#heritage fanfiction

[gncbutpi]

for bonus points, let me know how it feels to you!

curious, because I've definitely dropped them in bunches as a reader

#the work -> author -> all works -> bookmarks is strong in my fanfic.net heritage #ao3 #ao3 writers #fic writers #fic #fanfiction #archive of our own #writers

[norasghost]

i just discovered that dick grayson being/speaking romani/having the culture be a part of his identity is my new favorite thing to find in fanfics when i least expect it. it just makes me feel so aaaaaaa i love fandom content, keep it going, you guys are the best

#as someone who struggles keeping my own heritage alive #this part of how we write dick grayson as a character #its just yes #specially because of how respectully written it always is #i just love finding this particular detail while reading #also fanfics dedicated entirely to this are just top tier #dick grayson #nightwing #dc #dc comics #dc batman #batman #batfam #romani dick grayson #fanfiction #batman fanfiction #dc fanfiction

[ladamedusoif]

Provenance

A Gentleman Thief x F!Museum Professional Reader Story

Part of the HCU (Heritage Crimes Universe) - click for masterlist

Pairing: The Thief (Casillero del Diablo) x F!Museum Professional Reader

Summary: Two months after their reunion, the museum curator finds herself on an unexpected Parisian adventure. 

Content warnings: Smut; Oral sex (F receiving); unprotected but safe PiV sex; discussion of contraception; alcohol consumption; angst; discussion of illegal acquisition of stolen objects during WW2; (ethical) heritage crimes; theft; sort-of fluff; no physical description of Reader beyond her professional attire, though she has a nickname (chérie).

Rating: E (18+ MDNI)

Word count: ~7,500

A/N: They're back! The Thief is just too charming to resist. A follow-up to My Kiss, Only For You and Reunions.

I am no longer using a taglist: please follow my writing blog @ladameecrit and turn on notifications to keep up to date with my work.

The package is, unmistakably, a book. Wrapped in brown paper, a neatly-typed address label affixed to the front. No return address. 

It’s pretty explicitly addressed to you, though. Right down to the department. You rack your brain, trying to remember whether you’d ordered something and forgotten. Or maybe it’s a gift?

You slip it out of the wrapping carefully. The dust jacket design suggests it’s from the 1950s, 1960s at the latest, but it’s in impeccable condition. 

The Museums of Paris: A Guide

The front cover features a photo of the Louvre, the facades still soot-blackened before their cleaning in the later part of the twentieth century, with beautifully-dressed tourists milling around the old entrance to the museum. 

Before you can leaf through the book, seeking a receipt or gift card or invoice of some kind, your desk phone rings. The museum director. And they want to speak to you: now. 

***

“We’ve had an…unusual request.”

You slip into the old leather chair opposite the director’s desk, covered in papers and catalogues. “An unusual request?”

She takes off her dark-framed glasses and smiles. “One of our major donors. They’re potentially about to buy some important art objects from a private Parisian collector, and we are hoping that - in time - they might donate them to us.”

“Okay…”

“But they don’t feel entirely confident appraising the collection without expert guidance.”

You nod slowly. 

The director looks at you as if she’s waiting for the penny to drop. 

“They want you to go to Paris with them, as an expert consultant. They will pay for all your expenses, travel, per diems - the lot.”

You just about manage to stop your jaw falling open. 

“Um…why me? I’m not one of the senior curators or object specialists, maybe they…”

She holds up a perfectly-manicured hand. “Stop there. The donor has explicitly requested you. They believe you are the best equipped to manage their needs on this job.”

“Uh… okay. So, when do I leave?”

She grins. “Two days’ time. And bring some decent clothes - you know how formal some of the French collectors can be.”

As you return to the office, a sensual memory flashes through your brain. Velvet, the colour of good Burgundy wine. Soft lips, coarse beard. Warm bodies pressed together. The most intense orgasm you’ve had in years, maybe ever.

It couldn’t be, surely. It was almost two months since that night and there’d been no missive, no note, nothing. The director said “them”, didn’t she? Not “he”. 

Besides, she’d said the donor was buying the objects. Not, you chuckle to yourself as you sit at your desk, stealing them. However ethical his motives may be. 

Still. No harm in packing some nice lingerie. Just in case.

***

It is still dark when your phone buzzes to let you know that the car - paid for and sent by the client - is waiting outside, ready to bring you to the airport for your transatlantic flight to Paris. 

You’d expected an Uber, not the gleaming black vehicle pulled up outside your building. Suitcase securely stowed, the driver points out the bottled water and snacks located in the back of the car as he sets off through deserted city streets. 

The surprises keep coming. You are in business class, not coach, for the long flight, resisting the urge to kick your feet and squeal with delight at the unexpected luxury. A smartly-dressed man holds a sign with your name on at Arrivals, and for a moment you wonder if this is the client. He’s another driver, of course - a charming and funny young Frenchman called Youssef, who speaks English with a vague American accent he says he picked up from TV and movies. 

Youssef whisks you into the city, pointing out landmarks along the way. The Eiffel Tower comes into view on the other side of the river as the black car negotiates elegant, narrow streets lined with perfectly-maintained nineteenth-century apartment buildings. 

“Et voilà!” Youssef stops the car and hops out to retrieve your suitcase. You step out, expecting to see the entrance to a hotel - but instead it’s just another residential building, sealed off from the city by two huge, heavy, dark green doors. 

With a bright smile, Youssef taps a little tag off a keypad and one of the doors swings open, revealing a passage leading to a gorgeous courtyard beyond. He refuses your tip - “it’s all good, madame!” - and instead picks up your bag and leads the way, opening another door to reveal the entrance hall proper. The marble floor is polished to perfection; dark red carpet covers the staircase that wraps around the elevator shaft; and there is not a sound to be heard.

”Sixth floor, madame. They’re waiting for you there.” He slides back the door of the elevator, slots your case in beside you, and presses the button. “Have a nice day!”

The elevator is old - possibly pre-World War One, you muse, unable to turn off the specialist’s mind - and slow. As it ascends, you take a moment to gather your thoughts and process this strange little adventure. 

If this was a movie, you’d be walking into a meeting of a criminal gang - or maybe to your death, you suddenly think, panic taking over for a second as the lift comes to a shuddering stop and you step out onto the sixth floor landing.

There is only one apartment entrance up here, as far as you can see. Dark red double doors, perfectly polished brass doorknobs and fittings adorning them, and a tiny doorbell discreetly tucked alongside the doorframe on one side. 

You close your eyes, take a deep breath, and hover your finger over the button. 

The door to the apartment swings open just as your fingertip makes contact with the doorbell, setting off a loud, sonorous bell somewhere within and making you jump.

”Bienvenue, chérie. Come in, won’t you? I do hope I haven’t frightened you.”

***

“You know, if you wanted to ask me out again you could have just called or emailed, like a normal person.”

He hands you a cup of strong black coffee and joins you on the couch in the apartment’s enormous living room. 

“Do you think I’m a normal person?”

You take a sip and chuckle. “You are definitely not a normal person.”

He smiles in satisfaction, eyes taking you in from head to toe as you feel a warmth building deep within.

”It’s very, very good to see you, chérie.” His voice is warm and honeyed, an inviting purr that makes you ache between your legs. 

Today, he is wearing a black cashmere turtleneck with a pair of perfectly-tailored grey dress pants and some heavy, brown-framed glasses. It’s all you can do not to climb on top of him. 

“It’s been almost two months, Thief. Did you forget about me?”

He shakes his head, eyes softening with what you want to believe is genuine regret. “Never. I had to spend some time away, in South America - dealing with the family business, you know - and then I came here, to look at Madame Deseine’s…collection.”

The way he enunciates the final word gives you pause. What was in this “collection”?

“So my invitation here was just an excuse to see me, is that it? Because you weren’t back in the city yet?”

He looks at you in surprise. “Of course not! I mean, I’m very happy to see you again.” A little smile, eyes twinkling. “But no, I need your expertise. And your company is…a nice bonus.”

“My expertise?”

He sits back and crosses his legs, holding your gaze. “You are a specialist in the kinds of decorative arts and objects in Madame Deseine’s collection, I believe. And you are fluent in French. Year abroad in Lyon, correct?”

Your mouth falls open and you quirk your head. “How did… have you been… were you digging for information on me? That’s a violation of trust, and -“

He interrupts your fury with a chuckle. “Chérie, it’s all on your museum staff page profile. Qualifications, time abroad, special areas of expertise.”

You blush, embarrassed, and stare down into the dark swirl of your coffee as an awkward silence takes hold in the apartment’s tasteful interior. 

“I’m sorry, chérie. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. Trust me, you are exactly the right person for the job.” 

He extends a hand towards yours, long fingers gently stroking the back of your hand. When you look up, his dark eyes are warm and genuinely apologetic. 

“I guess I’m not used to being…pursued, like this.”

