed by the silence. His black hair neatly trimmed, like the taller more muscular male beside him. He seemed to be unperplexed by the attention, staring out blankly at the crowd. “He’s handsome,” Jimin stood beside me taking my arm. I rested my hand on Jimin’s arm and nodded.

 “Which one?”

 “Mr Bingley of course, though his friend isn’t too bad either,” Jimin laughed softly under his breath. I snorted, my hand covering my mouth as I laughed at Jimin’s remark. I’m sure I received some looks for my most unbecoming mannerisms.

 “Jimin Bennet,” My mother scolded, loudly. Luckily the music had started again. Her high-pitched voice drowned out. “That isn’t just any man, that’s Mr. Jungkook Darcy. He owns half of Derbyshire!”

 “It must be the sad half of Derbyshire,” I remarked. Beside me Chan Lucas laughed softly shaking his head. His black hair being tossed around. His head nodding in agreement at the rich males’ mannerisms.

 “Mr Bennet!” Mother waved, running after her husband. Jimin and I in tow. Her flat feet hitting on the wooden floors loudly and her skirts flying up ever so slightly. She was in a hurry, for what we still didn’t have a clue. Mother was always scheming, sometimes I thought our father was in on it too. “You must introduce the children to Mr Bingley!” She cried to which our fathers only response was to sigh. Beside him Namjoon frowned, not at all interested with the idea, Hoseok and Taehyung squealed.

 Standing between the youngest two I pinched them both; “Behave.” I instructed them. They must have not realised how easily they could get carried away when in each other’s company. Which was most days. In unison they straightened their backs and plastered on a contempt smile. Though Hoseok had difficulty maintaining it. Namjoon was the opposite his face blank and unimpressed. The only reason we had coaxed him out tonight was because of the promise of a piano forte. His fingers itched to play it.

 “Mr Bingley,” Our mother waved at the male which was becoming swarmed by young ladies and men. He smiled at us, his pink lips peeling back slightly to reveal smooth white teeth and pink gum. The gesture itself was adorable.

“Hel-,”

 “I’m Mrs. Bennet,” she smiled. Cutting him off completely as she kept talking. “This is Jimin our eldest.” Jimin blushed slightly dipping into a dainty bow and nodding in Mr. Bingley’s direction. Bingley’s eyes lingering for just a bit too long on the small male. They were around the same height. “Y/N,” Mother said waving her hand absentmindedly to me. I curtsied a pleasant smile on my closed lips. I surveyed Mr Bingley who smiled back at me and then Mr. Darcy who still had a blank expression on his face. “Taehyung and Hoseok,” Taehyung with a surprising amount of dignity bowed. Hoseok squealed, to which I grabbed a portion of skin on his arm and pinched him. When Namjoon was introduce he bowed silently. Beside the two males Jennie Bingley, Mr. Bingley’s sister, stood haughtily staring at each of the girl’s ensembles with an upturned nose and a straight lips expression.

 The next family cut them out even as Mr Bingley watched Jimin leave with the rest of the family. I was the only exception, Chan Lucas pulling me from the fray easily. He wore a white shirt with yellow laced cuffs, olive-green corset and burgundy slacks, a black dress jacket thrown over his shoulders. Wordlessly his fingers enter twined themselves within my own as he dragged me away from the rest of the ball to a table at the farthest edges in dim lighting. I hardly noticed it was there myself.

“Chan,” I smiled greeting him. His eyes crinkling as he smiled. “How are you dearest?” I asked politely.

 “Pleasant,” He yawned and leant forwards on the table. His elbow resting against the cream table cloths. “So, which one of these painted peacocks is Mr. Bingley?”

 “He’s on the right, and the woman is his sister,” I said, cocking my head in their direction. My eyes never once leaving Chan.

 “And the person with the disagreeable expression?”

 “That’s his good friend Mr. Darcy, the poor soul,” I laughed.

 Chan seemed to know the name; “On the contrary dearest Gracie, if he is Mr. Darcy then he owns half of Derbyshire and earns at least ten thousand pounds a year ($2,978,749.70).”

  ~

 I stood beside my brother in a small group consisting of a few familiar faces, Mr Bingley, Mr Darcy and Jennie Bingley. Jimin, ever faithful stood beside me. “How do you like it here Mr Bingley?”

 “Very much,” he smiled. His eyes not wandering far from the blushing Jimin who stood playing with the hem of his collar.

 “I’ve heard that the library in Netherfeild is one of the best in the country,” I smile.

 “Mm, I’m filled with guilt over it,” A blush covered his pale neck as he watched Jimin, “I’m not a good reader you see.”

 Jennie steps forwards as the blush threatens to creep further across Mr Bingley’s skin. She put’s and arm on her brothers. “Mr. Darcy your library at Pemberley is astonishingly filled is it not?”

 “It is the work of generations,” Mr. Darcy says monotonously.