He arches an eyebrow. “In what sense?”

You smirk and stand up. “In every sense, Thief. Now: are you going to explain this ‘job’ to me or not?”

His gaze - taking you in, a smile on his lips - is enough to set you aflame. 

“I am. But over dinner, I think.”

***

The waiter perfectly pours a little more white wine into each of your glasses before returning the bottle to the stainless steel ice bucket and leaving the two of you to your meals. 

He raises his glass to you, and you return the gesture.

You were not surprised when the car had pulled up outside an elegant, discreet restaurant tucked away in the Seventh Arrondissement. It was exactly his style: subtle, timeless, and exuding quality even before he held the door open and you stepped inside.

“So.” He swallows a bite of his monkfish and takes a sip of wine. “Madame Deseine.”

“Madame Deseine.”

You start to eat your meal as he explains. A genuine and respected art collector, Madame Deseine lived outside Paris in her family’s country estate, surrounded by an exceptional array of mostly nineteenth and early twentieth-century paintings, decorative arts, sculpture and furniture. As she grew older, she had begun to sell some parts of the collection - but remained extremely guarded about its exact contents.

“There are some…questions about the provenance of some of the items in the collection, or at least items we think are in the collection. Mostly late nineteenth-century decorative arts - clocks, vases, that sort of thing - but also some small art nouveau sculptures and figurines.”

You take a sip of your wine and narrow your eyes. “And this is where you come in?”

He nods. 

“You’re planning to steal some of her collection?”

He shakes his head, pauses, then nods before shaking his head again.

“Kind of, not really. Didn’t you hear what I said about provenance?”

“You think she’s not being entirely honest about her methods, about how she came by the collection?” In a world increasingly attuned to the repatriation of looted and stolen objects to their rightful place, you were deeply familiar with the importance of the provenance paper trail. 

He dabs at the corner of his mouth with the linen napkin. “Some of the collection. I believe that some of the collection came into her family as a result of looting and theft, that these items were not restored to their rightful owners, and that she is well aware of this fact.”

“You know that some of the most important art collectors in France before the war were Jewish families, no doubt.” You nod and he continues. “And that many of those families, even if they were in the minority lucky enough to escape the round-ups and the camps, had to leave behind those collections.”

”And when they were gone, the collections were…dispersed.”

He shakes his head. “Not dispersed. Stolen. Some of the surviving members of those families had their possessions located and restored, but not all. And I have been reliably informed that some of those missing items are currently in the hands of Madame Claudine Deseine.”

You swallow a bite of your salmon and size him up. “Aha. And this is why an ethical gentleman thief is required, I suppose?”

He gives you a knowing smile. The way the candlelight catches the coppery flecks in his brown eyes makes your breath catch for an instant. 

“I have been asked by a number of individuals to retrieve the objects stolen from their families over eighty years ago, and which have made their way into Madame Deseine’s collection without regard for their provenance.” He chews thoughtfully on a steamed green bean. 

“So where, exactly, do I come in, Thief?”

”I am going to buy some of the collection. But in order to be sure that the missing objects are in the Deseine chateau and to cross-check the gaps in the provenance records…I need to gain her trust. Or rather - you need to gain her trust.”

You raise your eyebrows and take another sip of wine. You might need something stronger by the end of the night.

”You aren’t seriously asking me to steal art, are you?” you hiss. He shakes his head furiously.

”Absolutely not. But I know Claudine Deseine’s reputation, and I know she won’t just let a potential buyer see the whole of her collection. She will, however, be a little more welcoming to a specialist who has kindly agreed to evaluate the items properly. Oh, and to look through the provenance records, to save us all time.”

”So what, I just turn up with you and hope she lets me into her secret stash of stolen stuff?”

He chuckles at the alliteration. “Not quite. But you may need to butter her up, tell her you’ve heard extraordinary things about the rare items she has, ask if she might let you see these things you’ve only read about in catalogues. And when you’re in, you can use your expertise to confirm that these are the items we are looking for, and then look for any gaps or obvious forgeries in the accompanying paperwork.”

”And how, exactly, do you propose to liberate the items from this chateau?”

He taps his nose. “Chérie, telling you that would make you completely complicit. I will handle it, you will wait in the apartment.”

You purse your lips. “I can’t believe I’m actually agreeing to this.”

He tilts his head to the side. “Deseine has knowingly sat on these things too long - why else would she hide these valuable items from any public descriptions of her collection? The government ignores the claims from the descendants because, for the most part, they live in the US.” He finishes the remaining wine in his glass. “And I, personally, cannot resist a challenge.”

“I have one condition. Apart from not becoming more implicated in this than I already am.”

“Name it.”

”That. That’s my condition. I want your name.”

He chuckles and looks down at his empty dinner plate. “Chérie, I cannot.”

”You’re asking me to help you steal back some very valuable art, and you can’t give me your name?”

”If you know my name you will know too much. And I don’t know why you need to know, anyway.”

You roll your eyes. “I like to know who I’m working with. And, on occasion, who I’m sleeping with, or who’s eating me out on my desk.”

To your satisfaction, he splutters on his sparkling water. 

”I still can’t tell you,” he says, recovering his composure.

”Nothing stopping me guessing, though,” you whisper mischievously. “Let’s see. Giacomo.”

He gives you a withering glance.

”Not that, then…Pietro.”

An eye-roll. 

“Dave.”

”Do I look like a ‘Dave’ to you?”

You giggle as the waiter takes away your empty plates. “No, that’s true. Pierre?”

He groans and shakes his head, but his smile is unmistakable. “Don’t make me regret this, chérie.”

***

Back in the apartment, he rummages in a sideboard filled with bottles of various liqueurs and spirits, before producing a bottle of Courvoisier and two cognac glasses.

“A little digestif, if you’d like?” 

You accept your glass gratefully and inhale the complex, fruity aroma of the alcohol, swirling it gently before taking a sip. Its warmth radiates through your body and you close your eyes and savour the sensation, tucking your feet under you as you cosy up on the couch.

“Tell me about the apartment.”

He smiles, looking around the spacious living room, its nineteenth century interior fixtures somehow matching perfectly with the array of impeccably-chosen twentieth-century furniture. 

“My great-great-grandfather bought it, not long after this building was constructed - late nineteenth century, I think. The family business frequently brought him to Paris, and he needed a base.”

“And the family business is…?”

He huffs a laugh. “You are persistent, chérie. Wine. The family business was - is - wine.” 

You raise your eyebrows and nod as if extremely impressed, and he chuckles, revealing the laughter lines around his eyes that lend his handsome face such character. 

“Well, I can’t pretend to be an expert - what do they call it? An…oenophile, is that it? - so I’m not going to ask for any more details, fear not. My wine knowledge extends no further than ‘that’s quite nice, isn’t it.’”

He feigns horror, recoiling back into the cushions of the sofa. “Chérie, I am going to have to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

You giggle and take another sip of the cognac. “I’m willing to learn, though.”

“That so? Well, I can be your guide, if you’d like.” He finishes his cognac and licks his lips as he looks at you. 

“I…I would like.”

He smiles, takes your glass, and stands up. You follow his lead, wandering behind him into the kitchen where he deposits the empty glasses on a pristine countertop. Every fibre of your being wants to reach for him, to pull him to you, to have him there and then.

“Chérie, I…didn’t want to presume anything.” He swallows hard and turns to face you, eyes a little wary. “About, uh, sleeping arrangements. Hence the guest bedroom.”

You had changed there earlier - a bright, pretty bedroom at one end of the corridor running along the apartment, complete with its own small en suite bathroom. 

“Oh. Of course.” You flush. “A busy day tomorrow.”

His hand finds yours, long fingers caressing yours before he brings it to his lips for a soft, sustained kiss that does nothing to quench the flames of your desire.

“Indeed. That said, if you want company…”

You see the spark in his eyes: teasing, playful, almost daring you to act first. Instead, you meet his gaze with an enigmatic smile.

He pulls away slightly and arches an eyebrow. “If you want company, I am just down the hall. Bonne nuit, chérie.”

***

In the quiet of the guest room you slip out of your clothes and into a wine-coloured silk robe you’d found hanging on the back of the door, freshly pressed. You retrieve your washbag and toiletries and set about your nightly routine. 

You hoped it would be a distraction from the ache between your legs, from the memory of his hand on yours, from the way he looked at you, from his offer of company. From the wet patch you’d noticed on your panties as you undressed. 

“Fuck.”

You close your eyes and lean on the sink for a moment as you take a deep breath before reaching for your moisturiser.

***

He’s sitting on his bed, stripped to his boxers and clad in his own, navy blue silk robe. It hangs open around his body, the colour a perfect complement for his golden skin. 

A knock. He lifts his head from his papers.

“Come in, chérie.”

She peeks playfully around the door. “I was wondering if that offer was still valid. I think I do want some…company.”

“It’s still valid.” He tidies away the paperwork and pats the space beside him on the large bed. “What kind of company did you have in mind?”

She crosses the room, hands reaching for the sash of her guest robe. It falls open as she reaches the bed, revealing the lacy bra and matching French knickers underneath. He inhales sharply, cock twitching at the sight. 

“Up to you. This is your turf, after all.” 

“Ah, but you’re the guest, chérie. Your preference is what counts.”

She shucks off the robe and climbs onto the bed, swiftly straddling him. With a slow roll of her hips, she drags her pussy over his hardening cock, the outline visible under his dark boxers.

“This is my preference. Does it work for you, too, Thief?”

He answers with a hungry kiss as he pulls her tight to him.

***

He tastes of mint and cinnamon and the faintest trace of Courvoisier. You had missed his mouth.

His fingers unhook the clasps of your bra and he tugs it off you, discarding it to a corner of the room. He breaks the kiss, lips pink and wet, and turns his attention to your tits: cupping them, fondling them, squeezing them with his broad hands before he starts to suck on each nipple in turn.

You toss back your head and bite your lip, stifling a loud moan. He releases your breast with a pop of his mouth.

“This apartment is the entire top floor, chérie. You can be as loud as you wish.”

Two fingers tug aside the crotch of your panties and find the warm wetness that’s been building between your legs all day. He looks up at you and grins. 

“On your back, amor.”

French knickers off, he gently pushes your thighs back before resting your legs over his shoulders. He buries his face against your pussy with a delighted groan, the delicious timbre of his voice rumbling against your core. 

He licks a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, a hand pressing against your belly as your hips instinctively buck upwards with pleasure and need. His tongue swirls lasciviously across your folds, lapping up the wetness, before he begins to suck on your clit. Slow at first, a gorgeous torment; then faster, more insistent, the tip of his tongue flicking over and back over the swollen nub rhythmically in time with your needy moans and whimpers. 

He keeps it up as he slips first one, then two fingers inside you and hooks them just so, chuckling when you cry out.

“Fuck…I’m close, I -“

You let go. You come hard against his face, ecstasy coursing through your body as he keeps on fucking you through it with his fingers, gently pulling out when he senses your overstimulation. 

He moves up and lies beside you, face to face. 

“You enjoyed that.”

You try to slow your breathing. “You think?”

He chuckles, tracing the curve of your hip with his hand. “I enjoyed it, too.”

“And no jewel theft involved this time. So far, anyway.”

He closes his eyes and smiles, humming contentedly as he reaches for your breast, idly rubbing your nipple with his thumb. 

You study his features for a moment, noting the handful of freckles on his face, the way his dark lashes look against his cheeks, the gloss of your own slick shimmering across his pink lips, his chin, his moustache. 

This time, when your tongue swipes against his mouth, he tastes of you. 

You gather some of your own wetness on your fingers by way of lubrication, before tugging down his boxers and taking his cock in your hand. He closes his eyes as you stroke him slowly, steadily, feeling him growing harder under your careful touch.

With your free hand you caress the side of his face, thumb rubbing gently against the grey patches in his beard. 

“I want you, Thief.” 

He opens his eyes and smiles before gently moving your hand away from his cock. He shucks off his robe and shifts into position above you, arms caging your body on either side. 

“You know, I’m on birth control,” you whisper, looking up at him through your lashes. “And you were the last person I was with, and before that…well, it had been a while.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Same. Well, not the birth control, evidently…but the rest. No one but you, not for some time. So…?”

You trail your fingers over his chest, dappled here and there with freckles, and he leans down to kiss you. Different, this time - softer, less desperate, more…tender.

“So you can have me bare, if you want.” 

“Oh fuck, chérie. Yes. Please.” He gestures with his head. “Turn, get on all fours.”

You do as you are told, teasingly wiggling your ass at him once you’re in position. He gives it a light slap and you squeal approvingly until the feeling of his cock opening you up makes you catch your breath.

He sinks slowly inside you, pausing when he’s fully sheathed in your warm pussy. You can hear his breathing becoming a little ragged, hitching as he adjusts to the feeling.

”Feel good, Thief?”

”Incredible, amor. You?” 

“Fucking amazing.”

He takes you slowly at first, a long drag out, a quicker thrust back inside, and builds up a rhythm quickly. The angle is nothing short of perfect and you bury your face against the covers, whining with pleasure. He reaches down and grabs one of your breasts, fingers pressing into the flesh as he fucks you harder and faster. 

“Such a beautiful body, amor. So soft and warm and fuck, such a tight little pussy for me. You feel so perfect on my cock.”

He’s hitting you just right now, another orgasm building rapidly until you come for the second time, muffling your cries in the blankets. You turn to look at him: broad body glistening with perspiration, errant curls falling over his forehead and darkened with sweat, that gorgeous head thrown back as he gets closer and closer.

”Come on, Thief.” You purr your encouragement, never taking your eyes off him. “Come on. Come. Fill me up.”

He comes hard, with a loud cry, hands gently caressing your hips as he finishes deep inside you. 

”I think you missed me.”��

He flops back on the bed and turns to face you as you nestle against him. A mischievous grin plays around his lips. “What on earth makes you say that, chérie?”

You kiss his forehead, tasting the salty sweetness of his damp skin. “Just a hunch. By the way, I have an even better reason why I need to know your name.”

He groans and rolls his eyes affectionately. “Well?”

”Well…if I knew your name, I could scream it out loud the next time you make me come like that.”

His eyes widen and he grins. “You could, I suppose.”

”So? What’s your name…Pablo.”

He fixes you with a teasing glare. “Not Pablo.”

”James. Jimmy. Jimbob?”

He can’t help but burst out laughing this time. “Fine. Fine. Let’s make a deal. If we succeed with Madame Deseine, I’ll give you a name.”

”A name?” The distinction is striking.

”A name. It may or may not be my name. But it will be a name. Deal?”

“Deal.”

***

The morning mist hangs low over the French countryside as you drive through the enormous gateway that divides the Deseine estate from the rest of the world, and follow the long drive up to the chateau proper.

You had expected that Youssef would be on driving duty. But it was your gentleman thief at the wheel of the understated hire car, confidently navigating the autoroutes and trunk roads that led to your destination. For a moment you imagine a parallel universe where you are just a normal couple on a normal holiday, not a nameless thief and a museum curator plotting to relieve a woman of her family’s ill-gotten gains.

He had slept well, it seemed. You? Not so much. In the wee small hours of the morning, you lay awake, listening to his steady breaths and ruminating over what, exactly, you were doing here - and why.

He isn’t your partner. Not your boyfriend. Hell, you don’t know if you could call this “dating”. You don’t even know who he is. He stole from your employer because you let your pussy override your brain. He brought you to Paris to aid and abet in another theft. And, instead of turning on your heel and trying to protect your professional reputation, you’d not only agreed to his scheme - you’d fucked him. Again. 

You’d tossed and turned on the pillows as you tried to quiet your mind enough for sleep. Was this really just about sex? Or was something else pulling you into each other’s orbits?

The Deseine chateau emerges at the end of the driveway. It appears at first glance to date from the eighteenth century, with some later additions and extensions. He pulls up near the main door and hops out of the car, quickly bounding over to the passenger side so he can hold the door for you. 

“What a gentleman,” you whisper, straightening the smart blazer and palazzo pants you’d worn for the occasion. 

“At your service,” he replies with a subtle wink. “Just as I was when you needed…company. How are you feeling this morning, by the way? Satisfied, I hope.”

Before you can answer, the enormous main doors of the chateau swing open and a petite woman with snow-white hair emerges, clad in a vintage bouclé Chanel skirt and matching jacket. He moves swiftly up the steps to shake her hand, speaking too quietly for you to pick up on whatever name he’s using today.

“And this is my expert, my advisor, my guiding light!” He gestures towards you, motioning for you to join them. You introduce yourself with a bright smile, trying to read the older woman’s expression, to get a sense of how you might gain her trust.

“It is an honour to be here, Madame. I’m so excited to see the collection.”

Claudine Deseine casts an appraising glance over you from head to toe. Seemingly satisfied, she extends her hand in greeting and addresses you in clipped, precise English. 

“It is very special, I think you’ll agree. Now, do come in - I’ll have my housekeeper Maryam bring us some coffee, and then we can take a look at the objects we’ve discussed.”

***

He is gentlemanly charm personified, you think, watching him follow Madame Deseine around the house. He flirts just enough to have the older woman like putty in his hands, listens attentively, laughs at her jokes, and looks at her with a familiar twinkle in his eyes. 

The recognition gives you pause, but you push it to the back of your mind. You have a plan to stick to today.