 “You have added so much to it,” Mr Bingley complemented him. Turning his gaze away from Jimin, it seems he hadn’t really stopped looking at my brother. I found it sweet, Jimin had that effect on many men and women alike, my brother was a natural charismatic.

 “I wish I read more, but there is always so much to do,” Smiled Jimin.

 “As do I,” Mr Bingley nodded. Turning back to Jimin, Mr. Bingley held out his hand, his skin pale and smooth. As he dipped low so too did his hair, dipping low on his forehead, hanging at his straight brows. “May I have the honour?” Jimin said not a word, his voice spoke in actions. He placed his smaller hand in Mr. Bingley’s. The older male bringing him to where the dancing began.

 “Do you dance Mr. Darcy?” I queried, watching Mr. Bingley and my brother dance together.

 “Not if I can help it,” Mr. Darcy replied, the conversation no having nowhere left to turn. We were left in hazy silence listening to those around us. Women and men were locked in conversation, exchanging pleasantries with one another. I listened contently to the conversations, until Hoseok and Taehyung wandered past screaming about officers as walked away from Mr. Darcy.

 Taehyung was scheming about how to talk to them, giving Hoseok ‘advice’ to woo them. I shook my head, my index fingers pressed to the side of my nose as I listen to them shrill. “I dear say you have some of the silliest brothers I have met, dearest Gracie,” Chan smiled. He held his arm out for me which I took.

 “Don’t I just?” Chan and I turned away from the rest of the festivities. We stood behind a lavish marble pillar decorated with iron leaves curling around it. The old metal a shade of jade green from age. I was almost tempted to lean against it due to fatigue, the night had only just begun though. Instead I stood beside it fiddling with one of the metal leaves as Chan and I conversed. His voice soft and happy, always glad to see me. We had been friends for what felt like centuries now. In actual fact it had been twenty years, the pair childhood friends.

 Chan stopped talking as he spied Mr. Bingley walking along the outer rim of the crowd. Gently he pushed me aside, the marble pillar obscuring me from vision as we listened into the passing conversation. I couldn’t help but bite my already pink lip.

 “Oh, he is the most beautiful creature I have ever met!” Mr Bingley exclaimed happily. I couldn’t help but feel my heart swell for my brother out of family pride. A large toothy smile brimming forth. “Her sister Elizabeth is very agreeable too,”

 “Perfectly tolerable, but not nearly pretty enough to tempt me.” My smile fell, just like the elated feeling in my stomach did too. Everything dropped, my stomach was at my feet and it felt as if the sides of my lips were at my collars, my eyes trained to Chan’s shoes. I shook my head, the rudeness of that man! How could anyone be so rude? I had never been insulted in such a way before and it angered me greatly, but mostly I was upset.

 “Ignore him, Lizzie, he is such a disagreeable man it would be a misfortune to be liked by him.”

 “I would not dance with him for even half of Derbyshire,”

 “Let alone the miserable side,” Chan quipped in mischievously causing the mood to lift. We stifled our laughter.

 ~

  Later on, I found myself back in the company of the despised Mr. Darcy. His companion Mr. Bingley and my mother. Bingley had just finished dancing with Chan, my friend already finding another partner to dance with. He had no trouble attracting attention with his wit, poise and elegance. I do hope someone would offer for his hand in matrimony, he would make a lovely husband. ‘Twas a shame however, the hole time Bingley danced alongside Chan his eyes were on my brother. He had clearly fallen for Jimin as many men had before. “Your friend is quite amusing Miss Bennet,”

 “Indeed,” I laughed, “I adore him -,”

 “It’s a pity he isn’t more handsome,” Mother added, patting me on the arm.

 “Mama!” I protested. Jimin who had joined us gave a confused look unsure as to why I had cried out.

 “Y/N will never admit he’s plain,” Mother turned to Mr. Bingley; “Of course it’s my Jimin who is considered the beauty of the country,”

 Jimin sighed; “Mama, please,”

 “When she was only fifteen there was a gentleman so much in love with her that I was sure he would make her an offer. However, he did write her some very pretty verses.” Jimin blushed brightly shaking her head out of embarrassment. Though all the Bennet siblings loved their mother dearly they detested her lack of empathy in social situations such as these.

 “And so, their relationship ended. I wonder who first discovered poetry drove love away?” I smiled, trying my best to change the conversation away from the startled Jimin.

 “I thought that poetry was the food of love?” Darcy raised a brow to me.

 “If it’s a strong love it may. It nourishes what is strong already. But if it is only a thin, slight sort of inclination, I'm convinced that one good sonnet will starve it away entirely.” I spoke. Mr Darcy looked towards me, his features changed rather than that of distain, unpatinated and uninterested he seemed, well, interested.

 “What would one recommend then?”

 “Oh, dancing of course,” I smiled, “Even if one’s partner is barely tolerable.”

TO BE CONTINUED 

#bts #bts v #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts rm #bts jungkook #bts jimin #bts suga #bts jin #bts jhope #bts au #pride and prejudice #jungkook x reader #pride and prejudice au