She leads the two of you into a bright room at the back of the chateau, overlooking a gorgeous French-style formal garden. “Well, here they are.” She gestures towards a large oak table in the middle of the room, where a variety of figurines and decorative objects are set out. You’d known what to expect: mostly art nouveau, dating from decades either side of 1900; some bronze figures; some beautifully-decorated ceramics, glazes still bright and vibrant; and what you immediately recognise as a small, early Lalique crystal vase.

He claps his hands together in what looks like genuine delight, eyes widening as he moves closer to the table. “May I?”

Madame Deseine beams and nods. He carefully picks up one of the vases, inspecting the swirling, sinuous curves of its painted decoration before checking the makers’ marks on the bottom of the piece. 

“Extraordinary,” he says in a rapt whisper.

“Madame?” She turns to face you. “Would it be possible for me to see the paperwork while he - while my client is inspecting the objects? It would save your valuable time, and you’ve already been so kind to accommodate us.”

She beams. “Of course. Follow me, won’t you?” She opens another door leading off the room and pauses for a moment. 

“I’ll be back tout de suite, monsieur,” she purrs at him as he peers at a bronze figurine. “Please, make yourself at home.”

“You really are most kind, Madame.” He winks, and the esteemed Claudine Deseine titters like a schoolgirl.

***

She flicks a switch and illuminates a large, windowless room located at the rear of the house, in what you suspect might be the former servants’ quarters. “Et voilà. The archive.”

The walls are lined with shelving, filled with hundreds of archive boxes and files. You begin to scan the shelves, trying to work out a pattern in the filing system. 

“They are labelled according to date of acquisition,” she explains. “Achats, purchases, by year.”

You look at her with an expression that you hope conveys innocent confusion. “Gosh, it’s all such a lot. Could you give me dates for the items being sold? Ballpark, if necessary - I just know he’s a stickler for the paperwork but he’s impatient and he won’t take kindly to me taking a long time in here…”

She smiles and nods sympathetically, and for a moment you feel incredibly guilty. “Ah. Men. I understand, my dear.” She pulls out an unmarked, unlabelled box file from the top shelf and retrieves a spiral-bound book.

“This is strictly entre-nous, my dear. My personal catalogue. Everything by date. Let this be your guide. And now, I must return to monsieur.” She looks at you conspiratorially. “If he becomes - how do they say it, antsy? - then he can simply take a walk in my beautiful gardens, hmmm?”

***

He strolls past the elegantly-trimmed box hedges as he makes his way to the elaborate water feature at the centre of the gardens. He couldn’t quite believe how well it had all worked out, so far - your complaint about his impatience had, as planned, won you her sympathy and with it an order from the lady of the house to go and see the gardens while you worked through the papers. 

If necessary, he’d have feigned illness, claimed he needed some air. But it’s always better when they play right into your hands, with something they believe is their idea. 

The gardens are perfectly positioned to give him a view of the back of the house: the doors leading to a terrace, the smaller windows and discreet servants’ entrance. His dark eyes survey the building closely, making a mental map he’ll refer to when he finalises the plan. He has his suspicions, but he needs you to confirm exactly where the collections are hidden. For now, he just hopes you can unlock the final part of the puzzle. 

***

A knock on the door announces the return of Claudine Deseine. 

“Well, have you found what you needed? I do hope the catalogue was useful.”

Little do you know, Madame. 

You replace the lid on a box of papers and nod at a stack of receipts and records of authenticity relevant to the items he was perusing for purchase. 

“Very useful, thank you, Madame.” 

You swallow hard and slow your breathing as you follow her out of the room. 

“Madame, may I - may I make a somewhat bold request?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You may. What is it?”

“I couldn’t help but notice the entries for some of Lalique’s cire perdue work when I was looking at the catalogue. Pieces so rare that we only know they exist because of René Lalique’s own records…”

“Yes. And?” 

“My masters dissertation was on Lalique, Madame. Is there…would you…could I…?”

She stares at you before her features soften into a smile. 

“You want to see them, don’t you?”

***

“Well?”

He waited until you were out of the estate before asking the question, not seeming to notice how quiet you’d been since getting back in the car.

“They’re there. The three Lalique pieces, that rare Sevres vase. She was only too happy to show me.”

“Did you check the makers’ marks?”

You nod, gazing out of the window. “I did. They’re the right pieces. Those Laliques are one of a kind. In different circumstances, it would have been a joy to see them.”

“And the papers?”

He takes the turn to merge onto the autoroute back to Paris, and you wish the nagging doubts about this whole sorry enterprise - about him - would dissipate.

“The private catalogue clearly states when they were acquired, but with no corresponding archival code numbers. I checked the boxes for those years carefully, just to be sure…but there’s no paper trail. Just a note in each catalogue entry recording the dealer they came from - all from the same man.”

He nods, satisfied. “And the room itself? What’s access like?”

“I sent you some photos earlier.” While Madame Deseine had been taking the priceless objects out of their storage boxes, you had snapped some surreptitious pictures. “Access may not be straightforward, though, given the absence of a window.”

He chuckles. “Leave that to me.”

“Won’t she know that you’ve taken the pieces, by the way?”

“F is for Fake, chérie. Nothing some good forgeries cannot fix.”

***

You spend the rest of the journey in silence, while he rambles about various subjects: French motorways, private chateaux, Lalique’s cire perdue process, in which a vase is formed within a one-off wax mould that was discarded afterwards, rendering the pieces unique - and extremely valuable.

“The descendants of the original owners still have, in some cases, the provenance records for these items,” he explains as he parks the car and taps the sensor to open the door into the building. “And now, soon, they’ll have their rightful inheritance.”

You don’t know whether to snap at him or burst into tears.

He takes your coat and saunters into the apartment’s small kitchen, still talking to you as he audibly potters around, opening cupboards and taking out dishes and glassware. You are not really listening, still caught up in your own thoughts. Why the fuck were you here? Were you really willing to risk your entire reputation for a crush and some sex? You’d been lucky to escape any questioning or punishment after the theft of the ruby, after all. 

And what if, as you wondered in the chateau when he was so flirtatious and charming with Madame Deseine, he was just using you? Your knowledge and your veneer of professional respectability helped him steal. Your desire and your body got him off. Win-win for him, but a potentially devastating loss for you.

“Chérie? Didn’t you hear me?”

He’s standing at the narrow door into the kitchen that adjoins the living room, sweater sleeves rolled up.

“Oh. Oh, sorry. I was miles away. What is it?”

“I asked the housekeeper to leave a light dinner for us, as it’s been a long day. It’s nothing fancy - some salads, crudités, cold cuts and cheeses - but I do have a very nice Sancerre chilled in the fridge…”

You force a smile. “That does sound good. I’ll set the table, if you show me where everything is.”

He cheerily opens the various cartons and tubs of food as you ferry the tableware into the open-plan dining area. Behind his usual charming patter, though, is a man increasingly worried about how quiet you’ve been since you left Madame Deseine and her collections earlier that day.

***

“You know you can talk to me, chérie. What’s on your mind?”

Of course he’s noticed. Why wouldn’t he? His perceptiveness is what makes him such an artful, successful thief.

You drain your glass of Sancerre and look him square in the eye.

“Am I really so different to Claudine Deseine?”

He looks confused.

“Excuse me?”

“Am I really so different to Claudine Deseine? In your eyes, I mean. Are you using me, like you’re using her?”

“I’m not using Madame Deseine. I’m buying some of her collection so I can liberate the really valuable pieces and get them back where they belong. That’s stealing, not using.”

You exhale, long and slow. “I saw you today. Handling her just like you do me. The charm offensive, the twinkling eyes, the flirting. She, at least, hasn’t slept with you - though I wouldn’t put it past you to try if you thought it would have helped.”

The words leave your lips, and you instantly regret it. So much for rational calm. Now you just sound like a jealous lover.

He looks at you, jaw ticking, and a blend of fury and hurt burning in his dark eyes. 

“That’s rather unfair, don’t you think?”

Silence.

“I had to win her over. Just like you did. Or did you forget your part in this?”

“Why am I here, Thief? What do you want from me? There must be hundreds of other experts out there you could have enlisted to help you gain access to the collection, theft or no theft. And if it’s just about sex, well - I suspect there’s no shortage of people who’d be very glad to fuck you. So why me? Or do you just want to ruin me, finish what you started when you tricked and took advantage of me?”

His voice is low and carefully controlled. “You know that’s not what this is, chérie. You know that.”

You push away from the table and stand to face him, flinging down your linen napkin. “So what, then, is it?”

He stares at you and his expression shifts, from glowering to openness. Mouth slightly ajar, he seems to be struggling to find the words.

He can’t even bring himself to say it. Coward.

“I see. Good night, Thief.”

***

Your return flight is booked for the day after tomorrow, and there’s no way you could afford a last-minute ticket for an earlier departure. As you complete your nighttime routine and slip into the guest bed, you resolve to make the most of an unexpected solo day in Paris, looking up current exhibitions and shows at the city’s various museums and galleries. 

You take a herbal sleeping tablet, just in case, and turn off the light.

When you wake in the morning, you find that your pillow is damp from the tears you wept in the night.

His bedroom door is still firmly closed as you pad down the hallway and to the main door. Exploiting you or not, he’d made it clear that he didn’t need you for today, the final stage in his plan. There’s a spare keyfob in the drawer of the small hall console table. You slip it in your bag and head out of the apartment and into the city.

***

Museums afford a kind of sanctuary: a quiet space for meditation, reflection, imagination, escape. On a day like today, they enclose you in a safe, comforting cocoon of art and beauty, helping to shield you from the world outside - and from the raging storm of your own thoughts and worries.

You flash your work ID at the entrance to the Petit Palais and are waved through, past the lines of tourists, by virtue of the international reciprocal entry schemes for museum staff. The current temporary show, on Paris in the first decades of the twentieth century, is just what you need by way of distraction, and you lose yourself in artwork after artwork, in no hurry to return to the apartment. 

At the museum’s garden café, you take your time over coffee and cake, occasionally joined by a tiny songbird who seems hell-bent on helping himself to your snack. His daring raids on your slice of carrot cake help to stop your mind from wandering back to the apartment, to him, and to his journey back to the chateau.

***

He’s gone when you get back. Just an envelope on the counter, addressed to you. Normal service, you think, resumed at last.

Chérie,

As planned, I’ve returned to the Deseine estate to finish what we started. I intend to return later tonight, or in the early hours, but promise me that if I do not return, you will take the flight tomorrow evening. 

You must not look for me. Promise me that.

I hope that I might see you before you leave, one way or the other. 

Know that I care for you, chérie. 

Midnight comes and goes with no sight or sound of him.

One. Two. Three. Nothing.

You close your eyes and force yourself to sleep.

***

He whispers to you in your dreams, over and over. He calls out to you. 

“Chérie?”

You open your eyes. In the half-light, you see him. Hair mussed, eyes wide, face streaked with dirt, stripped to the waist. 

He feels real to the touch: warm, solid, the softness of his middle, the strength of his arms and shoulders. His beard bristles so realistically under your lips that you could almost believe he was there.

“Chérie, I’m here. I’m back. I’m with you.”

Instinctively, you wrap your arms around him and pull him to you, wordlessly peppering his face with kisses before he wriggles down and nestles his head against your chest, holding you tight to him.

He seems unsettled, distressed, even. Perhaps it had been a narrow escape. Perhaps something had gone wrong. 

No matter. You envelop him with warmth and protection. The way he clings to you, needs you, starts to provide an answer to your questions about the nature of his feelings.

You kiss the top of his head and stroke the scruff on the side of his jaw. He pulls away for a moment to look up at you, all softness and awe and warmth. He motions as if to say something, then stops, pensive, and reaches up to kiss your mouth.

“My name is Alejandro.”

Find out more about the Lalique cire perdue technique here!

If you'd like to read more about the great Jewish art collecting families of pre-war France, I strongly recommend James McAuley's The House of Fragile Things and Edmund de Waal's Letters to Camondo.

#the thief x f!reader #the thief fanfiction #the thief smut #the thief casillero del diablo #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal #gentleman thief #the heritage crimes universe

[dandelion-blues]

Ninjago One-shot

An Adult? (not really)

Now also on Ao3

Lloyd Garmadon didn’t notice at first that he wasn’t really aging. He didn’t really think much about it at first. After all, he was already so much older when the Tomorrow's Tea aged him up. Except his voice hardly even deepened. Then, 8 years later, when Lloyd was chronologically 16 but supposed to be in his twenties physically, his voice finally deepened, as evident by the ninja’s teasing.

Zane predicted that perhaps Tomorrow's tea worked differently on him and that perhaps Lloyd’s age was now aligned. After all, Zane is a nindroid and isn’t supposed to age like humans, and yet he did.

Except Lloyd discovered that he wasn’t even fully human. He was a part oni-dragon hybrid. It’s fine. Everything is fine. Lloyd had bigger things to deal with than his weird aging. After all, he had a father villain to defeat.

5 more years passed. The Overlord, or should Lloyd say the Crystal King, is finally defeated. Garmadon isn’t quite as evil anymore and is actually staying around. 

And now that they believe the Overlord is finally never returning, all the venom from the Great Devour that the Overlord orchestrated for Garmadon to have just left his system. 

Now Garmadon is just an oni-brand of evil and has purple eyes. They remind Lloyd a lot of the human version of his father, his dad, but apparently that was a lie too because it’s just shapeshifting since the oni-version is his dad’s natural form. But everything is fine. He got his dad back. Really, he’s just a little rough around the edges, and his memories still aren’t fully back, but it’s a process. Everything is fine.

Anyways. What else? Oh, and all the Ninjas are alive and together.

It’s been a long journey. Cole just had his 30th birthday, and after all the pestering from his fans about dating, he decided to get married to a triple-layer chocolate cake so they would finally back off. Because. He’s. Not. Interested. Honestly, Lloyd can relate. He thought he liked Brad, and then Harumi and Akita when he was younger, but it was actually just wanting to be friends with them (though Harumi long since lost her chance even if she joined their side in the end), and it’s really making him uncomfortable with how many people are asking about his dating life.

Moving on…

Zane and Pixal are running a school open to all types of people and beings to learn about all manner of things.

Kai and Skylar finally got engaged! Lloyd teased his big brother endlessly for that. It took them long enough!

Nya and Jay got married and are happily exploring ninjago for their honeymoon!

Of course all the ninja stay in touch and make sure to meet up at the monastery at least monthly if not more in case another realm ending disaster pops up, but everyone is enjoying the peace while it lasts, but still staying in shape and being vigilant. Not wanting to be caught off guard again.

And well, Lloyd’s the same staying at the monastery for now and trying to avoid the limelight and all his crazy fans. Lloyd’s also trying really hard to reconnect with Garmadon, but part of himself still flinches whenever he gets too close. Remembering cold red eyes, saying he has no son, and slamming him into a wall. His body breaking and blood pooling around him. And everything is cold and dark. And Lloyd feels so alone and scared. He was dying.

Uncle Wu is also staying with Lloyd and Garmadon and really trying to be a good brother, but centuries, if not millennia, of strained relations, and polar personalities and ideals, make it hard for them to bond over, well, anything. 

Though they did finally make a breakthrough recently. Lloyd just wishes he wasn’t at the center of it.

Flashback:

“Son,” Garmadon's deep gravelly voice says behind Lloyd, and Lloyd jumps; swearing, he almost hits his head on the ceiling by how far he jumped.

“Where is your mother?” Garmadon’s purple eyes have an unknown glint in them. The oni looks at Lloyd like his dad used to look at him when starting a serious conversation, and Lloyd swallows.

“Why do you want to know?” Lloyd says, his voice definitely not cracking. It’s been years. Why is his voice still cracking?!

“Well, I wanted her to sign these divorce papers so I could happily pursue a relationship with Vinny.” Garmadon says and pulls out divorce papers like it’s just a random Tuesday.

“What?!” Lloyd shrieks. And he expects Garmadon to say he’s joking. Divorce?! And who’s Vinny?!

Instead, Garmadon says in a worried tone, his voice sounding so close to the dad that Lloyd misses, “Now son. I’m sure it’s not easy to accept that your parents are getting divorced, especially since you are so young, but your mother and I are mature adults and need to get this done, so we can move on in our lives.”

Lloyd sputters, “I’m in my twenties! I’m not a kid.” It’s been 13 years since Lloyd’s been magically aged up to around 14. And even then, he was 8 before he magically aged up, so he would be in his twenties either way! Sure, he has an extreme baby face, but he is an adult! Even if he doesn't feel like it. And why does Garmadon suddenly care now? He can't try and parent him years too late and expect everything will be fine!

Thus, Lloyd yells at Garmadon before he can answer “Also, I have no idea where Misako is, and honestly I don’t give a damn! I hardly even know her! She left me when I was a baby! And she only came back into my life when I had to fight the Overlord for the first time. Then she just disappeared for years on end till she suddenly pops up with some cryptic message for a day and leaves again! So honestly good on you for getting a divorce! But don’t pretend that I care!” And Lloyd stomps out and slams the door to his room and screams into his pillow.

Eventually, Lloyd fell asleep, but it wasn’t long before a knock interrupted his rest, and he had to face reality again.

“What?” Lloyd answers, his voice muffled by his pillow.

“Lloyd,” Uncle Wu says softly, “Can Garmadon and I come in?”

‘Ugh, please no,’ Lloyd wants to say more than anything, but he relents, and sits up in his bed and tries to comb through his messy blond hair. 

Lloyd finally sighs, “Come in.”

Uncle Wu and Garmadon enter Lloyds room, and they stand opposite him. Lloyd looks at them and waits for them to start speaking, but they just glance worriedly at Lloyd.

Lloyd rolls his eyes, “What do you guys want to talk about?”

Garmadon clears his throat, “Well after you… talked about Misako,” he says her name with venom, and Lloyd has to hide his flinch. Somehow, though, Garmadon seems to notice and breathes in deeply before continuing, “I went to talk to my brother, and neither of us knew about what you told me earlier. We just want to know where exactly you were raised and who raised you since Misako didn’t.”

Lloyd scowls, “Stop talking to me like I’m a child. I’m already in my twenties. I’m an adult for crying out loud! Also, why do you two suddenly care so much? It’s not like it’s hindering my ability to be the green ninja.” 

Garmadon raises an eyebrow in disbelief and looks at his brother in worry.

“Lloyd,” Uncle Wu reaches over to Lloyd, but Lloyd pulls away, and Wu's golden eyes look so sad, “You are still a child, and you will be one for quite some time. And we care about you more than just being the green ninja. You are family, and we are worried about you.”

Lloyd shakes his head in disbelief. Just because Wu’s like a thousand years old doesn't mean that Lloyd deserves to be treated as a kid just because he’s so much younger.

“Besides you haven’t even lost your baby fangs or even molted your first dragon skin. You're still just a pup,” Garmadon gruffly replies.

“Hatchling.” Uncle Wu corrects.

Garmadon's purple eyes narrow at his brother, “Pup.”

Wu’s golden eyes narrow back, “Hatchling.”

“Pup.”

“Hatching.”

“Pup!”

“Hatching!”

“PUP!”

“HATCHLING!”

“ENOUGH!” Lloyd shouts over the two brothers, and they shut up in shock. “Is this seriously about my oni-dragon heritage?! What does that even matter? I’m still half human and obviously take more after my human half, and therefore, I age like a human. SO. I. AM. NOT. A. CHILD!”

“Oh son,” Garmadon’s voice breaks, and it truly sounds exactly like his dad’s, and it’s like the last piece finally clicks in Garmadon’s mind to fully remember. “I am so sorry I haven’t been able to teach you about your heritage and that I missed that your mother wasn’t in the picture since I was hardly there. I’ve truly failed you son.”

Garmadon goes closer to Lloyd and goes to embrace him in a hug, and Lloyd lets him, too shocked because Garmadon’s apologizing?! Is his dad finally back? Does he remember everything?

And then Garmadon’s sitting next to Lloyd on his bed and hugging him for dear life, and he starts sobbing, “I’m so so sorry, my son. I’ve hurt you, and I don’t know how I can ever make up for that.”

And Lloyd's shock fades away, and he embraces his dad back just as fiercely, “Dad. I-I’ve m-missed y-you. I’d t-thought you’d n-never truly be b-back!” And he sobs into his dad’s chest. Except Lloyd doesn’t just sob, but whines. Though Lloyd hardly notices as he's too busy focusing on the overwhelming emotions he’s feeling right now.

Garmadon, though, notices and instantly tightens his embrace on his son, and deep purrs start emitting from him to help his pup calm down. He puts his son’s head in the crook of his neck, and Garmadon instinctually broadens his shoulders as if to seem bigger and threatening to outsiders to protect his pup.

Wu smiles sadly at the scene, tears escaping his eyes, as he stares at his brother and nephew.

Eventually, their crying dies down, and Lloyd tries to pull away, but his dad holds onto him. Lloyd sighs but relents since he feels so warm and comfortable. Still, Lloyd looks down embarrassed. He’s not a child anymore. He can't be with all he's faced.

Garmadon lifts Lloyd’s chin up, and Lloyd glances at his dad’s comforting purple eyes, and Garmadon gently wipes some tears out of Lloyd’s face with his thumbs, the dark scales of his dad’s fingers surprisingly soft, and Garmadon hugs Lloyd gently.

Lloyd sinks into his dad’s embrace, feeling a deep rumble from his dad’s chest. It makes Lloyd’s eyes start to close as he feels warm and safe. But then Lloyd furrows his brows confused. What is that? It’s like…

Lloyd pushes away, shocked, “Dad are you purring?!” 

“Of course, Lloyd, and you are too, you know. It’s just part of our oni heritage.” Garmadon says softly, as if speaking to a child.

And Lloyd, to his growing horror, does indeed feel himself purring, a soft purr emitting from within his chest following his dad’s. And Lloyd whines in distress. Did he really just whine. What is this happening to him right now?! 

Garmadon pulls Lloyd closer, trying to calm his pup’s distress. But now that Lloyd is aware of the sounds, his distress is growing further, and he is starting to panic and wants his dad to let him go, but at the same time, he doesn’t. Lloyd is just so scared and confused.

Wu coughs loudly, getting his family’s attention. “Garmadon you need to let Lloyd go, he’s not used to his oni heritage right now, and it’s just further distressing him right now.”

Garmadon growls at his brother, his mind fogged up too much to think of anything else except protecting his pup.

Except Wu growls back just as hard and hisses in his dragonic tongue, “Let Lloyd go.” 

Garmadon, shocked, loosens his grip just enough for Lloyd to get out of his grip and run to Uncle Wu.

Garmadon growls deeply as Wu holds Lloyd and growls in oni, “Let go of my son.”

“No, brother.” Wu states calmly in Ninjagon but prepares to defend himself.

Just before Garmadon can attack, Lloyd whispers, his voice breaking, “Don’t fight, please.”

Garmadon instantly snaps out of it and stops growling as his mind clears up. He whispers brokenly, “I’m sorry.” 

Garmadon falls back on Lloyd's bed, looking down. He’s messed up again. 

‘Why can’t I be a good dad for my son, just once?!’ Garmadon thinks. Agony felt in his heart once again for his inability to not mess up with Lloyd.

Lloyd breathes in and out and calms himself down in his uncle’s hold, and then he looks over to his dad and sees him with the saddest look on his face.

Lloyd gingerly gets out of his uncle’s hold and nods when Uncle Wu asks if he’s okay.

“Dad. I’m sorry I panicked. I just…” Lloyd gulps, “I thought I was human. Or well, mostly human. I didn’t want to accept that I wasn’t aging like one. And I think deep down I knew. FSM, I still look basically the same age as I did after I used the Tomorrow's Tea!”

“I just thought that I could finally be normal.” Lloyd’s voice breaks.

Garmadon looks at his son, so heartbroken. He doesn’t know how to help his son. He’s not normal, and he’ll never be.

And then Lloyd clears his throat, his bright green eyes shining, “But normal's overrated anyways, and I don’t have it in me to keep rejecting myself and you to believe that I’ll ever be normal. I finally have my dad back again, and I’ll hate myself if I don’t take this chance to learn more about you and about our heritage while I still have the chance.”

Lloyd laughs bitterly, “Because destiny will eventually decide to fuck with me again and I won’t have time, so I can’t just continue to ignore this. Because one day it might be too late to learn this from my d-dad.” Lloyd's voice breaks at the end.

“Oh, Lloyd, I’ll gladly tell you whatever you want to know,” Garmadon agrees and smiles sadly, praying to his father just this once that his son can find peace.

Lloyd smiles, tears in his eyes, and looks back to his uncle, “A-and I think Uncle Wu needs to be here to help explain some things too.”

Wu looks at his nephew in shock, he answers, “If that’s what you want nephew.”

“It is.” Lloyd nods his head.

“Alright, what do you want to know first?” Garmadon asks and pats the bed for both his son and brother to sit next to him. Lloyd gladly goes over, and his dad embraces him in a side hug, while Wu sits next to Lloyd and looks to Garmadon, wondering how he’s going to explain their heritage.

“Well as long as you make sure you include the dragons, brother. You always seem to forget them when discussing our heritage.” Wu says with a mischievous voice.

Garmadon rolls his eyes, “As long as you don’t forget the oni.”

Lloyd laughs brightly, the weight of the world seeming to lift from his shoulders, and his family joins him and starts laughing as well, and Misako is all but forgotten, for now, to the small family of the First Spinjitzu Master’s descendants.

Next Ninjago One-shot

#ninjago fanfiction #ninjago #lego ninjago #ninjago lloyd #ninjago garmadon #ninjago wu #lord garmadon and lloyd garmadon #dragon lloyd #oni dragon hybrid lloyd #oni lloyd #lloyd garmadon #lord garmadon #sensei wu #the first spinjitzu master #decendants of the FSM #godly heritage #kid lloyd #lloyd garmadon needs a hug #aroace #aroace lloyd #aroace cole #bisexual garmadon #garmadon/vinny #good dad garmadon #immortal lloyd #destiny can f*ck off #lloyd angst #lloyd fluff #oni purring #bad mom misako

[walkawaytall]

9 lines, 9 people (except y’all know I’m probably not tagging 9 whole people)

Shamelessly lifted from @virtie333 because I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul (I am not, actually).

Uh, look, everyone I’ve seen thus far has been posting 9 paragraphs, which isn’t how I define lines, but I think I’m actually very wrong now that I’ve thought about it for like three seconds, so I will be doing what everyone else does except I already can tell I’m not going to be able to remember 9 usernames to tag, so I probably will fall short there.

-_-_-_ -_-_-_ -_-_-_ -_-_-_

He scoffed. “Sweetheart, I don’t even know my last name. How the hell would I know if I have a middle name?”

Leia stopped walking, confused. “Your last name isn’t Solo?”

Han seemed to realize his mistake as she spoke. He stopped a few steps ahead of her and scratched the back of his neck nervously before shrugging in a clear attempt to appear more unbothered than he felt. “That’s the name that was given to me when I enlisted. Guess they needed somethin’ to scream at me when they weren’t usin’ my number.”

“You didn’t have a last name?”

He shrugged again and looked back at her, eyes betraying how cornered he apparently felt. “Told ya before, my ma died when I was real young. I don’t remember what our last name was.”

“They didn’t tell you what it was or at least give you a new last name?” Leia asked, baffled by the idea. She knew her situation was different than Han’s — she had been adopted, after all, and her parents had made it very clear to everyone that she was as much an Organa as any natural-born child would have been — but she assumed that caretakers would still make sure the children they were responsible for had a full name even if they were never adopted.

“Who’s they?” Han asked testily.

Leia squinted at him, surprised that what she meant wasn’t obvious. “Whoever was responsible for you. Whoever took care of you after she died.”

“I took care of me,” he snapped and Leia flinched.

Absolutely-no-pressure tags for @otterandterrierwrites, @diplomaticprincess, @lajulie24, @madame-alexandra, @lightthewaybackhome, and anyone else who wants to participate (invite yourself! All the cool kids are doing it!).

#9 lines 9 people #WIP #star wars fanfiction #title: purpose of heritage #leia organa fanfiction

[bougainvillea-and-saltwater]

ough in TPATD Miraak is half-Atmoran, half-Falmer. One person carrying and uniting the blood of two races that became enemies, that ultimately destroyed one another.

Jia is half-Nord, half-Imperial. One person carrying and uniting the blood of two races that are currently under an endless war, that are, too, basically destroying each other.

Miraak used to receive some weird looks from the Atmorans for his Snow Elf heritage, with his fellow dragon priests calling him names such as 'ghost' or 'paleface', because of the marble-white complexion he took after his Snelf mother.

Jia is quite frequently confronted with "aren't you a little short for a Nord?" by the Nords, and with "aren't you a little tall for an Imperial?" by the Imperials.

and yet, aren't they both living proof that before any hate, or any war, or any decimation of life, there was once love and unity? 🥺

#miraak specifically is currently the only living being on nirn who shares *both* the ancient nords' and snow elves' heritage #the breathing memento of what these races left behind... #and jia on her part currently tries to bring stormcloaks and imperials together. to stop their war to find solutions and peace #these two blorbos are my stupid unintentional parallels through time i swear... #miraak #oc: jia #skyrim fanfiction #tpatd's nonsensical stuff #the priest and the dragoness

[heyybaejjk]

༏ᖫྀ ⋆ ࣪ human boyfriend ao'nung hcs pt.2 <3 [Samoan vers.]

pairing: Human!Aonung x Samoan!fem reader

summary: Just Ao'nung with a Samoan girlfriend

warnings: swearing

a/n: for my Polynesian babes wherever yall at ❤️

AAPI month and Samoan Independence day have passed and I think of this idea NOW 😭☠️ out of all times wtf

BUT ITS SUNDAY AND STILL SAMOAN LANGUAGE WEEK ‼️

But idc 🧍‍♀️

Gotta do what I gotta do because I am not letting ts go

I love my culture, just like anyone else does, I'm still learning more about it so I researched and placed some of my own knowledge into this.

Aiuli - Participants who dance and cheer around a solo performer as they dance. Participants are never allowed to dance and cheer in front of the performer, only from behind them.

Taualaga - A performance, importantly the last, to close off an event. Mainly done by a solo female performer. Some are allowed to have people in the back while they Aiuli, some just rather have a solo performance.

"WHAT?" he screams in the middle of class, causing everyone to glance at him.

It was supposed to be a surprise, really. But your ass accidentally slipped out the fact that you were going to perform a cultural dance on Multicultural Day that was coming in a few weeks.

He would definitely try to Aiuli when you dance.

No questions asked.

Although he doesn't know how to properly dance the traditional way, he'll look around and copy the actions of the other pupils.

You both are heavy on learning each other's culture, so when he forgets a certain thing, he goes to your cousins to ask for help

"Wait so- I can't ae-oo-lee in front of her?" Ao'nung poorly pronounces, a slight dark tint on his cheeks as he scratches the back of his neck.

"Never. Always stay behind her, or whoever is doing the solo," a boy says with his arms folded against his chest. "If you see people giving money during the dance, don't throw it at her while cheering. Be respectful and softly stick to her arms, they're gonna be covered with oil, anyway. If you can't do that, put it on the ground behind her.

"Right, right..." Ao'nung frantically jots down as the latter continues to speak.

On the day of your dance, he gets so confused when he sees people swarming around, especially in front of you. He will literally stand there like 🧍‍♀️???

But doesn't copy the others as he sees his friend from earlier who told him what not to do, cheering from behind. He smiles warmly before sticking noted bills onto your oiled arms. Kissing your cheek slyly before going back to his position.

"Alu ai gi ou kae."

Bro got slapped. Not too hard, but hard enough to know that he said something wrong.

"Ow! Baby, what was that for?" He holds his cheek, rubbing it softly. Slightly pouting while looking down at your shorter figure. Quite dramatically because you felt like all you did was tap his cheek.

"Why did you say that for?" You looked up at him with your nose scrunched.

"I asked Vika how to say "wanna kiss?" I asked him an hour ago so my pronunciation wasn't that horrible." He sulks. You roll your eyes before cupping his face, leaving kisses all over his cheeks, nose and forehead. "Yeah well, you just told me to go eat shit. Vika's Tongan, you idiot. He only knows the swear words."

i wanted to write sm more but i rather keep this short LOLOL.

#samoan #aonung #aonung fanfiction #avatar the way of water #aonung fluff #aonung x reader #aonung x you #avatar twow #aapi #avatar x reader #aapi heritage month #aapi representation #im literally sobbing #i wanna kms

[better-call-mau1]

So I know that Ezra’s flirtation with the Dark Side is generally considered to be his lowest point in the series, and AUs where he’s an inquisitor are almost always tragic and depressing…but for a while I’ve been playing around with an AU that’s basically a cracky dark comedy — one where Deputy Director Wren of the Advanced Weapons Research Division carries on a sometimes-secret-but-other-times-not-so-much romance with the new Grand Inquisitor. 🤪 For some reason I’ve had a ton of fun writing dark!Sabezra from their own Imperial POV, so I wanted to share this meet-cute (or meet-evil?) snippet:

“You know, this would have been a lot easier if you were already dead!”

“Do you expect me to apologize for that?!”

“Yes, yes I do! This entire errand is completely beneath me!”

As a Mandalorian — even if her people reviled her — Sabine had no particular affinity for Force-wielding maniacs. The galaxy was a lot better off without thousands of do-gooder Jedi frolicking from system to system, starting wars and spreading chaos on their endless crusade to convince themselves of their own piety. She knew significantly less about the Sith and their acolytes, but after a total of twenty minutes in the company of the Grand Inquisitor, she couldn’t say that her opinion had improved much.

“Too bad for you, Governor Tarkin wants me back in one piece,” she spat. Brushing hair out of her face, she peeked from behind the stack of supply crates to fire a few more shots at Saw Gerrera’s terrorist minions, still pouring out of the base by the dozen. “Half of these traitors are wearing stolen Imperial armor. If High Command stopped dumping credits into Stardust and gave me what I needed to mass-produce the Duchess, we wouldn’t be in this mess!”

The inquisitor’s red blade hummed past her ear as he swatted a blaster bolt back across the airfield, striking a Tognath directly between the eyes. Standing over her, shielding them both from the Rebel volley with one arm folded behind his back, he did cut an impressive figure — tall and broad-shouldered with his dark hair tied into a knot and beard trimmed meticulously, he wielded a cold resolve that Sabine was very glad to have on her side at the moment…not that she’d admit as much, of course.

“In case you didn’t notice,” he hissed, “I’m wearing Imperial armor too!”

“Believe me, I noticed!”

As miserable as her capture had been, her rescue wasn’t going very well either. Gerrera’s men had blown up the inquisitor’s TIE before they could escape, and the old Republic airbase — now a Rebel airbase, she supposed — was nestled in the heart of a canyon, providing an irritatingly effective natural defense against enemy fighters and bombers. Their reinforcements were already long overdue, but at this point, nothing less than a platoon of death troopers could drive off the swarming rebels.

With a flick of his wrist, the Grand Inquisitor sent a thermal detonator sailing back the way it’d come. “I’ll be having words with Admiral Konstantine when we return,” he snarled, which Sabine understood as a rough translation for, “I’ll be throttling Admiral Konstantine when we return.”

But ‘when’ seemed to be a bit optimistic. She knew that even with the Rebels’ archaic weaponry and pitiful training, it would only be a matter of time until the two of them were overwhelmed.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted an Ishi Tib and Twi’lek setting up a heavy blaster cannon on a tripod — and as amusing as it might’ve been to watch the broody, quippy dikut beside her get smoked like a womp rat, she needed him alive if she had any chance of surviving herself. (Also, as an artist, she couldn’t bear to see a face like that pulverized by a bunch of insurgent rubes.)

Raising her blaster, she fired three shots: the first struck the Ishi Tib in the flank, sending him stumbling into his comrade; the second caught the Twi’lek in the gut, right as he began to unload on their position; and the third took out the leg of the tripod, which collapsed onto its side, spraying those nearby with a short burst of friendly fire.

“You’re welcome!” she barked. With a sharp elbow to his thigh (a very well-muscled thigh, as it turned out), she earned herself an indignant huff, probably the closest the inquisitor ever came to expressing gratitude.

#I’ve already got a ficlet planned where Sabine has to file a workplace relationship disclosure form #and Krennic is like “uhhhhhh if Dr. Wren is in a serious relationship that might mean MARRIAGE and BABIES and that’s not good for quotas” #so he hides from her for weeks until he gets a midnight visit from the GI #needless to say the form gets signed lol #but Sabezra bragging about each other’s evil shenangins to their coworkers???? #Galen Erso: “Should I put you down with a plus one for the office Life Day party?” #Sabine: “Nah better make it a minus three instead. My husband can’t go anywhere without killing at least four people hahahaha.” #and of course… #Ezra: “My wife invented this weapon that incinerates Mandalorians by turning their ancient cultural heritage against them!” #Vader: “The ability to incinerate Mandalorians is insignificant next to the power of the Force.” #Ezra: “Yeah yeah yeah I know but it’s just so cool!!!!” #sabezra #sabine wren #ezra bridger #sabezra fanfiction #my fanfic

[bunny-is-cute]

Calliope & Cherie (age 4): *find out that humans come in different colors and races*

Calliope: Papa, you were a human once too right?

Alastor: Indeed I was!

Cherie: What kind of human were you?

Alastor: *laughs* Well my dear I was born and raise in New Orleans, Louisiana!

Calliope: Where’s that?

Alastor: The United States of America.

Cherie: Oh…

Calliope: But what identification of “human” were you?

Alastor: Are you asking me what my ethnicity is?

Calliope and Cherie: *nod innocently*

Alastor: Well my deers, I’m what’s called “mixed-race Creole.”

Calliope: What’s ‘Creole?’

Cherie: What’s ‘mixed-race?’

#cherie morningstar #calliope morningstar #Alastor #Calliope and Cherie are Alastor’s daughters #hazbin hotel #fanfiction #fanfic #hazbits #alastor is realizing he needs to explain his heritage #Alastor is mixed race Creole #his kids are 4 years old

[rosalinesurvived]

Need me a funky little hotd/teen wolf au. The Hightowers are an ancient hunter family while the Targaryens are werewolves. Alicent was childhood girl bestie companions with Rhaenyra who never told Ali she was a werewolf out of fear of driving her away. Alicent was married to Viserys as a peace offer by Otto, ultimately leading to a war. Gwayne and later Criston teach Ali how to be a hunter to kill her bitch husband…

#did I make this post solely for the sake of having rambuctious house green half-wolves? fuck yes #also The Hale family interacting with the targ-hightowers #shitpost #hotd #house of the dragon #this is still very anti viserys/anti Targaryen btw #teen wolf #fanfiction au #hotd au #alicent Hightower #otto hightower #viserys i targaryen #aemond targaryen #rhaenyra targeryan #rhaenicent #helaena is very much still a dreamer #viserys is still a shitty father who is obsessed with the wolf heritage #idk about criston but he and Ali are bffs #Daeron is still a darling prep and aemond is still a weirdo freak #I’m thinking about Talia and alicent interacting in this au<3 #ali fighting to somehow understand werewolves and loving her children but not truly getting them #team green slowly slowly coming to love the full moon instead of fearing it #Rhaenyra… idk. deviates towards her werewolf obsessed uncle and whatever. had bastard kids with human-harwin #helaena the dreamer #daeron the daring #daeron the darling #daeron targaryen #BABY WOLF PUPS JAEGERYS AND JAEHEARA AND MAEGOR #BECAUSE FUCK YOU NONE OF THE BABIES DIE

[killslumflower]

A F T E R M I D N I G H T

full story coming to wattpad

(Killmonger AU)

FURAHA KLAN

AFOLABI TRIBE

MORTALS

1:11

Ever since you were girl, your mother always spoke of the gift an innate ability to see “what no one else can.” Is what she called it, and sure..you knew every time it would pour rain and you saved Anthony from a moving bus that time in kindergarten. But it wasn’t until you enrolled into morehouse for your first term that you really understood what she meant, thrilling night terrors of blood thirsty mythical beings bringing mayhem have reoccurred every night you’ve spent on campus.

On one particular faithful night, you attend to an annual Halloween party held by the infamous furaha siblings to which you were personally invited to by your heartthrob, university fuck boy and eldest of the klan N’Jadka

Which answers all the questions you had previously, but create so many more..

#kinktober #erik killmonger au #18+ post #black!reader #michael b jordan #michaelbjordanxblack!reader #fanfiction #hoodoo heritage month #vampires #werewolf #mythical #mythical creatures #black!oc #halloween #thriller

[deaddovepod]

EPISODE TWO

sawyer and I delve into johnlock, tjlc, victorian anatomical terms, and prawns (shoutout @agirlsname for your fic, which has quickly become our favourite thing to reference).

#college radio #johnlock #sherlock x john #sherlock holmes #victorian #John Watson #fanfic #fanfic history #history #heritage posts #fic #johnlock fic #johnlock fanfiction #gay #lgbt #lgbt history #SoundCloud

[ladamedusoif]

Gentleman Thief - The Heritage Crimes Universe (HCU)

Pairing: The Thief (Casillero del Diablo) x F!Museum Professional Reader

Summary: He stole a priceless ruby after your first date. You reunited after the museum's winter ball. And now? Something keeps pulling you into the orbit of the world's greatest (ethical) gentleman thief.

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Stories:

My Kiss, Only For You

Reunions

Provenance

#the thief x f!reader #the thief fanfiction #the thief smut #the thief casillero del diablo #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal #gentleman thief #the heritage crimes universe

[jennyandvastraflint]

"A Candle against the Sun"

Summary: Anura contemplates the situation she finds herself in, a Silurian's empty body for her to occupy, and thinks on the possibility of Vastra returning to her body.

#madame vastra #jenny flint #jenny and vastra #jenny x vastra #vastra x jenny #vastra and jenny #the paternoster gang #heritage 4 spoilers #paternoster gang #doctor who #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #drabble

[walkawaytall]

wip wednesday

Han stepped off the ramp, closing the distance between them and Leia’s heart jumped into her throat. He gave her a curious, bemused look and touched her cheek. “Been working on ships today?”

Leia was fairly certain her heart stopped altogether, or maybe switched rhythms. Tachycardia. I am experiencing tachycardia. That’s not concerning at all. Han applied a fair amount of pressure to her cheek with his hand, pulling her away from her attempts to further diagnose herself with a heart condition, and lifted his hand away from her face, emphatically raising a grease-coated thumb in her sightline.

He had been wiping a stain off her cheek.

Get it together, Organa.

#wip wednesday #star wars fanfiction #title: purpose of heritage #leia organa fanfiction #han solo fanfiction

[gamerwoman3d]

I swear there's a Fanfiction Goblin whose sole purpose in life is to steal a single key word from the most pertinent sentence in the steamiest part of every sex scene in every work of erotic fanfiction, after the author hits "post/publish" but before the final page refreshes.

This goblin mashes all the stolen words together to make an original fiction that profits undeserving trolls. Their greatest pleasure is knowing that when the author re-reads their published sentence, that the author will realize how the missing word changes the meaning and coherence of the previously perfect sentence. These goblins live to ruin a climax.

They are closely related to the Typo Gremlin. And they also probably look suspiciously like Just Kidding Rowling.

No beta. We just die.

#Fanfiction Goblin #typo gremlin #fanfiction gremlin #typo goblin #knowing my luck this will be the post that gets the most notes and then I gotta look at this ugly mug on my top posts in my dash every day #world heritage post #probably #no beta we just die